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Vexation
I don't have any major life problems at the moment, so I thought instead that I'd share with you all manner of trivial annoyances, and probably some stuff that I just find amusing.
X-treme Chewits
When did this happen? And why was I not informed? These are lovely,
and a funky colour to boot.
A couple of things, however, are very wrong in X-treme Chewits land. And I don't
just mean the name. Oh no. It goes much deeper than that...
The wrapper has an X-treme sour meter.
How many X-treme Chewits can you eat? Three? Pah! You are
naught but a feeble weevil!
I can just see kids getting beaten up because they can't handle an entire pack
of X-treme Chewits. The cool gang, however, the mean machines,
man.......they've got respect for life. Someday elections will be based
not on the will of the people, but on how many X-treme Chewits the candidates
can handle. I've got George W Bush pegged as a sour coward, personally.
The worst thing about all this, however, is the complete lack of
X-treme sourness.
I'm not saying that there isn't any sourness, but it's far from
X-treme.
It's a faint sourness, moderate at best, which is as a tiny sparrow to the
thundering rhinoceros that is the glorious chemical tang of Astro-belts. Three
of those things and your tongue DIES. I'm serious.
Remember when Fizzy Chewits came out (seven, eight years ago?) and they were actually fizzy? They only came in cola and apple, as I recall, but they were still fantastic. One day my jaw almost locked up halfway through my third consecutive packet. Chewits built endurance. These foolishly un-sour pretenders are a black stain upon the memory of the Chewit Monster (before bastardization.)
Buy them by all means, but don't get too proud of your newfound Mean Machine status.
Choo-choo
Yes folks, the humble train. Sorry to disappoint you with my unoriginality, but you'll get used to it eventually. With time, you'll come to crave familiarity. New ideas will upset and disturb you. You'll only want to snuggle further into your rut. What are you doing reading this? There's never been a better time to join a mainstream religion. No, wait, that comes later.
For now, the choo-choo.
I'm not sure if anyone runs the trains at all, to be honest.
I've seen 20 distinct varieties of Scotrail personnel at most, and then they
start to double up. These 20 may well be automatons.
Let us assume, however, that there is no Branson-orchestrated plot to make
ballooning seem like a viable alternative to train-shuffling. That would mean
that there are people being paid to ensure that the trains run punctually and
without killing anyone.
***
Randomly inserted hypothetical situation time:
You're in charge of the President of the United States. It's your responsibility
to make sure he's punctual for engagements and safe from assassination attempts.
Under your guidance he shows up in Afghanistan when he's supposed to be signing
peace accords with some tiny Balkan nation. As a direct consequence of this he
gets shot eighteen times in the face. Do you keep your job?
***
You do if you work for BR.
For those of you with either legs or buses to do your bidding, an illustrated example may be helpful.
Here we see EJ and I getting the train to EJ-flat-land, so that cookies may be ingested.
Then Evil Scotrail Guy tells us that the train is cancelled and we should all be on the Newton train. Foolishly, we trust the man.
We should have paid more attention to his zombie-like
appearance. Also, why did he make us wait 10 mins before telling us the train
was cancelled??? Truly, evil was afoot.
Perhaps we were distracted by the munchies that we had purchased. Yay, cream
eggs were consumed, and the Newton train was boarded. Sitting, talking, eating,
we be fine. Get to Mount Florida, we be fine. Get to Croftfoot, we be.....hold
on.....Croftfoot?!
Swift map checking ensued. Were we going the wrong way? Yes!
We ended up getting off the train in Burnside. I mean.....Burnside....it
even sounds wrong.
So we waited and waited and eventually hopped on a train which took us back to Mount Florida, alas no further. So we walked. Oh, how we walked. EJ lives in Pollockshaws-land, y'see, so we had tired feet by the time we got to the Emma-flat. And when we got there, the cookies were rank.
Bah.
The Dark Ages
This would be part of a larger rant against mainstream
religion in general, were it not for the fact that said rants are incredibly dull.
You've all heard it before. So I've decided to focus on just one of the many
awful facets of mainstream religion: repression
of all that is good and true.
Specifically, the Dark Ages. Hundreds of years of stagnation, when
anyone who so much as dared to contradict Church doctrine was sent to the
Inquisitors, forced to repent (via the caring, sharing means of horrific
torture) and then probably killed anyway. Science? No! God! Bad boy! Dirty
boy! Impale.
Think what the world was like in the year 1600. Fairly baws. All
kinds of death. Plague? You betcha.
Now imagine that the world of 1600 was like unto our world today, and that we
were advanced 400 years into the future. Think of all the suffering which could
have been avoided. Think of how we would probably have massive lifespans and
rocket pants by now. Think of an additional slew of culture, music, and
funkadelic fun which could have happened.
Alternatively, think of being forced to eat your own nose because you think you
saw a shooting star. The stars are fixed in the firmament of the heavens, you ungodly
heretic you.
If that doesn't get you questioning the wholesomeness of religion, maybe this will.