The Fast Train To Lardiness

Yesterday I had to travel from Shanghai to Nanjing, a journey that would probably take around four hours by car, depending on traffic. There are many things in life that piss me off, far too many to attempt to enumerate here, but among them is sitting in the back of a car for anything more than about an hour. I therefore decided that we would take the train rather than drive, and the Chinese colleague who was to accompany me did not protest. In fact my last experience of Chinese trains, albeit several years ago, was quite pleasant. The seats were clean and comfortable and there was a refreshment trolley which dispensed tea, not something you’re likely to find on British trains, I’m sure. The toilet was something of a disappointment – it was a six inch hole in the metal floor through which you could see the ground, and a mop hanging from the wall. Quite OK for taking a piss but I wouldn’t have fancied attempting anything more adventurous – I could see wallet and keys dropping unexpectedly through the hole, or bad aim resulting in a lot of unpleasant mop-work.

Anyway, we rolled up to Shanghai station in the morning and it immediately became apparent that my colleague had not taken a train in many years, and had no clue what to do. His driver pointed us towards the right entrance and we proceeded through security screening (bag x-ray) into a huge, dismal waiting room, partially filled with drab and scattered humanity. Fortunately we only had to wait ten minutes until our train was called and we joined the forward press towards the gate.

Our carriage did not disappoint – it had comfortable reclining seats. This was the “soft seat” section; last time I rode the train here the “hard seat” section actually had solid wooden seats with upright backs, making me grateful for my better ticket, but now even those seats look relatively acceptable. (An American acquaintance recounted that the experience of a four hour journey in the old “hard seat” section was one of the worst experiences of his life.)

The train conveyed us to Nanjing at speeds up to 240km/hr (according to its helpful display) and we were met there by another company’s driver. Meetings were held and we were returned to the station about 2:30pm, in time for the 2:51 train back to Shanghai. Unfortunately this was where my colleague’s inexperience with trains let us down. Because we weren’t sure how long our meetings would last, he’d decided to buy the return tickets at the station, but the 2:51 was now sold out. The next train was at around 4:30 so we were now faced with two hours to kill and no driver to get us anywhere.

Nanjing station is a new, excitingly angled glass structure but it has fuck-all inside by way of amenities so we surveyed the area outside. There was a huge concrete plaza leading down to the edge of a lake and people were camped out in all directions with their bags, obviously waiting for trains. I was the only Western person to be seen, the only person in a business shirt and the only one with a pointy nose, and I definitely had the feeling of sticking out. The concierge at a local hotel informed us that there was no good restaurant in the area and so we were forced to go to the McDonalds by the station. In we walked, reluctantly, and I immediately realized that I was more than twice the age of anyone inside. It was full of teenage Chinese kids. We ordered our Big Mac (at least I think that’s what it was – it’s not like I could read the menu board) and killed as much time as we could bear eating it. I noticed that unlike the brown skinned, slim people outside, many of the kids were pasty and plump, with doughy flesh, a look often accentuated in the girls by short skirts and socks or boots which showed their chunky legs. Obesity is coming to China, one McDonalds at a time.

Eventually the train came and we returned to Shanghai station. It may not have a very nice waiting room but at least there are good restaurants outside. Plus, I couldn’t help noticing, another fucking McDonalds. I didn’t get to check whether there’s been progress in Chinese train toilets since my last journey but I sincerely hope so. Each Chinese New Year the railways here transport hundreds of millions of people around the country. If even half of them are squeezing their train station Big Mac and Large Fries through a six inch hole in the floor the results must be too horrific to contemplate. Maybe four hours in the back of a Buick doesn’t seem such a bad option after all.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Olympic Wood

The Olympics will soon be upon us and we can all look forward to perpetual, repetitive televised coverage of all sorts of sports, quasi-sports and "not sports at all". I won't digress on the stupidity of some of these (synchronised swimming anyone?) but in the case of most sports, where greater strength and endurance are a distinct advantage, there will of course be cases of doping. The whole Bulgarian weightlifting team has already been withdrawn after eleven of them tested positive for steroids. (Steroid-enhanced weightlifters? Who would have believed it?)

In the continuing battle to find a chemical edge, athletes now have a new weapon - Viagra. Yes, sildenafil may enhance althletic performance by expanding blood vessels and allowing more blood to reach the heart; this would be beneficial in sports where endurance and speed are key. One study has already shown significant performance improvements in cyclists, for instance.

Hang on a minute, did someone say cyclists? Those blokes in skin-tight lycra shorts? Oh that's going to be a good look for the TV cameras isn't it? A bunch men on bikes with erections poking up as they pedal furiously around in a circle. I want to see the commentators handle that. And what about the swimmers, for fucks sake? I can just see them stepping up onto the jumping-off thing in their tiny little Speedos with their dicks all popping out the top.

"Yes and Ian Thorpe, definitely the favorite at this distance, now stepping up. Oh my! Well he certainly looks ready to go doesn't he?"

It's certainly not going to help the high jumpers or pole-vaulters. "Oh and he so nearly cleared it. It would have been a new Olympic record but his, erm, well, some part of him just caught the bar as he went over."

And never mind about the events themselves, what about the medal ceremony? I can just see three blokes on the podium as the anthem plays and the man with the medals approaches to present them. They could have his eye out if they're not careful. Maybe he should just hang the medals on their johnsons.

At the moment sildenafil is not on the banned substance list. On the plus side, if they do decide to outlaw Viagra in athletics detection shouldn't be a problem, at least with the men. Or with female weightlifters. They'll just check for erections after the event. I can imagine the attempts to foil the testers. Coaches will have all their track athletes rub one out before running to try and avoid getting wood and getting caught. But I've seen the commercials - the effects of this stuff don't wear off that quickly do they? "In case of an erection lasting more than four hours you should probably try entering the decathlon."

I was also interested to see that Viagra has been used to prevent jet lag. With all my international travel, and needing to hit the ground ready to do business, I would be a prime candidate for this. But can you really imagine taking seriously a man giving a presentation with a boner sticking out? Can you imagine being that man? Just don't stand in front of the projector and throw shadow puppets on the screen with your penis. Nothing good can come of it...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

On Yer Bike

Back when I was about fifteen I was seriously into heavy metal – Motorhead, Iron Maiden, Saxon, Diamond Head, AC/DC and a lot more like that. It was excellent music and it’s still a big part of what’s on my MP3 player, but in those days it wasn’t enough just to like the music – I had to dress the part too. This meant a leather jacket with sleeveless faded denim jacket over the top and patches on it. I also had a bullet belt and a studded wristband; at the time I thought these were great but although I’d like to believe that was true I have a sneaking suspicion I must have looked like a bit of a twat. I mean, it’s a good look if you’re an outlaw biker but at that age I was getting around by bicycle, bus or “a ride from someone’s dad” and how much of an outlaw can you be like that?

What I really needed was a proper bike, but I wasn’t enough of an outlaw to steal one, wouldn’t have been able to ride it if I did, and couldn’t afford to buy one even when I was old enough, so I was kind of stuck with the ten-speed. Probably just as well – a mate once had me try out his 50cc Yamaha in his garden and, with no concept yet of the niceties of clutch control, I grabbed a handful of throttle, let the clutch out and wheelied into his dad’s fence. “Ride to Live, Live to Ride Into A Fence”, that’s my motto.

I mention all this because my neighbor just came home with a new Honda Rune, which is apparently something of a rarity (less than a thousand on the road) and pretty powerful. It’s not something I personally would lust over – I prefer the idea of a big custom Harley – but it got me thinking that it might be time to try life on two wheels.

I can imagine my mum would be mortified if she read this (which would, to be fair, only happen if my dad showed it to her). It’s all very well me talking to the world about animal blowjobs and setting new standards for gratuitous use of the word “cunt” on the internet but getting a bike would be something that would actually worry her. Personally I blame my dad – he had a moped for a while but fell off coming home from work one night as a result of the council helpfully coating our street with loose chippings during the day. It’s not like he was really fucked up, but the moped went soon after and we kids used his dented helmet as a toy from then on. Then there’s my brother, the anesthesiologist, with his helpful description of motorbikes as “mobile organ donor units”…

Lots of professional people have taken to getting bikes in the States, and there’s none of this twatting about on a 125cc while you take your test over here. No, you can go out and buy a big Harley and take it out with no training, pass a simple test and ride to your heart’s content. Which may explain the serious spike in motorcycle fatalities among the over-forties. (Perhaps their motto should be “Ride to Live – Maybe”.) What’s probably more worrying, as you may have realized if you happened to see that shite movie “Wild Hogs” (I saw it on a plane, honest) is that most of the people riding Harleys now seem to be dentists, accountants, finance directors and chiropractors. Doesn’t this sort of take the edge off it? Maybe when they go out as a group they can wear a big patch on their backs: “Ride to Live, Live to Itemize Deductions on My Tax Return”, or maybe “Ride to Live, Live to Max Out My 401k”.

Somewhere at my parents’ house, unless they quietly threw it out during one of their various moves, I still have a bullet belt. I’ll need to buy some more bullets – my waist isn’t quite what it was when I was fifteen, you understand – but I could get a real bike now and finally get redemption for dressing up like one as a bum-fluff-faced teenager. I’d need a pisspot hemet – you can’t look the part in a full face job, although it would certainly cut down on the need to pick bugs out of your teeth – and I’d also need to learn to ride. (Small detail.) Yeah, nothing would spoil the look quite like grabbing a handful of throttle and riding into a minivan, would it? Of course, if the worst comes to the worst I still have that old ten-speed in the garage, and a studded wristband…


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Join The Circus

This weekend we went to the circus. Now that's not something you'll hear me say very often - in fact it must be more than thirty years since I was last at a circus and the experience hadn't exactly left me yearning for more, so when the opportunity arose again I seized it in much the same way you might seize a giant cockroach (i.e. reluctantly). It did occur to me however that this was a chance to tick the "dad" box and do something that Bison Daughter would enjoy.

Well, let me tell you that the circus was excellent. It had trapeze and high wire acts, a really good clown, tumblers, horses, juggling and other stuff, and there was never a point in the two hour proceedings where I looked at my watch (as I had expected to do) thinking "Just when the fuck is this going to be over?" I had no idea that this stuff could be fun to watch, but what appears on TV to be dull stunts suddenly becomes compelling viewing; maybe it's just because you're there, but it could also be things like the very real, and very large, drop to the ground being risked by the high wire act (no safety net) when they do the three-level pyramid on the wire.

There was a novelty act involving goats and, unlike the last novelty goat act I saw, this was one the kiddies could enjoy. Perhaps the best part though were the circus girls. There were various girls in the high-wire, trapeze and tumbling acts that were arrayed in figure-hugging costumes, bouncing, swinging and somersaulting their way around the ring with their perfect pert bodies. You know how there's always a sport where the girls (or guys, if you're female) seem to have that physique that you particularly like? Maybe it's beach volleyball, or tennis, or maybe soccer. (It's unlikely to be WNBA basketball, unless you like your women lesbiany.) Well, I think I like circus girls. They're like gymnasts, only older, with actual breasts and less risk of a statutory rape charge, or of bruising yourself on the ribcage. Not only do they have wonderful bodies but they could probably swing from the light fitting and land on your outstretched penis. (Given a bit of practice, you understand, and maybe a couple of bad landings during rehearsal.)

Before getting to the circus my only hope to counter the expectations of boredom had been that there would be a lion act, and that someone would get eaten. I think I may have communicated some of this cynicism to Bison Daughter but it didn't put her off, perhaps because of the wide availability of hot dogs, cotton candy, slushies, sodas, ice cream and snow cones. By the way, the only circus joke I remember was the one about the bloke who takes the job as a lion tamer:

The ringmaster gives him a whip and a chair and explains that he should crack the whip and make the lion get on the chair.
"What if he attacks me?" asks the new guy.
"Just throw the chair at him" replies the ringmaster.
"What if he keeps coming?"
"Then throw the whip at him"
"What if he's still coming after me?"
"Just reach behind you, grab some shit, throw it in his eyes and run for the door."
"What if there isn't any shit"
"Trust me, by then there will be."

Surprisingly, I had no idea I would ever take my family to see a young woman perform an act with a miniature horse. It's not that I haven't seen pictures of things like that in the past but I don't seem to recall that there was any cotton candy at those performances. Anyway, I came away with a new appreciation for the long tradition of the circus, the many generations of families who work in it and the real pleasure of seeing one "live". And the circus girls, obviously. You know, when I was a kid and I heard stories where someone ran off to join the circus I could never understand the attraction. Wear a big red nose and muck out the elephants? Yeah, that'd be fun, I don't think. But now I understand. When one of those girls in the leotard asks you if you want to come and pitch a tent with her, there's only one answer.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

No Candles Expected

On Monday I'm due to fly out to China again and consequently will miss having my birthday at home. This isn't a big deal - it's not like I was going to wake up to a brand new motorbike, a hot tub with three naked girls in it and a whole roasted pig on a spit - but Mrs Bison likes to make a bit of an effort and I would probably have got a big cake shaped like something obscene, and a cup of tea in bed. There's really not a lot to celebrate at this age - it's not like I'm a kid, getting more grown up and closer to the age when I can legally drive / drink / leave school, and I'm not yet at the age where every successive birthday is treated as a fucking miracle of survival in the face of overwhelming odds. It's just a chance to get a home-made cake.

Anyway, since I'll be with a bunch of colleagues it's always possible that my secretary will have tipped them off and that we'll celebrate in some traditional Chinese way. She's thoughtful like that, but they're blokes and consequently programmed not to give a shit about birthdays. There was always the possibility that Chinese birthday traditions were more exotic than ours. For instance, it might have been expected that the birthday boy got a bottle of scotch, a massage and a happy ending, so I did a bit of research just in case. It turns out that the Chinese have a depressing tradition around birthdays: if you're a kid you might get some money in a red envelope, and if you're turning 60 you should expect a celebration which might involve long noodles and an egg.

What's the deal with that? I understand that noodles are supposed to symbolize long life but what a depressing way to celebrate six decades on the planet.

"Thank you, honored son. What is this that you have brought me on the occasion of my sixtieth birthday?"

"It is some noodles father. To symbolize my wish of long life for you."

"Noodles. That's the best you could do is it? Would it have been too much to ask that I got a piece of cake. Maybe with chocolate? What are we having for dinner?"

"Frog ovaries in a papaya, dog penis soup and fish heads."

"Just kill me now will you?"

Anyway, the Chinese pay no attention to birthdays between childhood and old age so I'm not going to get any unexpected bonus celebration. Not even the noodles. What the fuck do they know anyway? According to their calendar I was born in the year of the sheep. Here's a list of the positive traits I'm supposed to exhibit:

Righteous, sincere, sympathetic, mild-mannered, shy, artistic, creative, gentle, compassionate, understanding, mothering, determined, peaceful, generous, seeks security.

Now a lot of you have been coming to this site for a while and I'm pretty sure you've figured out that I score low on most of those and zero on some. (Mild-mannered and mothering??) But just in case there's any doubt that this is, in fact, a load of old bollocks, let's examine another "sheep" born in the same year as me - Mr Ian Kay, better known as the Woolworths Killer, and also famous for stabbing the Yorkshire Ripper and blinding him in one eye while incarcerated in Broadmoor maximum security psychiatric hospital. He was later quoted as saying: "I was going to walk into the room and cut his jugular vein on both sides and wait there until he was dead." Yeah, he was pretty peaceful wasn't he?

What's the point of all this? Well, since the whole Chinese calendar / birth year tradition is crap I see no reason to observe any of their other traditions either. As a consequence I'm going to insist on a cake and some scotch at the absolute minimum. And definitely no ovaries.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Wedding Service (Revised)

Now that California has apparently opened the door to homosexual weddings (again) it is about time we confronted our stereotypes and accepted that these unions are going to be a fact of life. We should embrace them and, indeed, go out of our way to make the experience as stress-free as possible for those involved. To this end I thought it would be nice if someone updated the old-fashioned Anglican marriage service to be more "inclusive", with none of the old prejudices. I couldn't find a new version so I took a stab at revising it myself - hope it helps:

The minister says to the congregation

First, I am required to ask anyone present who knows a reason why these persons may not lawfully marry, to declare it now.

Someone shouts out

They're two blokes - how's that for a bloody reason?

The minister says to the couple

The vows you are about to take are to be made in the presence of the California Legal System, which is judge of all and knows all the secrets of our hearts; therefore if either of you knows a reason why you may not lawfully marry, you must declare it now.

Someone shouts out

What the fuck is wrong with you? Can't you see that there's two wieners and no bun here?

The minister says to the "Top"

Jeremy, will you take Nigel to be your wife? Will you love him, cornhole him, honor and teabag him, and, forsaking all others, be faithful to him as long as you both shall feel like it?

He answers

I will.

The minister says to the "Bottom"

Nigel, will you take Jeremy to be your husband? Will you love him, go down on him, open your ass to him, and, forsaking all others, play his rusty trombone as long as you both work at the same branch of Banana Republic?

He answers

I will.

The Top and Bottom face each other. The Top takes the Bottom's right hand in his. These words, are used

I, Jeremy, take you, Nigel, to be my wife, to have in an unnatural fashion from this day forward; for better, for worse, for tighter, for looser, in sickness and, well, in more sickness really, to love and to snowball, till death us do part; according to California's holy law. In the presence of a bunch of blokes with shaved heads and women with no make-up on, I make this vow.

The Bottom places his ring on the fourth finger of the Top's left hand and, holding it there, says

Jeremy, I give you my ring as a sign of our marriage. With my sphincter I honour you, all that I am I give to you, and all that I have I share with you, because, let's face it, you don't get much more committed than this, for the love of God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

The minister joins their right hands together and says

Those whom California has joined together let no one put asunder. You may now buttfuck the bride.

For those of you not called Jeremy or Nigel, feel free to change the names. I didn't have time to do one for lesbian weddings (sorry to all the carpet-munchers out there) but if you replace the "teabag" reference with something about fisting you won't go far wrong. Hope you all live happily ever after!

And to anyone thinking I'm a terrible homophobe, you can fuck right off. I have nothing against gay people, but the thought of them getting married is just ridiculous, OK? Two blokes walking down the aisle? What the fuck were you thinking...?


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

My Biggest Fan

I just installed a new ceiling fan because the old one broke, and this house definitely needs something to make the air move in summer. This pleased Mrs Bison, who hated the old one as it was a shiny brass thing - she prefers the brushed nickel look, but not so much that she'll bug me to replace something that's working fine. So off we went to Home Depot, to peruse the many and varied ceiling fans there to be found. Almost every one had lights attached, which we didn't want, and it took us a while to figure out that they were an option which could be fitted or not. A staff member pointed this out and directed us to the end-of-aisle display where there were simple models that were more to our taste.

As I think I've mentioned before, I don't rate myself that handy when it comes to fixing and installing stuff, so I asked "Is this easy to install if you're replacing an existing fan?"

"Oh yes" said the assistant "just connect black to black and white to white - it's really easy."

You know how things sound simple in the store, when someone who probably never even got a ceiling fan out of a box, let alone installed one, is explaining it to you? Well, I removed the old fan and it wasn't quite "black and white". In fact, all in all, I had black, white, green, blue, red and bare copper wires to contend with. Yeah, I figured it out, and it wasn't difficult, but nothing you try and install yourself ever ends up being as simple as they make it sound in the store. That's why I apply the "What's The Worst" doctrine to all home improvement projects. This works as follows: I assume that I'm going to get halfway through the job and then either find it impossible, or fuck it up. What's the worst thing that can happen? If the answer is "You leave it unfinished and get a bloke in to do it next week" then no problem. If, however, the result is "A thousand gallons of water cascade down the stairs, the house is uninhabitable for three weeks, the furnace blows up and I get stuck on the roof" then I should probably consider getting someone else involved.

Mrs Bison, flushed by proxy with my electrical success (measured by the fact that there's been no sparks or fire yet) has suggested that I replace two other shiny brass light fittings. In one room she thinks that instead of brass, something black would look good hanging from the ceiling. Depending how good my electrical skills really are, it could be me...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Soccer With No Balls

Some of the players on our over-30 indoor 6-a-side soccer team are taking a few weeks off, allegedly to let various injuries heal. (Our goalkeeper, for instance, had three fingers broken a while back and he still can't close his right hand properly, which must be a bitch when it comes to masturbation.) So those of us who aren't pansies and choose to play through our pain have been looking for new players to fill in for about 8 weeks, just for the next session. I know a bloke at work who plays somewhere else, and whose team just folded, so I asked him if he wanted to play on our team for a couple of months.

Various responses would have been acceptable here, everything from "Yes please, it would be an honor" to "No fucking way, but thanks for asking". What was not acceptable was the response that I did in fact get, which was "I'll have to ask my wife". I'm sorry? Did I hear correctly? Has your wife replaced your mother as the person who decides whether you're allowed out to play? I was disappointed at first to lose a potential player but then I realized that guys with no balls aren't really what we're looking for. (In the end his wife said "OK" but he didn't think she really meant it so he declined!)

What happens to some blokes when they get married that suddenly turns them into pussy-whipped wooftahs? Perhaps it's decades of gender reinforcement from TV sitcoms, where the man of the house is always some lovable but inept dooofus who constantly tries (but fails) to get one over on his much smarter wife. All those episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond where Ray has to figure out how to be allowed to go out and play golf, for instance. I've known blokes who adopt the role of henpecked husband before the sound of wedding bells has even faded, and long before their new wife ever gets around to actually henpecking them. It's as though they've conditioned themselves to believe that this is what married men do.

What makes it worse is that most of these women don't actually do any work, so the bloke is expected to earn all the income but gets no downtime in return. Don't give me all that bollocks about "the work she does inside the home" either. When I was a kid women did work - my mum walked miles to the shops (dragging us with her), bought food at various different little stores, cooked it all, washed up, washed clothes and dried them on a line, cleaned the floors, mended stuff and generally worked her arse off. Nowadays it's all "microwave ready meals" and five minues in the car to the supermarket. Clothes go in the the drier and dishes go in the dishwasher so that today's liberated stay-at-home woman can spend all day at the YMCA, or having coffee with friends, or experimenting with a gigantic pink dildo, I don't know.

Mrs Bison saw this post on a mommie-blog recently where this lazy cow was complaining about her husband working late. She has one small kid to look after but was so tired because she'd been "single-mom-ing it all week" that she had let the house go to shit. And she was moaning about it online. Well this must be news to all the real single moms out there, especially the ones who manage to work as well as bring up kids and look after the house. Here's this vacuous bint who seriously believes she's got a hard life, and you can bet her limp-wristed husband isn't going to be getting any free time when he gets home.

Some married couples also labor under the mistaken belief that because they got married they can never do anything by themselves ever again, on pain of death. Everything is a "couples event". One of my old friends got married young and I swear we couldn't pry the bitch off him with a crowbar afterwards. There has to be some balance here. I travel a lot on business but when I get home I don't get any whining from my excellent spouse when I go to the gym or play soccer. She knows it's necessary downtime, and it makes me a better person to be around.

In return I don't fart in bed and pull the covers over her head, so we're all even really. Oh, and I sometimes load the dishwasher. Like I said, it just needs some give and take...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

In The Hole

Confession time – I watched about fifteen minutes of the US Open golf championship on TV today. Yeah, I know – watching golf on TV is a sign of serious mental deterioration; once you start doing that, the next thing you know you’re in the store buying hats with “Titleist” on them and talking with colleagues at work about “that shot Tiger made on the 17th where he hit the cut over the water”. And after that your continued existence on the planet has no value.

Anyway, as I watched I noticed something about the crowd. Any time anyone hit a shot, no matter where they were hitting it from, as soon as they’d hit the ball people would shout “Get in the hole!” as loud as they could. Not everyone, obviously, but a small number of loud-mouthed, brainless cunts.

Maybe once upon a time someone did this when they saw a really long putt approaching the hole and they felt driven by excitement to exclaim something (although, having once attended the Ryder Cup while entertaining customers I cannot see how “excitement” could possibly enter into the proceedings). Now, though, these twats shout it any time there is even a vague chance of the ball going anywhere near the green. They shout it when golfers tee off on a par 3, when they’re hitting shots from the fairway and any time they’re putting. They seem to shout for the leaders and for the “also-rans” in equal measure. In fact the only important feature of the whole exclamation is that it must be made one millisecond after the ball has been hit, i.e. as soon as it’s permissible to make noise.

Note that at the point in time when some fat cunt in a Callaway shirt shouts “Get in the hole” no-one yet has any idea whether the shot is in fact going anywhere near the hole. Leaving aside the fact that it’s impossible for the average human being to see the ball at all most of the time, what’s the point of shouting “Get in the hole” when for all you know the ball may be headed straight for the water. Or a bunker. Or some unfortunate spectator’s groin. And yet they do it. Every hole. All then fucking time, which just confirms my impression that a disproportionately large percentage of the people who follow golf are, in fact, complete wankers.

I wonder if they do the same thing when they’re watching porn. They could be settled down with a couple of buddies, watching a skin flick (I know, real men never watch porn together, but these are golfers we’re talking about) when some actress with plastic tits is approached by a large muscular man with a moustache, dressed as a plumber (or whatever the plot requires). When he pulls out his dong, do they leap up in their pastel colored golf shirts and shout “Get in the hole”? If not, why not? It makes at least as much sense as shouting it on a golf course, with the added bonus that you can be pretty sure that the dong is, in fact, going into the hole (although the exact hole may be uncertain, requiring the exclamation to be modified to “Get in a hole”).

If you can’t find anything else to do tomorrow, watch the final round of the US Open with some beer, and drink every time you hear “Get in the hole”. I swear by the end you won’t be able to stand up.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Parasites

Let's all cheer for the great American tort system shall we? Remember that fire at the Rhode Island nightclub where Great White played in 2003? Well the plaintiffs' attorneys are still in the process of gouging cash out of people who had fuck all to do with causing the tragedy.

Yesterday it was reported that Sealed Air settled for $25 million because victims' attorneys alleged that the company made foam that was installed in the club as soundproofing about eight years before the fire and that it "burned too easily and gave off toxic gas". Never mind that Sealed Air makes packaging materials and has no control over whether someone chooses to use it as soundproofing in a night club. Or that no-one ever proved that the foam came from Sealed Air in the first place. Or that $30 million had already been recovered from other foam producers who also settled. Or that a case against American Foam Corp on the same issue is still pending. How many kinds of fucking foam were supposed to have been in this place anyway?

We all know what's really going on here: the people who caused the fire, by constructing a fire-trap with flammable materials and then allowing pyrotechnics (giant fireworks) to be set off inside, don't have any money, so there's no point going after them. But attorneys love a good tragedy - all those pictures of burn victims and stories of loved ones who'll never return work wonders on the low-IQ specimens that they'll pack onto the jury. No company can expect to get a fair trial so they pay up to limit the exposure and avoid the risk that some bunch of lowbrow fuckwits will award $500 million in punitive damages.

So who got shaken down so far? The radio station that promoted the show, the beer supplier, a pyrotechnics company and Home Depot. Home Depot? For fuck's sake, they sell hardware - just what were they supposed to have done differently? Gone to every jobsite where their products are used and checked it out personally for fire-worthiness? Which begs the question, what happened to the people who were supposed to have checked on the club? Where were the fucking Fire Marshalls? Places that are licensed for public performance are supposed to be checked, but clearly no-one bothered to look very hard.

And what about the pyrotechnics company? They sell big fireworks - they're supposed to explode in flames. If I shoved one up my arse and set it off I dare say I'd have some pretty disgusting burns to show for it, and I'd be taking a dump in a bag for the rest of my life. So should the firework company be liable for my pain and suffering? Should I be awarded punitive damages because they never checked that I wasn't planning to shove it up my arse when they sold it to me?

The public over here is an equal partner with the parasitic trial attorneys in these abuses. They assume that if something bad happens then someone must be made to pay. It must be someone's fault, just not the victim's. There was a case where a child was run over in the street - the driver was sober, licensed and driving under the speed limit and the kid ran in the road but the courts still awarded damages and his insurance company had to pay millions for the long term care of the child. Clearly if anyone was at fault it was the parents who didn't supervise their kid or didn't teach it road safety, but that argument won't make any attorneys rich now, will it? And jurors will look at the tragedy and expect someone else to make it right. With someone else's money

The reality is that as soon as some sympathetic victim shows up the lawyers start looking for anyone with deep pockets who can, by some arcane legal theory, be tied to the case. They also start looking for courts that are "easy" for trial lawyers to exploit, and jurors who are thick as pigshit, with a chip on their shoulders about "big companies". And when they gouge money out they keep 30-40% of it, which funds the next round of abuses. Who pays for it? Who do you think? It all ends up on us as higher insurance rates, higher prices and more bureaucracy.

It's now five years since the fire in Rhode Island but thanks to the trial lawyers plenty of people are still getting burned.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

More Cake?

Digital photography is a wonderful development - you can take endless pictures and it doesn't matter if they come out blurred, or crap, because you can delete them at no cost. In fact you can probably tell if a picture is crap the moment it's taken, and can therefore retake it if necessary. However at some point you have to print out the ones you want to keep; if you are one of those dull and organized people you can arrange them chronologically in albums, but for the rest of us there's the old standby - a shoebox with assorted paper wallets of old photos in no particular order, shoved on a high shelf in a cupboard. This can then serve as a kind of time-capsule since it will be years until you look in it. The fact that nothing is in any order means that you have to wade through several piles of photos before you find the one you wanted, and this allows you to relive memories that you hadn't planned on, which is invariably the best way.

Anyone who seriously believes that they'll stumble on a folder of old electronic pictures buried in My Documents five years from now and will enjoy clicking on the thumbnails is clearly a twat with a technology fetish.

Mrs Bison started sorting through old photos this evening because of novelty cake picture accompanying Jaggy's birthday post. She used to like making strange birthday cakes for me, back in the day, and she wanted to dig out a couple of pictures immortalizing the "Sid the Sexist" one, or the unforgettable "Penis and Testicles" cake. In the process she rediscovered loads of photos from our earlier days together, which generated various reactions, such as:

• Wasn't it great when we bought our first house? But wasn't the kitchen tiny, ugly and shite?
  
• Why has hair apparently disappeared from my eyebrows but sprouted just about everywhere else?
  
• Why did I sometimes dress like a cunt? (Not literally, in case you're imagining some kind of twisted fancy dress outfit...)
  
• Who was that wrinkle-free future-wife, and what happened?
  
• I wonder whether that fence I built is still there.
  
• Why was I showing my arse to the camera on a cold beach somewhere, possibly Brightlingsea?
  
• That home-made Christmas dinner looks great, but whay didn't we change the fucking awful wallpaper in that dining room?
  
• Was it really worth spending half a day with a spinning rod on some rocks in South Wales, just to catch two scrawny mackerel? (Answer - of course it was.)
  
• Whatever happened to paisley ties?
  

In a few years time I'll be as old as my Dad was when I left home. I don't have any photos of him from back then (I've never owned a camera in my life) but whether he looked older than me now or not, there's no question in my mind that he seemed more "grown-up". It has been written that "most men never reach any recognizable state of maturity but some of them learn to fake it". I don't know if my old man was faking, but if he was he did a bloody good job; I still don't feel as grown up now, at 40 years old, as he was when he must have been twenty five. Being a parent doesn't help - sometimes I feel like I'm this giant fraud, pretending to be an adult when in reality I have the natural manners, sophistication and humor of a college kid. I've had this discussion with a friend at work and he feels the same way about his old man. Either this generation is "lighter" and less grown-up than our parents or they did a wonderful job of hiding it.

I certainly don't imagine for one moment that Bison Daughter will be writing something similar about us twenty years from now. For a start she saw that photo of me at Brightlingsea, and the Sid the Sexist cake, so there's no point us pretending that we're your classic mature, responsible adults now is there? My Dad took all his photos as slides and we'd occasionally get slide shows of old pictures. I think I'd have remembered if there was one of him mooning the camera in his stripy swimming trunks at Camber Sands in 1971. Unless I blanked it out of course, but I have a feeling things were different then. For a start he'd probably not have got it developed, and that's another feature of digital photography: no censorship. Plus you can photoshop your balls to be the size of oranges. And the color, too, if you'd like. Yes, it's a wonderful modern world in which we live.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Stand Well Back

One of the major problems with writing this journal is that there are times when you just have to face the fact that nothing remotely interesting has happened to you, and as a consequence you have fuck-all to write about. This is where your average blogger resorts to pondering such pointless shit as the color of their underwear (why do I always seem to wear blue on Tuesdays?), or filling in with memes and other "filler" material. I, by contrast, decided to have a drink, and as a result I cannot be held responsible for the quality of the shit I disgorge tonight.

Anyway, I went to the gym today hardly expecting to be inspired to write, but as I was sitting on the bench between sets I watched one of the trainers escorting a new girl over for her first supervised session. This might have been a good opportunity for some guidance on basic strength exercises, or cardio, or even how to warm up, but instead I watched as this girl was shown how to lie on a foam roller and roll slightly backwards and forwards. What the fuck is the point of that? I'm sure women come to the gym primarily to lose weight or get in shape, and there's no way you're going to change your body shape one single fucking iota by rolling your arse on a foam cylinder. These gym trainers should come with the following disclaimer:

By signing up for these sessions I hereby accept that nothing I learn will be of any practical use whatsoever. I am of sound mind and therefore fully aware that if I want to look different I'll need to eat less or work out hard, and probably both. I therefore hold my trainer harmless in the event that I pay an exorbitant amount of money for six months and get no benefit whatsoever. I further accept that I am only entering into this agreement to make myself feel better about the chocolate cakes and burgers, and have no actual intention of making any effort. I just want something to make me feel OK about being a fat git.

The only thing that girl in the gym might have learned today, and which the trainer completely failed to point out, was that one of the positions she adopted would be perfect if she ever wanted to set light to a fart. Now this is not something for which most people are prepared but let me assure you that it takes more than a three bean casserole and a box of matches to pull this off. For a start it takes balls - it is theoretically possible to get some sort of blowback and badly singe your anus, so it's a bit like buying a lottery ticket, only with a big downside instead of a wad of cash. On the subject of balls, it's also a good idea to keep these out of the way. (Less of a problem if you're a woman, I admit, which is why I'm surprised that more women don't try to light their farts - they have a natural advantage.)

Once your sack is out of the way you still have to figure out how to apply the match from such an angle that the flame won't burn your fingers or your ring. Your pants can be on or off at this stage. Personally I suggest on - applying naked flame to the underside of your testicles in the pursuit of rectal fireworks is a bigger risk than I'd take. You also have to consider the angle of observation - there's absolutely no point setting light to a fart if you don't get to see the result. It doesn't matter how good your friend/spouse says it looked - if you're going to risk blowing up your colon you want the payoff.

In the end this is a sport of timing and opportunity. The chances are that the best fart will come not at home when you've had a few beers and are considering giving this a try for a bet, but at a formal dinner with your boss, where the sight of you throwing your legs up in the air and applying a Bic lighter to your nether regions is unlikely to position you for that soon-to-be-open Vice President position. You just have to accept that you'll pass this one into the seat cushion as quietly as you can and live to light another day.

For those of you who may think this is low-grade entertainment, may I suggest that it's no worse than eating oysters. For years I have eaten these things knowing that there's a small but real possibility that I'll get a dodgy one and spend a whole day vomiting; against this not-inconsiderable downside I can set the upside of swallowing what seems like a small wad of phlegm. Twelve times, if I ordered a dozen. Compared to this, the calculus of lighting a fart and risking an arse burnback in pursuit of the satisfaction of seeing a flame shoot from yourt own anus seems positively reasonable.

This bloke obviously thought so.

Like I said before, sometimes there just isn't much to write about...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Picture Books

Last night I flew to Brussels, and the person in the seat next to me was an attractive young woman. I didn't exchange any actual words with her, however, on account of the fact that she was a dumbass and I would have got better conversation from my pillow. My first clue was when she took her seat and promptly unloaded four thick women's magazines into the seatback pocket, along with two trashy novels. Now I'm not talking about flimsy magazines here - these were about 3/8-1/2" thick, the sort of thing you could use to club a baby seal to death, if the urge took you.

The inflight movies were shit - 27 Dresses and Evan Almighty. Fuck me - a plodding, predictable happy-ever-after chick flick and a mind-buggeringly dull and predictable so-called comedy. So I started to surreptitiously look over at the magazines as Miss Dumbfuck paged through them. They were 100% A-Grade glossy crap, the kind of trash that makes any reasonable person begin to despair of our species. The woman had an engagement ring on and is presumably planning to breed at some point - I wanted to scoop out her ovaries with my plastic spoon as a service to mankind.

You see this particular type of crap everywhere and it's getting more and more prevalent: pictures and stories and interviews focused on an endless parade of "famous" people. Guess what? There were Brad and Angelina, two people I'd be happy never to hear about for the rest of my fucking life, gazing up soft-focusedly as the article gushed over their new $70 million chateau. There was Kim Cattrall giving her "personal" opinions about her favorite shoes, eyeliner and other crap (not that she was getting paid to promote it, of course). There were glittering photos of celebs with their families, seemingly indicating that the mere fact that they are still breathing is reason enough to pose them in silks and tiaras in front of a grand piano, so that slow-witted dumbfucks like the blonde tart next to me could turn page after page, just looking at them.

What's the point? That's what I'd like to know. There's precious little actual text, other than the descriptions of the merchandise they are wearing; most of the content is just photos. The only possible reason I could see to purchase a publication which was made up of glossy photos would be if the people in it were women, were naked, and you intended to indulge in an act of self-pleasure over it. Are these things the female equivalent of porn? Was she getting all juiced up reading about Angelina's new dress, Beyonce's new jewelry or Katie's new hairstyle? Or is this more like those books we buy for little kids, mostly made up of pictures because they haven't yet developed the skills of reading or comprehension, and the messages need to be simple?

I think I can see the messages here clear enough: Buy This. Want This. Worship This. Prostrate yourself at the altar of fame and hang on the words of the glossy idols we have created. Yeah right. Like I'm going to give a flying fuck what J-Lo says about anything.

It's not just the Hollywood types though. We get those "society" pages in our local rag sometimes, with pictures of people in tuxedos and evening dresses, holding cocktail glasses at some gala event. Each picture has a caption with the people's names, you know the sort of thing. Why? Is it really so important to us that Mr and Mrs Humphrey Cuntbubble were standing next to Lieutenant-Governor Arsegrape and his second wife, Gladys on Thursday night?

I increasingly believe that the segment of society which buys and "reads" glossy celeb magazines has self-selected into the category of the populace which should not be allowed to vote, let alone reproduce. All higher-level brain function must surely have ceased in order for such things to have become important, right? In fact about the only things worse are Bride and Wedding magazines, a female maturbatory fantasy of self-indulgent excess and massive consumption, layered with meaningless details and staggering cost, where all must be sacrificed to the monstrous fraud of the "one special day".

Our society may well be going to hell in a handbasket, but at least we'll be able to look at lots of pictures of weddings on the way...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison