JESUS, SOME THINGS ARE TERRIBLE: VOL I
A recurring list series defined by griping, whining and bitching. No, YOU’RE petty and miserable!
Are you watching *INSERT SERIES* on *INSERT STREAMING SERVICE*?Ah, the pub. Few drinks, lively chat, furtive, flirty glances, the whiff of opportunity, indiscretion and who knows what?! Oh where will this night tak…
Sigh, no, I’m not watching season 84 of The President’s Hemorrhoids on Netbox.
Yeah, I heard it was good.
Mmm, saw that review in The Guardian alright.
Yeah, 4 stars. Is it a good performance, yeah?
Right, someone tweeted that scene there recently.
Interesting themes, yep.
Timely and relevant considering the news cycle, uhuh.
Right, waiting for the first season to come out in its entirety so you can binge-watch in your crusty undies on a rainy Saturday. Depressing, yeah.
You’re lonely, sure.
Course, defaulting to watching vast amounts of meaningless TV series during your weekends probably speaks to some newly socially reclusive tendencies of yours.
Indeed, as a friend I should take this as a sign that you’re not entirely happy and maybe ask you if everything’s ok, but when we meet you keep asking me about FUCKING TV SERIES THAT I KNOW I’LL NEVER WATCH BECAUSE THE VERY PROCESS OF BEING AGGRESSIVELY RECOMMENDED SOMETHING MAKES ME NEVER WANT TO EAT, WATCH, READ, VISIT, WEAR THAT THING EVER.
LinkedIn ‘Influencers’
Um, who accepts, or worse, acts on career advice from people who shoot grainy videos on their laptop camera during working hours while sat at their kitchen table? They haven’t even removed the salt and pepper shakers, ffs!
Your Mum once told you not to accept sweets from the nice man who only wears a loosely belted overcoat. She should have also advised caution when accepting professional counsel from people who record shaky footage of themselves ‘spitting gems’ from their home at 10:30 on a weekday.
Placing Overhead Baggage
Jesus Christ, for all that’s merciful in the world, just put the bag up, slide into your seat, and move on, there’s a good man. Nope, don’t take your coat off while you’re still standing in the aisle. Those Poles staring angrily haven’t been home to Szczecin for months and are clearly on the edge. Your wife doesn’t need anything out of her bag, and if she does it’s too late, she should have plucked it out by now.
Mother of FUCK, you’re on the inside seat? Of course you are. Time to soak up the cosmic ballet of your fat ass smushing against the fold-down table while your crotch passes slowly in front of your wife’s grimacing face with only a gossamer-thin distance between her nose and the bacteria playground that is the front of your H&M jeans.
Wine ‘Buffs’
It’s an increasingly well known fact that no-one truly knows a fucking IOTA about wine. All they can tell you is what they like, what they happen to have been told someone else likes, or to have taken a shit of such length, girth und intensity (there’s probably 32-letter German word for such a poo) that they worked their way to the back of The Sunday Times Magazine to the spot where they bury the wine reviews. ‘Is this corked? I think this is corked. This smells corked.’ Say ‘Corked’ once more, I fucking dare you.
