Good Neighbors

When I was younger I trained as a scientist, which was fine until I realized that being a scientist was going to bore me rigid because I didn't have the patience for it. One good thing about it, though, is that it reinforced a fact and hypothesis-based approach to thinking, which should serve anyone well in any profession. Ironically, in the "real world" of science, you don't have all these neutral, open-minded scientists engaged in an exciting joint pursuit of the truth; what you get is a whole host of pet theories which are vociferously defended, notwithstanding the discovery of evidence that they are, in fact, complete bollocks. The system is far from perfect, since funding has a lot more to do with who you know than the quality of your ideas, but at least ideas can be promulgated somewhat freely.

Unfortunately, in the realm of politics, ideas are not able to be debated because political correctness has already dictated that "the world is flat" and not only will no amount of data suggesting otherwise change this belief, but anyone calling attention to it will be labeled a heretic and their ideas dismissed from consideration. This is a well-established liberal/socialist approach to achieving political goals - don't compete on the merits but shout down your opponents, intimidate them and label them "racist" or "elitist". If someone has unpopular ideas then they are racist, and no-one needs to consider the views of a racist, do they?

This was demonstrated just recently in the UK, where residents were invited to comment on the proposed siting of a "travellers camp", a euphemistic name for a piece of land where benefit-scrounging pseudo-gypsy bastards park their caravans and from whence they embark on a litter-strewing, thieving, burglarizing, mugging and drinking assault on the local community. Everyone knows this is the case but no-one is allowed to say so because under EU law it would be "hate-speech" towards the "Romany" people who supposedly make up the travelling community. (Never mind that they are mostly of Irish descent and no more Romany than you are.)

The point is that by labeling certain points of view racist, the liberal establishment effectively prevents anyone expressing them. Even if they can't throw people in prison for having those views, they don't need to compete with the ideas on the basis of logic or fact; they can simply be shouted down.

One of the side-effects of the housing crisis has apparently been an influx of black "Section 8" renters into more affluent neighborhoods, as cash-strapped mortgage holders opt for the stable government-subsidized income from these renters as a means to survive financially. This has apparently resulted in an increase in crime and anti-social behavior, but to say so immediately invites charges of racism, as this story shows. The liberals can wring their hands all they want, but anyone who suggests that an influx of families from the projects won't increase crime is talking out of their arse. Who the fuck do you think commits the crime in the projects? The crime fairy? It's not someone else, it's the people who live there, and it's not as though there's some magic filter to sieve out the scum when they move out. Just ask the people in Houston who experienced the massive crime influx when New Orleans exported its inner city black population.

"Oh Mr Bison, you're just a racist - we don't need to listen to you, blah, blah, blah." Bullshit - try looking at the facts. Every night on the news I hear about killings in North St.Louis, and the footage always shows wide streets of fine brick houses, considerably better built than my wood shack. These used to be wealthy suburbs before large numbers of black people moved in and "white flight" left them monochromatic. Now people talk about white flight as though this was the "sin" that caused the decline of these neighborhoods. Fuck off! When the nasty white racists left, the neighborhoods were fine - everything that happened since then was done by the black people who moved in, but you won't find a single politician who will say so, because they'd be "racist".

The schools in these areas are often violent, and routinely are accused of failing the children, but no-one suggests that maybe it's the children who are violent, and the children who are failing the schools. You see, buildings aren't violent; houses aren't criminal and streets don't join gangs and sell drugs. People do. And when you export people with those values to "nice" communities, you don't magically transform them.

Funnily enough, it's the same values that enable people to escape poverty that would make them fit into "nice" society - respect for hard work, education, the law, family, property and individual responsibility. I've seen the reality with my own eyes - a well-maintained suburban house with a pool, in a top school district rendered near-derelict over the period of little more than a year. Rusty cars in the drive, a chain-link fence with a pit-bull, the pool water turned black, guttering hanging off down to the ground and unrepaired, police SWAT teams in attendance, garden ruined, rusted bikes and garbage left outside. Eventually the black occupants left and the new owners have spent weeks working to render the house habitable. But it wasn't their black skin which was the root of the problem - the black bloke over the road was a great neighbor - but the values (or lack thereof) that they brought with them.

For as long as we refuse to criticize the people who have made the cess-pit communities what they are, and shift the blame onto whitey, we won't make any meaningful changes. And it's not about money. Even if you reward indolence with free money, even if you pay for all these "poor, disadvantaged people" to move into nice suburban houses, how long do you think it will be until they have wrought the same destruction, crime and misery there? That's the massive fraud perpetrated on our society by the perpetuation of this myth of the "victims" - it's not their fault, therefore it must be society's fault, so society must pay for their failure, over and over and over again.

One thing basic to the scientific method is cause and effect. If you pay no attention in school, get no qualifications, commit crime, can't get a job and then produce multiple offspring which you cannot afford, it's your own fucking fault. Priority one might not be to get a pit bull and some gold jewelry, and it certainly should not be the responsibility of those of us who made the effort to pay for you wankers to live in the house next door through Section 8 just so you can fuck up our lives too.

Just don't expect to hear this issue debated freely any time soon.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Christmas Hooker

Well, I've just spent all day having a Happy Christmas, and I have to say I'm glad the bastard thing only happens once a year. Sure, it's great when you're a kid - lots of presents and tons of great stuff to eat, followed by chocolate and candy, and no school for two weeks. Then you grow up, and instead of a stress-free festival of hedonism you end up with a ritual of miserable shopping, cooking, getting dragged out of bed early by over-excited kids and realizing after dinner that you've consumed enough calories to fuel an Olympic decathlete and are now guaranteed to enter the new year as a fat bastard.

I used to think I looked forward to the turkey dinner, but this year, when I got done cooking and eating it, it suddenly occurred to me that it really wasn't worth the effort. Next year I guarantee I'm not spending Christmas morning up to my elbows in lard and stuffing - we're having a fucking cheese sandwich. And a large Scotch. I realized that Christmas is mostly about doing things that you do every year, because they've become some sort of ritual, like sticking the turkey neck in your pants and pretending it's a penis:



It wasn't as funny as before...

At least we minimized the present-buying hell this year. Bison Daughter did OK, of course (no reason she shouldn't enjoy the hedonism for a few more years) but Mrs Bison and I don't get expensive shit for each other, and we had a present truce with our brothers. The only problem with this is that once you rule out the turkey dinner and the presents there really isn't much left in the whole Christmas Day thing. You don't see anyone else since they're all committed to their own personal family Christmas hell, and there's nothing to do except eat. We forced ourselves out of the house for a short walk before tea tonight, and as soon as we walked back in we were hit by a thick fog of turkey, stuffing, sprouts and colon gas (which consists mainly of recycled turkey, stuffing and sprouts). Hence the cheese sandwich for next year...

Mrs Bison did get me one very thoughtful gift this year - a copy of "The Happy Hooker", the saucy memoir of a madam called Xaviera Hollander from back in the 70s. This book (or, to be more accurate, its sequel, called "Xaviera") was an integral part of my sex education when I discovered it under my parents' bed when I was a kid. Trust me, I learned things from that book.



Next year I'm hoping for a copy of "The Hand-Reared Boy" by Brian W Aldiss, since I think I found this at around the same time, and it featured a girl called Virginia, who was known as "Virgin for short, but not for long", which I always thought was a better line than anything that wanker Shakespeare came up with. Or maybe I'll go for "A Man With A Maid", which I don't recall had much literary merit, but it was passed around at school and I ended up swapping it with a mate for a full-color scud mag which he'd "borrowed" from the newsagent. Happy days!

I might as well recognize that I'm now past it, and reminiscence is about all I have to look forward to. Bison Daughter got a CD by Ashley Tisdale from Santa, which she thinks is great, whereas I know that it's utter shite. It's soulless, over-produced, teenie-girl pop shit that could have been put out by Britney or any one of a dozen near-identical blonde consumer-bitches. Not at all like the AC/DC and Motorhead I got for Christmas when I was her age. So I'm now officially old because I hate my kid's music. Meanwhile, I got some Thin Lizzy. Let's face it, Phil Lynott's been dead about as long as Ashley fucking Tisdale's been alive, so he's not exactly current, but Chinatown pisses all over her. Which, incidentally, is about the only thing Xaviera doesn't do in her book, so I strongly suggest you get a copy.

Happy Christmas!


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

What The F---

Today was Bison Daughter's dance recital; she had to be at the show early so Mrs Bison took her, and I went along later. After the show she wanted to drive home with Dad, so I put her in the front seat of the truck as a treat, since she's probably big enough now. As we were driving home a twat in a Toyota Sequoia cut me off; with my little girl beside me I could neither swear at him or utilize the appropriate hand signals, so I resorted to mouthing the words in the hope that the twat was looking in his rearview mirror.

Later at home, with Bison Daughter still in her Nutcracker Suite costume and make-up, we were sitting at the table when she explained to Mrs Bison that there had been this man who Daddy had got angry with.

"I think he said fuck" she stated, in a perfectly polite voice.

Bear in mind that we have been at pains to avoid teaching our daughter any of the really bad (good?) swearwords, and we had no idea that she knew this word yet. Mrs Bison looked at me balefully, as if to say "how could you have taught our little girl that word?"

I was quick to realize that, bright as my daughter may be, she would not likely be able to lipread a word she didn't already know, so I asked how she learned it.

"At soccer" she replied, meaning my indoor soccer games, which she watches sometimes, "Chris is always saying it."

That much is true. Chris, a fuckwit who should know better, thinks nothing of talking loudly after the game about the "fucking referee", the "fucking goal" or the "fucker" who tackled him. Bison Daughter never reacted to the word, never showed any indication that she had heard it and never asked about it, but clearly she had filed it away for future reference.

OK, so I was off the hook as the source of the new word, but now we had to make sure she didn't use it again. Mrs Bison told her in a very severe voice that this was not a word we ever wanted to hear from her again.

"OK" said Bison Daughter. Then, as an apparent afterthought, she said "Cock".

I'm sorry, I know I should have kept a straight face, but her comic timing was impeccable - you had to be there to appreciate it. I about fell off my chair. On the one hand it may be appalling that she knows words like that, but on the other hand she knows how to use them sparingly and appropriately, to great comedic effect. (And, fortunately, only at home.)

The good news is she didn't notice that according to me the bloke in the Toyota was also a wanker...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

300

I happened to notice that this will be the three-hundredth entry in Mr Bison's Journal, and I thought this momentous event should be in some way celebrated. So how to mark such an occasion? Start an original meme perhaps? Look back on the highlights of the last 299 posts? Or reflect on how writing this journal has changed my life? Yeah right. Since this site has always been based on a healthy foundation of cynicism and profanity (admittedly mostly profanity) there would be no better way to mark the three hundredth post than by listing three hundred bad words. Mrs Bison said it couldn't be done, but with the benefit of poetic license and a wasted childhood (and without cheating on the internet) we came up with the following:

Anal anus arse arsehole arseholed arsebiscuit arsewipe arselicker arse-kisser arse-invader arsefucker arse-grapes assbag assclown assmunch baby-gravy backdoor balls ballsack bastard bellend bitch blowjob bloody bleeding boner boning bone-on bonk bonk-on bonking box box-off browneye brownhatter bugger buggered buggering bollocks bullshit bum bumhole buttplug cameltoe chubblies clap clit clitty clittylicker clodge clunge clusterfuck cock cockbreath cockmunch cockmuncher cocksucker cocksucking crap crapper crapping cretin cum cumshot cumbreath cumstain cunt cuntbreath cuntbubble cunt-like-a-bucket cuntyballs deepthroat dick dickhead dickwad dickstream dickbreath dickcheese dildo dirt-denter dogfucker doggystyle dogging dogsbollocks dominatrix dong faggot fanny fanny-batter felch felching fellate fart fartbreath fetish fingering fist fisting fist-fuck flaps flapshots fluffer foreskin frig frigging frottage frotting furburger fuck fuck-off fucked fucking fucker fuckbuddy fuckhole fuckwad fuckstain fuckstick fuckflaps fuck-a-doodle-doo fuckwit fuckwitted motherfucker motherfucking gash gayboy gloryhole gobbler golden-shower hamburger-shot handjob hand-shandy hand-solo happysack hard-on helmet helmet-cheese homo hump humping jackoff jam-rag jerk jerkoff jerkwad jizm jizz jizzwad jizzstain jubblies lezbo lezza lickout longdongsilver lovespuds lovetunnel love-truncheon man-mess mams masturbate masturbation melons milf minge money-shot muff muffdiver mutton-dagger nads nadbags nadsack nancyboy needle-dick nips nob nobcheese nobhead nob-rot onanist panstain pearl-necklace pencil-dick penis pillowbiter pinkmeat piss pisser pissed pissflaps piss-stain pissing pisspot pods ponce poof pooftah porksword porno prat prick prong pubes puff-hole pussy pussyjuice quim queef rimming rumphumper scrotum scrotum-pole scrote scrote-bag semen semen-stain slag smeg smeghead smegging shag shagging shagger shagged sheepshagger shit shits shithead shiteater shitfaced shitstain shit-for-brains shitter shitting shitstabber shirtlifter sphincter sixty-nine skidmark skinflute skullfuck slut snatch sod sodding sodomy sodomize sodomite spam-ram spanky spanking spankmag spaz spazwit spunk spunkbag spunkbubble spunkrag spunkstain spunkbreath stiffy stringpuller subdom suck-off suckjob suck’n’fuck tart tatty-water threeway tits titjob tit-roll titties titfuck titwank toss tosser tosspot tossrag tug soapytitwank teabagging trousersnake twat turd turdbrain turd-burglar vag vibrator vinegar-strokes vulva wang wanger wank wanker wanking wanked wankjob wankmag wankstain wide-on whack-off whore womb-broom woody.

Since it's nearly the end of the year, when bloggers everywhere start discussing their new year's resolutions, perhaps you might resolve to use ten of the above words in conversation next year. Or maybe you could just use them to enliven the family Christmas dinner.

"Hey Grandma! Would you pass the motherfucking cranberry sauce please?"

Feel free to contribute your own - I'm always happy to enrich my vocabulary. Plus, I'm fucked if I know what I'll do when I get to four hundred...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Good Job

You can file this under "reasons to despair of public education". I may have mentioned before that I do not understand why so much of the elementary school curriculum is given over to things that have absolutely nothing to do with education. The way I see it, the school should teach my kid to read, write and do math. Then they can move on to science, foreign languages, history and all that other stuff. Oh, and do some sport too, since that's good for health and fitness, as well as teamwork. Meanwhile I can take care of all the other stuff - I don't need the school to teach character or bollocks like that.

Instead, on the few days when the kids are actually in school for a whole day, they get parties. Endless fucking parties with junk food, for no good reason whatsoever. This week Bison Daughter has a gift-wrapping party, where they wrap gifts for "poorer families", an end of term party and a reading reward party. Do they ever bother to do any actual teaching? It's not enough that the fucking teachers only work six months of the year anyway, but now they spend half of that presiding over fucking parties.

And don't get me started on the gift wrapping bullshit. The profiles of the people who will receive the gifts include sizes (so people can buy clothes for them). They're almost without exception grossly obese. They can't afford to buy their own clothes but they can eat crap to excess on a daily basis. Perhaps instead of attempting to instill "character" by collecting gifts (which actually just demonstrates the very different attributes of "peer pressure" and "competitive parenting") the school could teach how important it is to get an education and take responsibility for yourself. And not spend all your time in class parties so you end up obese.

Today, however, the school plumbed new depths in educational time-wasting. My ten year-old daughter was given a test to determine what kind of career choices would be good for her. Are you shitting me? On how many separate dimensions is this absurd? For a start, no healthy, well-adjusted pre-teen should have the tiniest concern about what their career choice will be. Do well in school and you have options; screw around and you don't, but you're still a kid, so relax and enjoy it while you still can. What's more, no-one at that age is in any position to know what they want to be. They probably don't have any clue what jobs exist in the real world, what it's like to actually do one, how much they pay, or how desperately you'll want to end your life if you get trapped in a crap one. In fact the only thing they know is that teachers work a third of a year and eat a lot of cake. I didn't know what job I wanted to do when I was twenty, let alone ten. In fact I had to do a couple of crap ones along the way in order to figure it out, so what possible benefit can accrue from making kids think about it at that age?

OK, so leaving that minor point aside, what did this fabulous exercise teach Bison Daughter about her future career? Bear in mind that she's a very smart kid, in a supposedly good school district. A possible scientist? An engineer, manager, investment analyst, sales professional or supply chain expert? No. According to the school she's ideally suited to be a cosmetologist, a hairdresser or a dancer.

Fuck me sideways! Why don't you just list "pole dancer" as well, so we don't miss anything? Apparently she's a creative thinker, and that just screams "cosmetologist" doesn't it? The school district tested her, identified her as an exceptionally bright child and sent her to special classes one day a week just so she could learn to do make-up. I'm so proud. It's not that the world doesn't need hairdressers (although it's hard to imagine that it really needs a lot of cosmetologists) but the process is obviously utter bullshit.

When I was ten I wanted to be a goalkeeper for West Ham United and save a penalty in the FA Cup final. If you'd asked what I wanted in a job I'd have made "working outdoors" a must, but today I have to say I was sodding delighted not to have to work outside in the 15F temperature. In other words I had no bastard clue what I really wanted to be back then. When asked, I always said I wanted to work at the place my Dad worked, because it had a revolving door and an elevator. Plus he got chocolate biscuits with his tea. That was the sum total of my insight. And instead of spending half a day testing me to see if I wanted to be a cosmetologist, my school taught me to spell, write coherent sentences and add up numbers so I didn't have to be one.

The degree to which I despair of the education profession is hard to put into words. The best advice I could give to a class of ten year-olds today would be "eat as much as you can at all the class parties, don't bother about learning anything, and then someone else will send you food and clothes when you're older". Or, failing that, there's always cosmetology...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Who's There?

It must be tough to be a Roman Catholic these days. I mean, it's got to be hard enough being a member of a church that has institutionalized kiddie-fiddling to a degree that has the NAMBLA complaining about turf infractions. Who can send their children off to a catholic school, summer camp or youth club without lining up a good psychiatrist and attorney, just in case? But as if that isn't bad enough, the church appears to be chock-full of nutjobs, convinced that they see the image of the virgin Mary in countless bizarre places.

The most recent case was a woman called Pamela Latrimore who was trying to sell a brain scan which she claimed contained an image of the virgin Mary. Does this sound messed up to you? Well, bear in mind that the blessed virgin gets about a bit. She's already been sighted on a tree stump and a fence post, as well as on a pebble. She popped up on an expressway underpass, prompting all sorts of weird bastards to show up and turn it into a shrine. She's done windows - an office window in Massachussetts and a hospital window. Obviously glass is a good medium for the virgin because she's apparently also appearing in a greenhouse in Canada. Her appearance in a mirror was seen as a clear sign that little Elian Gonzalez (remember him?) was blessed and should not be sent back to his father in Cuba.

Food is also a good place for her to show up. So far she's appeared in a grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of salsa and a pizza pan. She's been immortalized in the grease of a Geroge Foreman grill and even taken time out to inhabit a rotten grape. Believe it or not she's also been sighted in a toilet bowl. This is a clear indication that the catholic church is slipping in its discipline. Back in the good old days of the Inquisition I'm pretty certain that anyone who claimed that the blessed virgin could be found in their shitter would have wound up sitting on a pile of burning wood, reflecting on the error of their ways. And what kind of fuckwit turns around after dropping their fudge and checks it out for any reason? Who looks at a pan stain closely enough to see what resemblance it may bear to persons alive or deceased, let alone Biblical? Do they call family members to come and verify their claim? "Hey, Martha, come look at this! I think the virgin Mary's appeared in the spicy bean dip that disagreed with me last night!" You'd have to be fucking insane.

To be fair, these people probably are insane, or at least borderline mental defective. Why is it that when they see an image that bears the tiniest faint resemblance to the stereotypical virgin Mary, they instantly assume that's who it is? Doesn't anyone else get to show up on a grape or spend a little time in a pizza pan? Maybe it's Mother Theresa, and she's constantly pissed to be mistaken for the mother of Christ every time she puts in an appearance.

It doesn't even have to have a face - all it takes is a swirl. By that standard I could turn out images of the virgin in a cake mixer every ten minutes.

Of course this could be the same problem that affects the sad wankers who are convinced they've lived a previous life as Cleopatra or Joan of Arc. No-one ever gets reincarnated from a dirt-eating peasant, a chicken thief or a goat molester, do they? Oh no, they all spent time in the court of Marie Antoinette or Henry VIII. So by the same token that indistinct image in the road salt on the side of your truck just has to be the virgin Mary - who else could it be?

These people are certifiable head cases, but with a faith that is capable of imagining faces in the window it's no wonder they managed to convince themselves to start burning witches. It's just the kind of deep, unshakable faith that's necessary in order to send your kid off with the priest for a sleepover. Which is convenient...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Señor Floppy

Bad news for all you Hispanic men today - according to a study published in the Archives of Internal Medicine you're two and a half times more likely to have difficulty getting it up than other men. That means one in eight of you have boner issues, compared with about one in twenty of the rest of us. And that's just for men in the 20-50 age range - once you include the old guys you have a 40% probability of limp dick syndrome.

Now I can't help thinking that it's a little ironic that there should be such a massively disproportionate incidence of "downward facing dong" in the Hispanic community, given the reputation among Hispanic men for machismo. I guess all that Latin lover, open shirt, medallion-wearing, slicked back hair, tight leather pants stuff is just bollocks; the willy just can't cash the check that the image is writing. Maybe this is why the Latin lover thing is so prevalent: as Shrek would put it, "Do you think he's compensating for something?" It's the same syndrome that results in it always being little fuckers who start fights in pubs, as they try to prove that they're every bit as tough as everyone else. Meanwhile we know they're just pissed off because they can't reach the condom machine in the pub toilet.

Us pasty white blokes don't waste time waxing our chests, whitening our smiles and gelling our hair. We don't do the Samba or any of that crap. We don't have to because we know our equipment works. Sure, Juan will gaze into your eyes as his open-necked shirt exposes his tanned chest, but can he get an erection? Apparently the answer, at least 12.5% of the time, is "no". Just as you shouldn't bring a knife to a gun fight, there's no point showing up at the ballgame with a floppy bat.

What's interesting is that there is no apparent reason for the observation in the study. The data was corrected for medical issues like diabetes, so the obvious question is "Why do Hispanic men have such difficulty getting it up compared to the rest of us?" We're biologically the same, so what's the key distinction that would explain the difference in hard-on activity?

Well, at the risk of being politically incorrect, has anyone considered the women? I mean, it's well known that for all the mixed race relationships that exist, the statistical majority of relationships are within ethnic groups; most Hispanic men are dating or married to Hispanic women (or other Hispanic men, but let's not go there) just as most white and black people tend to marry within the same ethnic group. It may be as much a matter of who you happen to be surrounded by as anything else, but it's a fact nonetheless. Is it possible that there's nothing different about Hispanic men, but that it might be harder to get wood with Hispanic women? The hypothesis fits the data.

Now, far be it from me to suggest that Hispanic women are unattractive. I happened to meet a woman in Mexico who could probably have given an erection to a dead man, never mind anyone else. But we're talking about averages here - could it be that a higher incidence of hairy top lip, overgrown thatch or wide arse than exists in the general population is responsible for the "downturn" among Hispanic males? Well, I'm no medical man so it's not for me to say, but somehow I don't imagine that this will be the subject of the follow-up research paper in the Archives of Internal Medicine.

It turns out that you can research pretty much anything you want, but there are some questions which cannot be asked, just in case the answer isn't what people want to hear. In the meantime, while us lucky guys fully expect to wake from slumber with the "wife's best friend" at attention, spare a thought for Southern California, which must be the flaccid penis capital of the United States. Keep taking the little blue pills, guys.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Let There Be Light

Wouldn't it be great if you bought stuff and it didn't turn out to be crap. And wouldn't it be even better if Christmas tree lights from last year occasionally fucking worked. I'm of the opinion that these two concepts are inextricably related - since retailers are all busy competing with each other to drive down price, the quality of the goods they sell is of secondary importance. (Who am I kidding? It's of no importance at all most of the time.) So the tree lights that were bought last year from K-Mart, and carefully stowed in a large plastic box at the end of the season, utterly failed to perform their, let's face it, pretty limited task when Mrs Bison plugged them in on Sunday.

To add insult to injury, some of the lights on some strings worked, but I'm buggered if I could figure out what to do to make the rest come on. Sure, I tried replacing fuses, changing out bulbs and straightening wires, and then, when that didn't work, I resorted to shaking the fucking things and banging them on the floor, but without any success. Mrs Bison ended up going back to K-Mart and buying a whole load more crappy lights. Next year we'll pull them out of the box again, and next year they'll be fucked again. I guarantee it.

How hard can it be? Tree lights are just some wire, some bulbs and a plug. They are a borderline fire hazard on a good day, but it's not like they have a sophisticated task to perform. You can buy a mobile phone or game system with millions of sensitive microscopic connections etched on tiny silicon wafers, and they'll continue to do their job for years, even if you drop them in the bog. And that job involves complex tasks, like communicating with people in different continents. We have plasma TVs, mobile GPS systems, MP3 players, Nintendo Wii and noise canceling headphones. So why the fuck, after half a century of experience, can manufacturers not figure out how to make a string of bulbs on a wire work?

Tree lights are all made in China, obviously in the factories which specialize in lead-lined children's toys and contaminated milk. The Chinese can produce goods of very high quality if necessary, so who specified the lights to be made "as shit as possible"? It must be K-Mart, right? They know what they're buying. Now, you might ask why I don't buy more expensive lights, in the expectation that they'd last longer. I learned my "don't pay more" lesson years ago with tin openers.

Everyone knows that tin openers all corrode and, after a while, you can't get them to turn properly. So you go and buy another one. I figured out that if I bought a better model, with interlocking wheels and a more robust construction, it would last forever, and save me having to keep buying new ones. Guess what? It rusted up just as fast as the cheap ones. Rule Number One of the retail trade: paying more doesn't mean you get more. So if I buy more expensive tree lights I'll just end up throwing away more expensive-but-useless lights next year.

It's the same story with everything from shoes to clothes to furniture - it's not made to last. I'd be more than happy to pay extra for tree lights that I knew would work next year, but how would they be distinguishable at the store? A big label, saying "Guaranteed Not To Be Shit" or "Work For Ten Years Or Your Money Back"? I don't think so. So if you fully expect the stuff you buy to be crap, the only sensible response is to buy the cheapest crap so you waste as little money as possible. Which means that retailers will continually drive down the quality of what they sell, since it's expected to be crap, and needs to be cheap.

Mind you, it's always possible that Mrs Bison didn't pick up the "Never Work Twice" lights and instead selected the "Burn You Alive In Your Sleep" ones. In which case I won't have to worry about getting them out of the box next Christmas. Or buying a new tin opener either, for that matter...


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

It's The Law

As we each proceed on our personal journey through life it is certain that we will learn things, mainly by making mistakes that have been made millions of times already by other people. This is called "experience", and its benefits are hard to pass on, partly because no-one listens to advice, and partly because it's stupid to take advice from people who've already clearly made so many mistakes. Nevertheless there are certain immutable laws of life that emerge from collective experience. Most of them are dull, and relate to things like work, money and family. Here, however, are some observations more related to what men spend 90% of their time thinking about:

Stockhausen's Law
"Women can be too thin."

My old mate Stockhausen observed that although thin women can be nice to look at, they are generally a lot less fun to fuck than chunky women. In my experience most men would probably admit this, even while many adorn themselves with women who look like they've been on the "Sudan Diet", with ribcages like a xylophone. Men like women with a bit of meat on. This doesn't mean we're all secretly yearning for a 600lb fatty monster - it's one thing to appreciate the additional comfort and pleasure afforded by a full-figured woman but I'm sure it's quite another to fumble around looking for an "in" hole that would require a GPS to accurately locate.

Peter's Law
"In the internet dating game, divorced women over 35 are all fucked up."

This law, assiduously researched and demonstrated to a high degree of statistical significance by another mate, holds that when you are dating a divorcee over 35 the question is not whether she has "issues" but merely which issues she has. Apparently the percentage of women in the St.Louis area in this category who are on anti-depressants is staggeringly large. (Whether that's a result of the prior relationship or more symptomatic of living in St.Louis is another question, of course.) When you're fishing in this pond you find yourself looking for the "issue", and if it's not an obvious one you really can't relax until you figure out what it is. You just hope it's nothing involving drugs, theft or sharp implements...

Charlie's Law
"A really good shit is almost as good as sex."

I can't say I subscribe to this one - either Charlie never figured out how to do sex right or I've been taking a dump wrong all these years. Maybe his observation was a result of not observing Stockhausen's Law...

Darren's Law
"Your chances of meeting a woman you really want to impress increase exponentially according to the embarrassing nature of your situation at the time."

Darren was a mate at university who had a habit of going out and getting drunk on purple nasties on a regular (and increasingly frequent) basis. This may have explained his inability to actually obtain any kind of degree, or (in his third year) attend a single, solitary lecture. Darren also used to throw up quite often at some point in the evening and no matter how careful he thought he was he'd usually get some puke on his trousers. Seeing as he was drinking purple nasties the puke was invariably purple. He would then run into some girl he wanted to impress, and talk to her for fifteen minutes, believing he was making good progress. The next morning he'd wake up and realise he'd been covered in purple vomit the whole time and the girl in question would avoid him like the plague from then on. This is the same Law that dictates when you're a kid that the girl in your class who you fancy will see you at the shops buying shoes with your mum and not hanging around by the swings in the park, smoking a cigarette and looking cool. Life's a bitch like that.

Jim's Law
"Cheat with married women - they have as much to lose as you."

This is a good one to remember if your're not attempting to audition the next wife but just looking for some extra-curricular activity. Single women are typically looking for Mr.Right. Even when they say they aren't (even when they believe they aren't) they mostly are. The fact that they are with you means that you are prey, and she will be a lot less careful about not getting you caught as a result. She may even actively try and expose your relationship in order to drive away your wife and free you up for your future life together. Careless phone calls, e-mail messages and panties in your glovebox, for instance. Married women, by contrast, will be as keen as you to keep the lipstick off your collar, and the spooge off their skirt.

Paul's Law
"If you're going to cheat, try and pick a woman with the same hair color and length as your wife."

This should be obvious. Stray blonde hairs on your jacket are a lot easier to explain if your wife is blonde. Likewise a two foot brunette hair isn't likely to have come from your wife if she has her hair in a four inch bob. You can ignore this Law if so inclined, but as Paul says, "Hair gets fucking everywhere - you have to recognize that."

Marc's Law
"When you're on the pull, go out with a mate who has different taste to you."

Women are like free radicals (chemistry reference, look it up dumbass) - they do not exist in the solitary state in nature, except on a very temporary basis. Quite often they exist in the diamer state (i.e. pairs). If you and your buddy both like the same thing you are almost certainly going to compete for the "attractive" one of the pair. However, if you like "natural brunette with curves" and he likes "skinny blonde with plastic tits" you might find a pairing that works for you. At the very least if you find a girl you like he'll be a good wingman and not be trying to hit the same target.

Bapi's Law
"When dancing with girls in Malaysia, look closely at the hands."

This applies equally in Singapore and Thailand, obviously: some of the women aren't. You might think you wouldn't be fooled by some bloke in a dress, but in countries where the women are slim-hipped and the men are hairless it doesnt take nearly as much effort to disguise the goods. Bapi danced with that "girl" for a good fifteen minutes; we would have warned him, but, well, it wouldn't have been as funny. Another bloke I knew had this theory that if you couldn't tell, it didn't matter, but as far as the rest of us were concerned it mattered a lot. Plus, not all are post-op, and unless you want to have your own personal "Crying Game" moment, pay attention to large hands.

I know this is but a small selection of learnings from friends over the years - feel free to add to the wisdom. You never know how many men you might help.


Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison