25.10.09

The ever-changing Facebook UI



If you keep touching it, it's going to drop off.

Fail-O-Meter:

Parenting



You're doing it wrong.

Fail-O-Meter:

18.10.09

"Blogger"...



...is not a profession. Neither is photographer, artist, designer, dancer, taxation barrister or speed freak.

Do you know how many people have made a living off of any of those?

Six.

There are about 25 million fuckheads just like you wasting space about the world.

Do the math, shithead.

Fail-O-Meter:

9.10.09

People who still fall for internet phishing and spam.



It's 2009, dickheads. The kindly stranger named Rodergo Y Ramirez is not genuinely asking about your well being in your Junk E-Mail folder. He wants your shit.

People like you are the reason why justifiable murder should be legal.

Fail-O-Meter:

Removing Stickers



You know when you buy a DVD or a CD or a book or some shit and all you want to do is be happy with your purchase and look at the nice clean cover art in all it's complete glory? But then you can't because you look down and there's a fucking horrible enormous piece of shit sticker on the front that says some horrible crap like "OPRAH'S VAGINA RECOMMENDS YOU GET THIS OTHER FUCKING TRIPE INSTEAD OF THIS".

And so you go to peel the damn thing off and that starts out innocently enough, but then you hear this horrible ripping sound and all of a sudden WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS HORRIBLE WHITE SHIT AND WHY WON'T IT PEEL OFF LIKE THE REST OF THE FUCKING THING.

And then it's just fucking THERE. Looking at you in the face. And you're sitting there going I JUST WANT A FUCKING CLEAN COVER WITHOUT THIS STICKY SHIT ON IT.

And to make matters even worse, you can't rest anything on top of it for like... a month. Because if you do, whatever's on top fucking STICKS TO HORRIBLE RESIDUE CRAP THAT'S STILL THERE. EVEN AFTER A WHOLE GODDAMN MONTH.

FFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.

Fail-O-Meter:


4.10.09

Pre-Emptive Fail: Jessica Watson



Now, listen sweetheart. I'm going to make this perfectly clear. I'm not heaping shit onto your little sailing playtime effort because you're a girl. Nor am I doing it because of your youth. I'm doing it because, quite clearly, you are an absolutely atrocious sailor who shouldn't be allowed to command the helm of a newspaper boat floating in an infants bathtub, let alone the ridiculous pink abomination that you call a "yacht".

Not only did you fail miserably before you even began the first attempt due to nothing else but clear blind stupidity on your behalf, but you failed to log a subsequent trip to Sydney with safety authorities.

Normally this is the kind of self-righteous teen angst that results in you not being allowed to go to Sally Sillybitches' totally bitchin' sweet sixteenth party, followed closely by the slamming of the bedroom door, and a wall of wailing tears muffled out by Pink's "Funhouse" album being played at 342 decibels through a poorly constructed Telefunken Mini Hi-Fi system.

In this instance, however, it's going to result in a crippled, capsized piece of floating timber about 1200kms off the coast of Tahiti, a ridiculous rescue bill and a very bruised ego.

And I, for one, will be more than happy to tell you "We told you so" upon your shameful return to dry land, you stupid little girl.

Fail-O-Meter: