Not Many Like This Anymore
Discussion
Dr Raoul M. Fury said:
A man called Dichotomy Fink sent me an e-mail today telling me that I am not satisfying my girlfriend because my pen is too small. I e-mailed him to tell him that I don't have a girlfriend and that actually my pens are a pretty standard size, but he didn't reply back. I'm guessing he's probably feeling pretty embarrassed about the whole thing.
But that innocent e-mail exchange hints at the dangers of the internet. You probably think the internet is a safe, friendly place, like a creche in Guernsey full of cuddly pandas that's run by apple-cheeked grandmotherly nuns, but that makes you a club-faced idiot with all the charm of a bowl of cold sick because it's not, it's terrifying and savage, like a creche in Guernsey full of cuddly toy pandas that's run by a group of steroid-enhanced bipolar white-supremacist cybernetic werewolves, and the cuddly toy pandas don't conform to EU safety standards, plus they are stuffed with hornets that have been genetically engineered to be really angry all the time. That's the internet. And if it hadn't been for the internet then Father Pyloric and I wouldn't have had our big argument.
It started because we'd been writing a profile for him for an online dating website. He told me he wanted a soulmate, but when I asked him to be more specific he just leered and made an extremely crude gesture with his finger, so I suspect that he thinks a soulmate is some kind of disgusting monkey-style sex-wrong like beefbagging or an armgasm. Anyway, for his interests he wanted to put "cigerattercise", but I said he couldn't because it was just something that he'd made up to justify dressing up in lycra and going to the gym to smoke...so he got all stroppy, so I said he was being childish, so he said he knew I was but what was he, so I did that thing where you point at someone's chest and then when they look down you flick them in the nose, so he tried to garrotte me...it all got quite heated.
Inevitably enough, it escalated into a full-contact aikido-cum-Boggle throwdown during which he chipped part of my spine with the half inch of copper pipe with a 2p sellotaped to it that he wears and tries to convince me is a sovereign ring, but in the end we stopped because we were getting sweat and oil on the TV and so we called it a charitable draw. Sure, he ended up with a black eye in the photo for his internet dating profile, but that isn't as bad as it sounds because for the kind of women he's likely to have a chance with that's probably not a problem, as his face looks like a bad Etch-a-Sketch drawing of a shed at the best of times.
Now, I'm not trying to say that this kind of thing doesn't happen anyway – in fact the exact same thing happened last week when we tried to decide which celebrity cripple we'd most enjoy blackmailing, Heather Mills or Jeremy Beadle – but I think the internet makes it worse. So if you must use it, whether it be for work or for finding pictures of a dog licking salt off the back of a fat man wearing nothing but a gas mask, do be careful. Perhaps you could use a kevlar mouse mat or wear a knuckleduster or something?
Anyway, I must go – someone called Cardamom Thule has just e-mailed to tell me that I need something called "herbal V14gr4" in order to last all night, but he obviously doesn't know that I am already a sexual juggernaut, so I need to set him straight. I confidently predict that soon he's going to be as embarrassed as Mr Fink!
But that innocent e-mail exchange hints at the dangers of the internet. You probably think the internet is a safe, friendly place, like a creche in Guernsey full of cuddly pandas that's run by apple-cheeked grandmotherly nuns, but that makes you a club-faced idiot with all the charm of a bowl of cold sick because it's not, it's terrifying and savage, like a creche in Guernsey full of cuddly toy pandas that's run by a group of steroid-enhanced bipolar white-supremacist cybernetic werewolves, and the cuddly toy pandas don't conform to EU safety standards, plus they are stuffed with hornets that have been genetically engineered to be really angry all the time. That's the internet. And if it hadn't been for the internet then Father Pyloric and I wouldn't have had our big argument.
It started because we'd been writing a profile for him for an online dating website. He told me he wanted a soulmate, but when I asked him to be more specific he just leered and made an extremely crude gesture with his finger, so I suspect that he thinks a soulmate is some kind of disgusting monkey-style sex-wrong like beefbagging or an armgasm. Anyway, for his interests he wanted to put "cigerattercise", but I said he couldn't because it was just something that he'd made up to justify dressing up in lycra and going to the gym to smoke...so he got all stroppy, so I said he was being childish, so he said he knew I was but what was he, so I did that thing where you point at someone's chest and then when they look down you flick them in the nose, so he tried to garrotte me...it all got quite heated.
Inevitably enough, it escalated into a full-contact aikido-cum-Boggle throwdown during which he chipped part of my spine with the half inch of copper pipe with a 2p sellotaped to it that he wears and tries to convince me is a sovereign ring, but in the end we stopped because we were getting sweat and oil on the TV and so we called it a charitable draw. Sure, he ended up with a black eye in the photo for his internet dating profile, but that isn't as bad as it sounds because for the kind of women he's likely to have a chance with that's probably not a problem, as his face looks like a bad Etch-a-Sketch drawing of a shed at the best of times.
Now, I'm not trying to say that this kind of thing doesn't happen anyway – in fact the exact same thing happened last week when we tried to decide which celebrity cripple we'd most enjoy blackmailing, Heather Mills or Jeremy Beadle – but I think the internet makes it worse. So if you must use it, whether it be for work or for finding pictures of a dog licking salt off the back of a fat man wearing nothing but a gas mask, do be careful. Perhaps you could use a kevlar mouse mat or wear a knuckleduster or something?
Anyway, I must go – someone called Cardamom Thule has just e-mailed to tell me that I need something called "herbal V14gr4" in order to last all night, but he obviously doesn't know that I am already a sexual juggernaut, so I need to set him straight. I confidently predict that soon he's going to be as embarrassed as Mr Fink!
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