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This is the time of year when many people get to experience the joy or private hell of their partner’s relatives. I always get to laugh at other people and their nightmare in-laws, as they quietly prepare for another coma-inducing holiday dinner or buttock-clenchingly annoying family get-together. Partly this is because I got lucky with high-quality in-laws, but in any case, they’re thousands of miles away, so how hard can it be for me?

You can learn a lot about your future spouse by watching their interaction with their family. If they allow themselves to be treated like shit then you’d better run a mile, because once you’re together you’ll be expected to put up with endless shit as well. In the end, though, no-one chooses their relatives, so if she’s burdened with a deadbeat sister with pigshit-thick children, a dull, flatulent father and an insane whiny mother, it’s not her fault (although you should watch the genes – that DNA is coming out in your kids someday).

What you really can learn a lot from, however, is her choice in friends. They aren’t relatives, so there’s zero excuse for continuing to hang around with irritating wankers once they are revealed as such. Sure, if you meet after college there may be some leftovers who seemed like fun at the time but never moved on. People showing up in the early hours, however, stoned and looking for a ride home, is nowhere near as hilarious when you’re getting up early for work. Especially when they’re the kind of “friends” you only see when they need something, and never hear from otherwise. If you are of the quite reasonable opinion that they should “fuck off and never come back” it really helps if your better half sees it the same way.

Unfortunately the male of the species is programmed to overlook such important considerations; the “good judgment” portion of the frontal cortex is rendered inoperative by the presence of what is known in the medical profession as “some nice boobs”. It doesn’t matter if she’s hanging around enjoying the company of the kind of left-wing, limp-wristed, weasel-brained losers that you’d feel more at home scraping off the bottom of your shoe, suddenly it doesn’t matter because she’s got a really nice rack. So you try and ignore them, and with the benefit of “shag-hopefulness” you can manage it for a while.

Trouble is unlikely to come in the form of her female friends, however. In my experience they want her to be happy, so if you do a good job of that they’ll love you, or at least tolerate you a bit. Your nemesis will be the “close male friend”. He’s been her friend for a long time and they have lots of in-jokes, deep personal discussions and together time. He may have wanted to shag her when they met but he was too ugly, and now he’s entered the “friend zone”, where he’s not seen as a threat by her, but is utterly neutered in terms of his personal pursuit of her girly parts. Frustrated by this his only recourse is to block any new male suitor who comes along, clinging to her like a parasite, with no other mission than to leave you cock-blocked.

We’ve all met this weaselly little arse-bag. He comes in many forms, but is always an ugly and failed suitor who was too gutless to make a play himself, but who’s now attached himself like a parasite to prevent you boxing off with her. I remember a girl at University. Well, when I say “remember”, I don’t actually remember her name, or anything like that. I just remember that she had huge breasts, especially in proportion to her height. I’m not a “massive tits” man as a rule, but I won’t turn them down either. I even managed to get my drunken mate Darren to effectively decoy her girlfriend while I moved in, which was some feat since he was normally shit-faced and covered in puke by that stage of the evening. Well, it turned out she had one of these male friends, who I met later. He wore crappy plaid shirts, had coke-bottle glasses and no shoulders. He had all the personality of a dead halibut, and for some reason she thought he was great. I could see from a mile away that he was using his “I’m no threat” act to get close to her boobs, but it was not in me to pander to his weaselly ways. The bloke was a cunt, pure and simple.

The moral of the story is that it doesn’t matter whether you can get past the weasel or not; sooner or later she’s going to surround herself with similar losers and dickheads. Better to face up to the fact that you’re fundamentally incompatible now. Well, when I say “now”, I mean “in the morning”. And as you let yourself quietly out of her flat, if you happen to meet the weasel, do everyone a favor and kick his arse. Mankind will thank you.

You know what I miss? Being a smoker. Not that I ever was one in the past, you understand, but there’s no getting away from the fact that it looks cool. Anyone who denies that you can look cool with a cigarette packet, lighter, and just the right hand movements, is completely full of it. Just go back to any old movie where the heroes (and villains) punctuated the action by lighting up, inhaling deeply and then calmly exhaling the smoke. Tapping the cigarette on the case, flicking open the Zippo lighter, cupping the hands to shield it in the wind – all cool. I missed out on all that, partly because I didn’t break enough rules when I was at school, but mostly because by the time I was a teenager everyone knew that smoking gave you horrible rampant cancer death disease. Sure, looking cool is good, but on balance I’d take not having to talk out of a hole in my neck, or carry around an oxygen tank, or lie in a pine box while they shovel earth on me. Which is a shame, because the one thing that makes smoking even more attractive these days is how much it pisses off all the self-righteous bastards who want to make all our choices into their choices.

But hope is at hand. Or at least I assume it is. You see, with the current fashion for focusing massive portions of our health research dollars figuring out ways to make unhealthy activities healthy, it can only be a matter of time before a major drug company comes out with a drug that prevents you getting cancer when you smoke.

On what do I base this fond hope? How about the hundreds of millions of dollars being spent to find the world’s first obesity pill? That magic pill that will allow you to eat like a gigantic pig without becoming morbidly obese. Sure, you could just eat less and not be a four hundred pound lardy fat waste of oxygen, but why do that when big pharma can hand you a magic pill, all paid for conveniently by our ever-more-expensive health insurance premiums. (It has to be covered, or else we’d be discriminating against the fecklessly, grossly overweight, you do understand, don’t you?)

So in what universe is it more worthwhile to develop pills that let fat people eat without dying of obesity but not acceptable to develop pills that allow smokers to smoke without getting cancer? I mean, if everyone could eat whatever the fuck they wanted, and just shit it out the next day without getting fat, just how much of the earth’s surface do you think would have to be given over to growing all the food they’d want to shovel into their ugly faces? If you think the third world gets a raw deal now, just wait until America can eat what it wants with impunity. No, getting fat is the only (limited) brake on uncontrolled eating, and frankly I’d favor executing the grossly obese, not spending millions to allow them to practice their disgusting excesses without consequence.

And I may be on shaky political correctness ground here, but how very different is AIDS research? I keep hearing that we’re getting closer to having a fucknormously expensive new inoculation so people can avoid getting AIDS. Hundreds upon hundreds of millions of dollars will have been spent, much of it diverted from our taxes, so that people can go about their daily routine without risk of contracting AIDS. And just what routine would that be which puts one at such a risk? Well, basically fucking people up the arse and sharing drug needles, as far as I can tell. Let’s be honest, how much of a problem would AIDS ever have become without those activities? But just like getting fat by overeating, it’s not like everyone doesn’t know how to avoid getting AIDS. Yes, there are lots of people innocently infected, but they wouldn’t be getting the preventative shot in any case, even were it available. So what will happen the minute a free shot against AIDS becomes available? Unlimited, promiscuous arse sex, that’s what.

So why would my drug to allow smoking be any more of a waste than a drug which seems to be in development with the principal attraction of allowing gays to fuck strangers in bath-houses without risk? I already know how to not get fat – I don’t eat too much, and I already know how not to get AIDS – I don’t fuck strangers or share needles. Sure I could get it from someone else via a blood transfusion, or assault, or through deceit, but that’s why we have drugs for TREATMENT.

So here and now I’d like to make a case for a wholesale diversion of drug research spending towards the noble goal of cancer-free smoking. After all, it’s not just about saving lives; it would be cool too. Remember how cool the hero looked in the 50’s movies? Well how would you have felt if, instead of lighting up a Camel, he was stuffing a cake in his face and fucking another man in the bunghole instead? No, Mr Bond, I expect you to die…

Copyright © 2012 Edward Bison

The American Bison

I recently took the final step in a process that commenced more than 12 years ago: I became a US citizen. I didn’t need to take this last step – as a permanent resident I could have continued to work and live here indefinitely. No, this was a definite choice.

The ceremony itself is a very tasteful event at a federal courthouse, and I can honestly say that I was proud to become a US citizen. That’s now my flag, and my country, in a way that isn’t quite the case when you’re just a permanent resident. There were about fifty of us going through the process, and most were from Eastern Europe and India. In fact, with the exception of one person from Japan, there was no-one else who originated from what I’d call a “top tier” developed democracy.

While we waited in line to hand in our green cards and sign the citizenship form an American accompanying another applicant asked us where we were from. “United Kingdom” I replied. “Why are you becoming citizens?” he asked, clearly surprised. I gave a short, polite reply, resisting the temptation to spoil the ambience by asking why the fuck he should be so amazed that someone would actually want to become a US citizen for some other reason than to run away from the crappy poverty of their home country.

Actually it was a relief that the twat in question didn’t ask us where in the UK we were from. I get that all the time from Americans. When I tell them (actually I give them a list of about ten places I lived) they proceed to look at me blankly before telling me that they had an aunt who once went on vacation to Norwich (which they insist on pronouncing Nor-Witch) or Leicester (which they don’t so much pronounce as emit in a spasm of drool). They don’t recognize a single place I mention, and if I included a few Serbian place names for the fun of it I doubt they’d notice. So why ask?

Maybe you think it’s funny that I take the piss out of Americans having just become one, but that’s the thing about citizenship: you don’t have to like all the other people who live in the country. You don’t even have to like the president (thieving socialist tosser). What you do have to do, as far as I’m concerned, is put that country first. Brits above a certain age (which won’t include a bunch of Generation Y Facebook-junkie losers) should remember Norman Tebbit’s Cricket Test. For all the immigrants from the Indian subcontinent who call themselves “English” the real test is who you cheer for when England are playing India, Pakistan or Sri Lanka at cricket. If you don’t cheer for England you’re not English, end of story. You’re just using a flag of convenience to enable you to live in a country, in a parasitic way, rather than have to make it back in your “home” country, where life ain’t so easy.

So while I will continue to support England over Australia in cricket, in the event of an England vs USA soccer match I’ll cheer the US team, because to do otherwise would be the height of hypocrisy. (Of course I’ll still want England to beat the French. And the Germans. Even if in reality they’re lucky to beat Croatia on a good day.)

But there are some things that won’t change. The definition of “fanny” is set in stone for me, and I can’t move over to the US version. I’m not getting my teeth straightened, or giving a solitary fuck about baseball statistics. You can stick Disney World up your arse, and I cannot take evolution-denying uber-religious nutjobs seriously under any circumstances, especially when they start speaking in tongues. I won’t ever consider American chocolate fit for anything other than cooking low-grade brownies, and I cannot consider a country fully civilized where they consider “salted” to be about the only acceptable potato chip flavor.

I do, however, like living in one of the few developed countries where they still have the balls to execute some of the worst murdering scum (although not nearly enough) and where guns can be owned by normal people, not just criminals (look how well that gun-ban experiment worked in England. Twats.) And as a fully-fledged citizen I can now do my bit to help ensure that the liberal left and their whiny socialist agenda doesn’t take away all that made this country worth joining. It ain’t perfect, but it’s home.

Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison

There’s a candy dish at work, on the desk of one of my colleagues, which he keeps topped up daily with miniature and fun-size candy bars and chocolates. I’ll wander by most days for some gratuitous calories, the amount depending on what sort of day I’m having. Some days it’s just a few Rolos, but on others I might have a Baby Ruth, a 100 Grand, some miniature Milky Way and a couple of Almond Joy. There’s an element of competition because we all have our preferences and sometimes there are two or three of us who want the same candy. The 100 Grand bars don’t typically hang about, for instance.

Today, however, there was a lot less of a feeding frenzy at the watering hole. You see it’s Lent, and in a city thickly

More From Whitey

I was definitely planning to write something lavatorial or vaguely penis-related, and definitely humorous, as an antidote to yesterday’s more serious post, but I saw that our new attorney general, Eric Holder, (did he cheat on his taxes too?) gave a speech on the subject of race today and I just couldn’t let it pass. First he took the opportunity to call us a nation of cowards. Then the gist of what he said was that we’re still basically a self-segregated society, and that “we must feel comfortable enough with one another and tolerant enough of each other to have frank conversations about the racial matters that continue to divide us”.

Really? A frank conversation? Apparently yes, because he went on to say “If we’re going to ever make progress, we’re going to have to have the guts, we have to have the determination, to be honest with each other. It also means we have to be able to accept criticism where that is justified.”

Yeah, right. I know how this process of race politics works in real life here – the criticism is fine so long as it’s leveled at whitey, but you so much as hint at any failings in the so-called black community and you may as well just check yourself into Racists Anonymous and be done with it.

Let’s peel this racial onion a little bit, though, just in case Mr Holder is serious. His point seems to be that we’re not the “melting pot” that we’re supposed to be. White people largely hang out with other white people and the same for blacks. He didn’t mention Indians, Chinese or Mexicans, which is not a surprise because in the world of racial politics these “not white but not African” people are an unfortunate distraction, but I’m sure the same is true for them. This isn’t good enough for Mr Holder though – we should all be living in mixed race neighborhoods like those smiling pictures in adverts where the random group always contains at least one black/woman/hispanic, and probably a token gay as well.

This would make perfect sense if the idea that we’re all the same apart from our skin color was actually true, but it is, in fact, utter bollocks. Sure it’s true for some of us – the black colleagues I’ve had were basically the same kind of person as me. They were professionals, family men, lived in suburbia, dressed smartly and had a lot of the same experiences growing up (such as going to college). But in spite of the fact that they have everything in common with people like me and fuck-all in common with some hip-hop, drug using, pants round his arse, ghetto pimp, they get labeled together as part of the “black community”. And who does this? It’s the fucking black community themselves, or at least a very vocal section of it.

If Holder really wants a color-blind society where we all mix in, one of the prerequisites is that we don’t pay attention to skin color and use it as a badge of commonality. People like him need to stop labeling all black people as part of one group, and implying that we should see them all as “the same”. It’s noticeable that Holder gave his speech to mark Black History Month, which is exactly the kind of useless, racially charged, divisive bullshit that reinforces differences and the black/white divide. If we can’t even talk about our history as one thing, without segregating it, how the fuck does he expect that we’re going to forget about race and live together in a color-blind nation?

Meanwhile the NAACP has its Image Awards, which, like every single awards ceremony up to and including the Oscars, is a sickening display of mutual fawning and backslapping, the main difference being that it’s by and for blacks. Or, to be more accurate, everyone but whitey. And probably the Chinese too, because they aren’t brown enough. Just attempt to substitute “White” for “Black” in all these events and you’re back on the fast track to Racists Anonymous, but apparently racial exclusion is OK when blacks do it. And yet this dickhead Holder wonders aloud why it is that we tend to self-segregate, when the whole mission of the supposed vanguard of the black community seems to be to reinforce differences, create a separate black identity and opt out of a mainstream multi-racial society in favor of a new range of cultural ghettos.

If he really wants to have a “frank conversation” let’s start by asking when he’s going to stop perpetually looking backwards. At what point do we stop taking a month out of the year so everyone can wallow in the civil rights past. Do we have a Jewish History month where we remember the Holocaust? I think that was a pretty big event too, but we don’t have so much as a day set aside for that. What about the rich history of the Chinese, or Indians, civilizations with an enormous amount to teach us. Do we have a month for them? What about all the different European histories? Where’s British History Month, for fuck’s sake?

Until we stop using the civil rights past as a catch-all excuse and people start taking accountability for raising their children, looking after their neighborhoods, improving their schools, working hard to put food on the table and kids through college, nothing’s going to change. When Holder says he wants a discussion, what he really wants is for whitey to feel bad that there’s not enough black people in his street and for this to translate into yet more redistribution of money, as though if we wave the magic dollar wand we’ll all live happily ever after in a multi-racial nirvana. Bollocks.

Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison

An Exciting Future


Tomorrow’s another day in the office. The good news is that, at least for now, I still have an office to go to. The bad news is that, in the face of an economic collapse, we have a moratorium on travel, so the office is now the only place I ever go. I am, more than ever, massively grateful that my job (normally) allows for travel and a change of scenery. Sure, I get the hassle of fat TSA wankers asking me to remove my shoes at airports, and crap seats on tiny planes, but if I had to show up to the same four walls every day for a whole year I think I’d just off myself and be done with it.

Everyone seems to be in the same boat, apart from law firms (that’s a recession-proof business, since people never tire of suing each other, and the economic mess just provided a rash of new excuses) and a few similar types of business. We’re all tightening our belts, laying people off, cutting expenses, canceling investments, taking pay cuts and missing bonuses. At home we’re buying less stuff, eating cheaper food and avoiding big spends like cars and holidays, just in case it’s our arse on the line next.

So why is everything suddenly such a fucking mess? On one hand this may be a self-fulfilling prophecy. When the economy shows signs of slowing down, companies project lower sales so they trim expenses. In the face of a full-fledged economic crash everyone’s suddenly stopped spending. Companies aren’t investing in new capacity because they no longer need it, so jobs are lost. Banks aren’t lending money to people because they no longer have it, so businesses have to halt construction and other projects, and jobs are lost. Consumers are worried that their job may be next so they stop spending too, and suddenly unsold cars and houses are piling up; production has to slow down, and jobs are lost. (Unless you’re in the UAW, where for some reason you’re entitled to full pay and benefits for life even if you do fuck-all, but that’s another story.) Maybe this whole mess started with excessive lending by banks to people who had no earthly hope of paying loans back, and the belated realization and write-off of those “assets”, but perhaps it’s now nothing more than a crisis of confidence – we’re in a recession because we think we are. If everyone believes the future’s bleak, and as a consequence stops spending money, then surprise, surprise, the economy grinds to a halt and we’re in a recession. You can thank the obsessive doom and gloom media for that.

On the other hand this could just be the chickens coming home to roost. People are being confronted with the crumbling of a paper economy where growth was based entirely on people borrowing money they didn’t have to buy crap they didn’t need, in the expectation that continued growth would always provide a bigger pay check and a longer line of credit next year. It’s like a big party – so long as everyone keeps drinking the hangover never happens, but once you stop you’re in for one hell of a miserable come-down. Everyone stopped drinking at once and now we’re all gazing around at the vomit and broken furniture, wondering who the fuck is going to clear it all up.

Two things happened today that convinced me that both of the above may be true. Firstly, Mrs Bison and I went for a walk and encountered a man in his mid-thirties walking on a mile-long trail which is either gravel or fully paved, equipped with two walking poles and a strap-on hiking belt festooned with what appeared to be Batman’s clip-on appendages. Trust me, if people are buying shit like that to go for a walk on a path there really is no hope for civilization, and maybe a massive recession is what is required to teach people not to waste their money.

Then we stopped by the supermarket to buy some mince for dinner and on the front page of the free small business monthly newspaper was a story about how a pet spa business just got funding for an expansion in spite of the recession. Just so some sad wankers can pamper their dog with a shampoo and set, or have their cat massaged. You know, if people are still out there spending money on fucking crap like that then the economy is alive and well, and as soon as we stop listening to the whiners in the media and get back to business as usual then this will all be over. When we resume normal buying behavior then businesses can start making things, and hiring people again. Then some of them will borrow money, make investments and hire even more people.

Personally I’m looking forward to it. When the economy picks up I’ll be back on the road, experiencing the very best in crap airline food and useless airport security. Or, should I be unfortunate enough to lose my job, it appears there’s a great opportunity out there brushing the clag out of long-haired dogs’ coats, and polishing cat’s arseholes. I can hardly wait…

Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison

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

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

Bucket Of Women

I’m proud to say that no-one has ever “tagged me with a meme” or any other such blog shite, which may represent my triumph in distancing myself from the common herd, or might just signify that I’m a miserable cunt who has no friends. I’ve seen those things on blogs from time to time, though, and one of the old standbys is the bucket list – the things you’d want to do if you only had x months to live.

I’ve never tried to make such a list but I can see how actually having a year to live would focus your mind on what you wanted to do with that time in a way that pretending just can’t achieve. Most of the lists seem to be from people trying to imagine what they’d want to do.

What always gets me is the absence of the one item that should show up on any man’s list (and, for all I know, might be on many women’s lists too, albeit in reverse). The item is “Have Sex With Two Women At Once”. The world neatly divides on this subject into two camps: those who want to have sex with multiple women at once and those who already did. (Those who already did and who want to do it again are only a subset of the latter group.) And on this subject homosexuals don’t count.

I’m not trying to suggest that all those other worthy bucket list items shouldn’t be considered. By all means watch the sun rise from a mountain top, scuba dive the Great Barrier Reef or hot air balloon over the Serengeti; just don’t pretend for a moment that you wouldn’t put all this on hold for a two-hour long romp with three “willing and able” girls in a hot tub of your choice. Did this really not occur to you when you made the list? Or do you just lack the honesty to admit that, yes, you’d like a four-breasted encounter just once before you shuffle off this mortal coil? Maybe you don’t want to appear shallow.

Well, let me tell you, you’re not shallow. Your desire is a manifestation of your basic masculine humanity, as natural as wanting to watch football, eat steak or scratch your nuts. When you blow out all the candles on your cake and people ask what you wished for, you might pretend it was “world peace” but we know better, don’t we.

All you women out there, when you get done reading this why don’t you go and ask your bloke if he’d be interested in s three-way. I swear his eyes will light up like he’s just won the fucking lottery. And I guarantee that not only has he considered the possibility but he’s already planned who it would be. In fact, you might be neither of the people he had in mind, but unless he’s a certifiable moron with less intellect than a ham sandwich he’s not going to let on to you.

Many years ago a girlfriend and I were discussing the subject and she stated that she didn’t understand the big deal – what was so great about two women? I was a bit taken aback by this question – it was akin to asking what was the attraction in breathing oxygen, almost too obvious to answer. I think my response had something to do with many breasts and the ability to have certain things at eye level and crotch level simultaneously, but it wasn’t a well-reasoned position. Now that I think about it, the answer is obvious.

Music is good – this is an indisputable fact. But music in stereo is better. Much better. When people used to listen to records in Mono sound I’m sure there were those who asked what was the big deal with stereo. But once you’ve listened in stereo you appreciate the world of difference. It’s a treat for your ears. So, in much the same way, sex with multiple partners is a treat for your penis. Which is reason enough for it to be in any man’s bucket. Just bear that in mind next time you’re tagged.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Insert Keyboard Here


Everone knows that there isn’t much choice when it comes to a computer operating system – if you’re an average bloke and you’re buying a computer for your home you’re highly likely to end up with a PC, complete with the latest POS (that’s not a technical term) software from Microsoft on it. Now I can understand how any operating system might have its limitations when in the hands of some super-geek technophile who’s going to push it to the limits, but most of us just want it to do basic stuff, like let us surf the web, download videos, fuck about a bit on Photoshop, e-mail and Skype people. If I can use an automotive analogy here, I might expect Windows to exhibit some flaws in the hands of an electronic boy-racer, who’s doing the equivalent of handbrake turns, timed 0-60s and skid-pan testing, but I just want to go from electronic A to B, so why do parts of it exhibit the annoyingly frequent tendency to stop working for no apparent reason?

I swear, if I had a dollar for every time I was asked if I wanted to send the fucking error report to Microsoft I’d have enough money to hire someone to shove my keyboard sideways up Steve Ballmer’s arse.

I’m not telling you anything you don’t know though. And, to be fair, automobiles have gliches too – this is why the automakers periodically issue recalls, so you bring your car back and they fix, for free, whatever problem they’ve discovered. Microsoft does this too – except that they discover problems with such mind-buggering frequency that they have a rolling system of automatic fixes that are downloaded to your PC. You can always opt out of these, but then your computer will be plagued with whatever myriad problems and security risks they missed during development. On the other hand, if you allow the regular updates you’re putting your computer in the hands of people whose accountability and commitment to keeping your PC working can best be described as “Non-Fucking-Existent”.

Case in point: we return from vacation and fire up the PC. It doesn’t work. Blue screen of death, and some error message that is completely meaningless to normal people, and designed to convey one simple concept: You’re Fucked. The PC has been unplugged the whole time, so there have been no surge issues; it worked fine a minute before we left, and now it’s become essentially a giant desk ornament. We could ask someone to fix it but that would almost certainly cost more than another PC, and we wouldn’t know if it was properly fixed or not – neither of us speak Klingon, so communication with the technician would be pointless.

So we fall back on the tried and tested trick of restoring the PC to a prior date. No luck. We try a couple of earlier dates, and eventually – more miraculous than a sodding vision at Lourdes – it comes back to life. We had had to restore the machine to a point in time before one of these “Windows updates”, which had presumably not fucked the PC in the meantime because it was never turned off, only hibernated.

This is the equivalent of taking your car in for a manufacturer recall, being given the keys back and then finding, when you try to drive it away, that nothing happens when you turn the key. With an automobile you’d turn right around and walk back into the dealer. You’d point out that your (fucking) car didn’t (fucking) work any more and then the dealer would fix it. Maybe they’d leave greasy fingermarks on your door handles, but you’d eventually drive away.

With the PC you’re now buggered. Doesn’t work any more? Not Microsoft’s fault is it? Try calling them up and saying “My PC stopped working since you sent an update – can you send someone out to fix it please?” Yeah, right. So why do they get away with it? Can you imagine people standing by the roadside all over the country, lifting up the hood of their car and gazing in complete bewilderment at the engine, wondering how they’re going to get home, and who’s going to fix the problem that caused it to just stop working for no apparent reason? There’d be a riot.

And just what are all these electronic recalls anyway? Apart from the security fixes (and I only have Microsoft’s word that they made me safer) I have never experienced one single instance of an update making anything better. I’m guessing they’re all aimed at the hardcore users who want the electronic equivalent of low profile alloy wheels, custom engine management chips, hi-lift cams and nitro boost. For us “A to B” users they’re irrelevant. Worse than irrelevant, since they cause your PC to curl up its toes and die.

One day we may have access to software that comes with support – let’s face it, you have about as much chance of getting by without your computer these days as without your car. In the meantime, I’ll just keep restoring and hoping. Oh, and if Steve Ballmer is reading this, I suggest you make room “back there” for a keyboard pretty soon – Explorer just crashed again.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison