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I don't know about you, but I don't think dying will be a lot of fun. If given the option of meeting up with some friends on a Saturday afternoon for a light lunch or being inflicted with countless incurable diseases and then dying alone in an old abandoned warehouse, I'd pick the light lunch every time. It's probably the ol' fear of the unknown thing that gets me... with a light lunch I know I'll probably get a club sandwich and a soda, maybe a side of chips. Death could be a sweet release, a painful explosion, a fabulous white light or your body just rotting away in a boring old box in the ground. No side of chips, no complimentary mints on the way out - death is bullshit.
|If you think you think outside the box then you're trapped in one.|
the cawfin update | Wednesday, 02.21.07
BUT NOT ANYMORE. Coffin scientists over in London are about to drop some coffin science on your stupid dead ass. What kind of science? Wacky novelty coffin science. Prepare yourselves for the greatest quote in the history of the written word...
|In the weird and wonderful world of crazy coffins, getting buried has never been so much fun in Britain.|
Yay! See kids? Death is nothing to be afraid of... the nice men and women over at Vic Fearn & Company Limited are making dreams come true with their wacky assortment of death boxes. Haven't you always dreamt of being buried in a coffin shaped like a giant electric guitar? When Jesus comes back to life and the dead rise from their graves, you'll be terrorizing the living in style with your scaled-down model of a 1913 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost coffin, complete with wheels that really work! Or maybe one night you're sitting around with your friends, stoned out of your mind, and you announce that you want to be buried in a huge pink ballet shoe when you die... then you fall asleep underneath some bean bag chairs and we all go outside and take turns ramming into your car because we don't really know who you are and we don't like your face. But! You planted the seed and maybe when you croak we'll remember that you wanted to be buried in a huge pink ballet shoe and we'll all chip in some money to buy your coffin but we'll probably be a couple thousand dollars short so we'll just cremate you in the backyard instead.
|The coffin-makers first took the zany path to death when a woman fan of the Red Arrows, the Royal Air Force's aerial acrobatics team, asked to be buried in a model fighter.|
"So we constructed this plane with folding wings like they have on aircraft carriers. The cockpit of a plane is more or less coffin-shaped so that made life easier," said David Crampton, director of the 160-year-old company based in the central England town of Nottingham.
I'm not exactly sure why I'm surprised by any of this. I come from a country where rock stars dressed as faggoty kabuki warriors from outer space have their own poorly spelled designer kasket, and one of my favorite authors had his ashes shot out of a 153 foot cannon shaped like a double-thumbed fist clutching a nugget of peyote. I guess I'm just surprised that we didn't think of it first. If I ran this company, I'd want to make a coffin that looks like one of those pods from The Fly. How awesome would that be? At the viewing they'd open up the pod with a mechanical *woosh*ing sound, there's smoke billowing out, and there's you, a mutated half-man half-fly whose only crime was clinging to walls and impregnating Geena Davis. Yes, somehow my fake pod coffin actually turned you into a fly for reasons I'll never know, and... uh (shit, you've written yourself into a corner, time to wrap this up in the next paragraph and hope none of them notice!)
|I'm an insect who dreamt he was Jeff Goldblum and loved it.|
So in conclusion (nice save), novelty coffins are fucking stupid and turn your last moments above ground into a retarded circus that will make everyone in your family uncomfortable and thankful that you are dead. Are we so obsessed with leaving our mark that we can't just be buried with some dignity in a normal coffin that isn't shaped like a giant cock or covered in Hello Kitty stickers? I'm all for individuality, but I express myself like a normal person - through ironic t-shirts and dance - and I'll just bury myself when I die because I keep it real like that.
Just a few more slashes of the pen and I'll be a real-life apartment dweller next month. Yeah, I know I wrote that update a while back about actually purchasing a home, but due to my frequent arrests and a lifelong desire to have an address with a letter in it, the idea of renting started to make sense. So starting in March, you can refer to me as the crazy guy over in A7 - the one that's always wandering around the parking lot in his bathrobe carrying a mixing bowl even though everyone knows he's not mixing a damn thing.
|THERE'S A TWENTY-FOUR HOUR DISCOTHEQUE UPSTAIRS!|
SO YOU NEVER GET BORED! | Tuesday, 02.13.07
People take a few steps back when they find out that this is the first time I'll be living on my own. I can see them mentally taking bets on how long it will take for me to kill myself and everyone in the development in a horrible (yet delicious) baking accident. But I've learned some domestic things during my years at home. For instance -
a) I'm not a-sposed to answer the door for strangers, even if the stranger says that they've come to read the meter. Luckily, I made sure there were no meters in A7, so I'll be able to see through the lies. "Welcoming Committee" my ass.
b) Water and electricity don't mix, unless you're using one of those fancy three-pronged plugs. The third prong conducts aquatic electricity.
c) Sticks and stones break bones but the gat'll kill ya quicker, especially when I'm drunk off the liquor.
I'm assuming that my first day at the apartment will be like going to prison for the first time - I'll have to prove my dominance over the neighbors to prevent assrape. For a few weeks, my response to a knock on the door will be hurling furniture and insults out the window. If I have a window. Apartments usually have windows, right? There isn't some kind of window tax I have to pay every month? Look, I only saw the place briefly before handing over wads of cash and signing whatever they put in front of me... I didn't have time to see if all of the walls were standing or if the advertised "balcony" was actually a hole in the middle of the living room floor that leads straight to Hell. I tried to harness the skills I learned from buying a car, but I couldn't find any tires to kick and I honestly don't care if my apartment has side airbags. I mean, I wouldn't turn them down or anything, but it's not what we in the biz call a "deal breaker." And I'm sure IKEA sells some sort of unpronounceable $5 chunk of balsa wood that will cover up that gateway to Hell in the living room, and it'll have umlauts, umlauts as far as the eye can see.
My one minor hurdle at the moment is furniture, or to be more precise, I got fuckin' no furniture. Craigslist has an entire section devoted to used furniture... but other people's asses are gross, and they were probably naked and leaking all over the place. I guess I'll have to stick my nose up in the air and buy *new* couches and chairs like a regular aristocrat with my monocle and top hat in tow. And no, I'm not going to be the typical guy that buys a $7,000 recliner with cupholders and beertaps and an animatronic woman's hand that pops grapes into my mouth. That's just not my style. Just give me a comfortable folding chair that comes with a free box of raisins and I can pretend that my own hand is an animatronic woman's hand thankyouverymuch. See? I'm making sacrifices and carrying exact change like a real life grown-up in case you haven't noticed. And by "real life grown-up" I mean a 25-year-old manchild that will eat Chips Ahoy cookies at every meal and stay up allllllll night watching pornography in his underpants.
Quick! Valentine's Day is just a few short days away, and your significant other is already judging you! There's only one way to ensure that she will love you forever and always, even after you're dead and your best friend comes over to clean out the gutters and then use your clicker while sitting in your favorite chair - shower her with musical condoms! Well, you'll have to fly to Japan first... this is bound to raise a few questions, but just explain that her super special Valentine's Day gift is so thoughtful that it has to be imported firsthand like a textile. Also, you should probably learn some Japanese before you leave, because I'm not sure the Japanese stockboy at CVS is going to understand your rudimentary attempt to describe a musical condom by pointing to your crotch and then humming "Zippity Doo Dah" (even though that is the international sign for "musical condom").
|The sun goes down but it just gets hotter and hotter.|
I'M TALKIN ABOUT SEX | Tuesday, 02.06.07
|Hong Kong's Ondo Creation, which makes designer condoms, hopes its Idom sheathes will put a more romantic spin on safe sex... The Idom itself doesn't sing -- but the mint, strawberry, chocolate and banana flavored condoms come in an attractive package with a music CD to get you in the mood for love.|
Whoops, sorry, you just spent thousands of dollars flying to Japan to buy a fruity rubber and a mixtape of Japanese pop songs wrapped in "attractive packaging." My bad. Once again, I (and subsequently you) have been duped by a shitty headline. Start sex on the right key with musical condoms not only implies that the condom plays a little tune before disappearing into your partner's netherregions, but also that we're all starting sex on the wrong key by using our inferior silent condoms. And quite frankly, I don't need that kind of pressure, Japan.
OK, in all honesty, I'm pretty happy that I was completely dead wrong about this one... I struggled to wrap my head around the idea of a musical condom. It's not like it would do anything for the mood except make it so uncomfortable that you both question every action that led to this horrifying moment. You're thinking, "Did I really think the musical condom would go over well? She was molested by her bandcamp advisor after all..." and she's thinking, "I can't believe he bought that story about me being molested by my bandcamp advisor and still strapped a tiny music-emitting microchip to his cock." Thankfully, we don't have the technology to make something so stupid yet. And once we do, a bunch of people are going to get electrocuted to tinny renditions of "I'm Too Sexy" and "Rock You Like a Hurricane" all in the name of science. Sexy, sexy science with a MIDI soundtrack. Until then, however, singing wangs will remain where they belong - in dreams.
|The Idom's Exotica, Chocotasy and Loveberry brands come with CD compilations of chillout, acid jazz and dance music. "The music starts slow, then medium, then becomes fast before getting slow again," said Jack Wong, who helped with the music. He shrugs off the fact that the CDs run for exactly 18 minutes: "Whether this is long enough or not, really depends on the individual."|
18 minutes? The music industry is doomed as it is, now you want me to buy an 18 minute CD that's probably dripping with spermicide and reeking of Chocovag or Mangopuss flavoring? Fuck that. We (and by 'we' I mean 'I') here at thismayhurt are offering this super set of swingin' sounds for you and your old lady to enjoy while you're all knockin' boots n' shit. And the best part? FREE. That's right, complete with attractive packaging and music that starts fast, gets somewhat faster, then just turns to loud staticy banging sounds after a while, thismayhurt presents: FUCK MUSIC volume sexy will... uh, well, it'll drown out her sobbing, and that's the greatest Valentine's Day gift of all.
FUCK MUSIC volume sexy
[Phase I - Are You in the Mood Yet?]
1. Backyard Betty - Spank Rock
2. Szerencsétlen - Venetian Snares
[Phase II - Up in Dem Guts]
3. Everything Starts with a Fuck (ending) - Alec Empire
4. Slippery Dick - Peaches
5. Into the Death - Atari Teenage Riot
[Phase III - Reflecting on the Best 8:58 of Your Life]
6. Nasty Boy - Frank Sinatra vs. Notorious B.I.G.
7. I Love You - Black Flag
Download! (33.7 mb)
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