Wow. This guy is saying (singing?) what we were all thinking - that mIRC still rulz. There really is only one man with his finger on the pulse of the hip set, and that's our man Basshunter. Not to be confused with...
Bass Hunter. Dear god, that game was dire. The only thing it had its finger on was a sweaty fat man's taint.
Speaking of gouche massaging, there's a group of people who are especially suited to just that - the upper-middle class "Oh let's stop into Dome after seeing a delightful picture at the Piccadilly!" set. Fuck all you bitches right in your fucking stomas. Stop standing behind the coffee machine and barking orders at me while I have a scalding jug of milk in my hand, go wait in the line by the till like everyone else. Stop demanding that I clear off the specific table you and your cronies want, when there are at least 20 other tables free. Clearly the massive line stretching from the counter halfway to the door (which you tried to cut minutes earlier) indicates that I am fucking busy right now. Oh and finally, stop coming into the fucking kitchen. You have absolutely no business in there, and unless you ordered a foccacia of some sort and they're delivering it to your table, the staff in there have no fucking business in dealing with you. They are busy doing other things, and asking them to refill the water jugs (Oh fuck, those cunting water jugs. Stop taking them away from their station back to your tables, you senile old wenches. It just causes the next member of your post-menopausal clan who comes in to bitch at me cause there are no jugs left. Just fucking pour yourself a glass and move on, for fuck's sake. You don't need 4L of water between the two of you) will only result in them either a) Purposely fucking with your food order, should you have one or b) Telling the front of house staff to fuck with your coffee/cake. And as for you, Mrs Olive-Green Pantsuit with Butterfly Brooch who came into the kitchen tonight while I was emptying the deep fryer to tell me that your hot chocolate was "a little mild", I wish a painful, drawn-out death to you in the near future. What the fuck did you expect me to do about it? Fill it up with the near-boiling, crap-filled canola oil which was gushing into the bucket I was holding? And what the fuck does "mild" mean, in terms of hot chocolate? Mild is a taco-sauce exclusive term!
Hey, how do you think deep-frying a slice of strawberry shortcake would pan out? I need your opinions!
In other news, I head back to Melbourne on Sunday night, so if anyone wants some Victorian exclusive wares, let me know. I'm talking Savoys. And whatever it is they call polony over there. Devon? Fritz? Strasbourg? Fucked if I know. And I dunno, maybe some South Melb Saints/East Melb Spectres/SE Melb Magic/North Melb Giants/Victoria Titans/Geelong Supercats beanies or somethin'. I'm here to help!
I should hire Rocky III-V tomorrow. I need to know what happened with Butkus! And Timmy the tortoise!