It Was The Best Of Times It Was The Blurst Of Times.

You all know me as a great entrepreneur, right?

I mean, I’m not just that. I am a copywriter, a friend, a human being, a brother, son. I can do anything, I’m pretty much the whole package. If you ignore my inability to deliver packages, that is.

But back to my original point - More ways to make money, for you and for me and the entire human race. Primarily me, but I do require an outsider's investment, which may be blown on hookers and blow, mainly because I want to be some sort of entrepreneurial rock star. Think CEO Slash or Business Correspondent Mick Jagger.

So the idea; “One thousand monkeys sitting at one thousand typewriters will eventually recreate the works of Shakespeare.”

Look at them, they need jobs too.
The recession hit the jungle just like it hit the rest of the world.

Let's hire those fucking monkeys! Shakespeare’s complete works sells for $60 as far as I can tell on the Internet. Bananas cost between 1-6 dollars a kilo and we'll give the monkeys clothes, smokes and tea, to keep them motivated and to keep myself amused.

So we get 1001 monkeys and 1000 typewriters. The one extra monkey will be my secretary. I shall call her Rose.

There may be some training required, but I imagine through Pavlovian conditioning we can get these monkeys typing my books at quite a rate.

It may only need to be a limited release, because everyone will want books typed out by my monkeys, the pages smeared with projectile monkey shit (old Pete and Davey never get along, always throwing shit between cubicles) and banana.

Order now!

Also, because I never do but probably should, remember to A) hit all the buttons I have all over this blog B)to follow me and C) comment (please, tell me how brilliant my idea is despite me already knowing it's genius) and D) tell your friends so we can expand the republic of Adam (when we get enough followers we'll buy an island and all live together in peace and harmony).

I It Love So Much That It Pisses Me Off.

You're probably a very level headed person aren’t you?

I am sure you are. So am I really. Except for my one true love; the rant.

This passion of mine comes in handy on the regular,  because when I am pissed my ability to easily complain anything and everything usually makes me feel much better (or ocassionally, like a dirty whore in need of a scrub down and a weep whilst curled into the fetal positionat the bottom of the shower).

There is, however, one problem with the love of ranting, well apart from no one wanting to talk to you because you complain a lot,  people constantly having to tell you to shut the hell up, and the same people possibly hitting you with a nearby book or failing that, flinging a wheelie chair across the office at high velocity (true story).

The true problem occurs when everything is going so well you have nothing to rant about. On those rare days, I sit in my office yelling things like ‘GODDAMN IT THIS COFFEE IS DELICIOUS’ and “THAT SOUNDS LIKE A COOL BRIEF, AND YOU'RE OFFERING ME ALCOHOL AT THE BRIEFING. BRILLIANT! JUST FUCKING BRILLIANT!”

It’s a tough way to live, I am not going to lie.

You start thinking up cool insults like, “Talking to you is even less entertaining that giving a Cornish game hen a roofie and feeding it chicken bacon” (in the vain hope that it will go crazy, or even better, form some sort of giant super chicken, duh), and “That idea is worse than The Situation and Gilberg Godfrey telling jokes about Lisa Lampanelli” (The Situation because he isn’t very funny, and ol' Gil cause goddamn I hate his voice. Either way, the way Comedy Central roasts are written, the joke would be about Lisa’s love of African American penis).

Anyway, it's Friday, which means that I get to go drink the agency's booze (because I get paid nothing as an intern- look forward to that blog in the future), and I will see you all next week.

Hopefully I may have some good news for you all as well, stay tuned.

Poseidon's Wrath: A Tale of Triumph.

I know what you're thinking.

You're thinking, 'Adam, after you came up with such a brilliant plan to single-handedly take over the economy with a few strategically placed products, you must have slept the rest of the weekend, or perhaps risked imploding the universe with awesome'.

Well you, my reader and closest of friends, would be wrong.

As Sunday morning broke I awakened, at the crack of ten.

With the grasss being frost-tipped outside, bed seemed to be the safest place for me. But I thought, “I am no coward. Tethered not shall I be to the shackles of my bed.” Then I realized I had fallen asleep with some Shakespearean era movie playing and started to speak normally once more.

You see, my dad was northward at a surfing competition named the Frostbite Classic. It was quite cool to go to because all the boards had to be made before 1960, so they looked amazing, with the downfall being that the water was freezing, and by the time I got there the surf was all but minimal.

So in a bid to kill time until the tide came in, which would in turn hopefully improve the surf (Spoiler Alert: it did), Dad and I travelled to our holiday home, which we rent out to the general public and because of this results in us often being greeted upon arrival by some interesting scenes. Previously we arrived to find the biggest knife in the house taped to the bottom of  a chair, the only reasonable explanation (or at least the only one I will accept) is that there was a some sort of poker game being played for the ultimate prize, people's lives. I realize now that is probably a more interesting story, but we have begun now and once I get going there is no stopping me.

This time we were greeted with a sight far worse than any other. It looked like a pterodactyl had a seizure in the fridge and then proceeded to lactate everywhere. The table was smeared with a substance unidentifiable to the human eye, and I can only safely assume it was either class A pharmaceuticals or some sort of other worldly sex fluid. I was not impressed.

Either way I won the surf contest.

A Get Rich Quick Scheme That Is Too Brilliant To Fail

I finally figured it out.

The way I can become a millionaire without resorting to diamond theft/ multi-level marketing.

It all started on Saturday night (insert memory transition sequence here). I was talking to a lovely young lady at a bar, wearing my newly acquired frames. Because I am new to the world of glasses I took them off, and was holding them so to prevent forming a transparent glass barrier between me and whomever it was I chatting to.

 For the record, I got my glasses about two or three weeks ago and the idea of something resting on my face all day just doesn't agree with me. Don’t get me wrong, they don’t look bad it's just annoying having them there constantly (although they definitely do make me look like I’d be better at calculus or could tell you the first 100 digits of Pi or even be able to beat pretty much everyone I know at a Simpsons trivia contest - though one of those things may be true).

So after a while of me experimenting with various methods of glasses storage, ranging from on the table (where I was scared they would be lost/stolen/broken), in my pocket, on my head, on her head, to hanging them on the edge of my glass (although I'll admit that was mostly for comic effect). It was then that we tapped into an idea, an idea so brilliant that someone has thought of it before, but A) that someone is probably dead and B) I will rebrand it to be cool.

The plan: Those strappy things that let your glasses hang down by your chest.

I know what you're thinking - 'Adam, they were never cool, ever. BOOM!'. I simply rebut this with 'then why does my granddad have one?' (Oh snap).

What I need to do is make them cool again. The ones made out of wetsuit material are obviously the coolest ones so I will start from there. For daywear they can be whatever colour goes with our outfit and at night they can be fluro so you stand out on the dance floor.

There will also be cool slogans on the back of them like, 'How am I dancing?' then a phone number, or 'Honk if you’re Horny', or the ever classic 'Where’s the beef?'. The list goes on, you can pretty much customize them to be whatever your heart desires, and I can release new ones each season in a range of trending colours, with different slogans to cover all age groups, I mean, what kid wouldn’t want a Thundercats band (Do the kids still watch thundercats? If they don’t mine sure as hell will be)?

Also in my new fashion line, 'Zinc Stencils' - so if you want to zinc your sniffer* you can have cool slogans across your face. Of course in the long run I will release those sunglasses lenses that sit on your prescription glasses and flip down. And last, but certainly not least, I'll be rebranding those swimming trunks that are too tight and show off your junk and only seem to be worn by the one creepy, hairy, eastern European guy on the beach. Or speedos, whatever our public decides.

They will all be ready by summer (or winter American time)...

If I can find an investor (hint hint.)

*to all Americans, do you have zinc there. The flouro coloured stuff you put on your nose in the ‘90’s

Love in the time of Swine Flu.

As some of you may know, I am in fact a writer of more than just these blogs. Not only do I write these masterpieces some call mere blogs, but I'm also a copy writer for an advertising company.

I write all sorts of things: ads, shopping lists, stories, notes telling people to clean the fucking coffee machine so my coffee doesn’t taste like it was strained through ass, all sorts really.

Of course, I am also writing a book. It is called “Love in the time of Swine Flu”, my modern adaptation of a little book you may be familiar with called Love in the time of Cholera.

Production has halted momentarily however, mainly due to the fact that I have never read LiToC (abrevs, god I’m cool) amongst other things.

But with my limited understanding (i.e. two people fall in love, lots of people have cholera, one of them gets cholera, they both die happy even though they were probably only in their twenties and the dude was cheating anyway be he still totally loved her) I have managed to write for you, seen for the first time on the interwebs right here, the climactic scene where Franco and Cynthia finally realize their love for each other. In fact, it could be a short story and this could be the epic second half, not sure yet.





This is only the first draft, but its pretty much done.
I have also made the book classy by setting it in the not to distant past. Note the iPhone 3, get with the times.

“I totally love you.” said Franco, as he looked up from texting his boys.

“Do you really mean that?” said Cynthia, who was on facebook and so totes ready to change her realationship status.

“Yea, like, fully aye.” Franco said, casting his phone aside but making sure it landed on the soft part of the couch, because it was an iPhone and that shit was expensive.

They moved towards each other, angelically dancing across the room, dodging all of the discarded clothes on the floor because they both knew there was a playstation controller in there somewhere and you don’t want to stand on that.

When they reached each other they embraced, made out for a bit, then suddenly Cynthia turned her head.

“Hold up a sec.” she said before letting out an almighty cough.

“Ew that’s gross,” said Franco, “Do you have Swine Flu or something?”

“No, shut up!” said Cynthia defensively. But it was too late, Franco knew.

The anger welled up inside him and he imagined uppercutting the bitch, but didn’t because he didn’t hit girls.

“Bitch you know I have underlying medical condition that, if exposed to a disease such as swine flu, could cause me to die.” he yelled angrily.

Cynthia was taken aback, where did this sudden burst of intelligence come from? Despite her love  for him she thought Franco was a dumb shit, but then she realized he was reading it off the Internet.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I cried a little writing it, I’m not going to lie. I think it could be a best seller, mums will relate because the characters are like their kids, girls will love it cause they relate the complicated relationship dynamics, dudes will find the swearing funny and emo kids can write fan fiction about dying.

It’s the book that has it all.

I am of course looking for a publisher, so email me, it will be the last thing you ever do as a publisher… (Because of all the money you’ll make).

How I Single Handedly Defeated the Rapture.

I spent the last few days dying.

Or wishing I was dead.

Or being sick. It’s all pretty subjective really. Either way you can’t do me for it, I call diplomatic immunity, I have rights under the Hays Code, not to mention the Broadcasting Standards Authority will have something to say about this!

It's not fair, Disturbed made being “Down with the Sickness” sound oh so fun, with all their gettting up and getting down with the sickness, and that “oo wa a a a” noise they make in every song they've ever released. I thought it was all due to their excitement over being sick, and the fact that they were jumping around with excitement because they got the day off work, and could pusue leisurely activities like bowls and tea-drinking, the things you know wouldn’t exacerbate food poisoning too much but are still fun enough to prevent you dying from boredom.

That's not the case, so it would seem. The getting up and down apparently refers to the constant jogs to the bathroom, and that “oo wa a a a” noise is more familiar to that sound you make when you're trying not to get puke on your bedroom floor (ladies, can you believe I’m single, I sure can't).

Perhaps it was my own personal judgment day. God came unto me and said, “You’ve been a bit of a dick lately; have some sickness.” Whilst I am somewhat flattered that I was singled out for my own personal rapture (which was made worse by the fact that I missed two days of a job I actually enjoy), that’s a dick move. If there is a god that is, and while I don’t have scientific evidence (other than science as a whole, but y'know), it's quite possible there isn’t ( and the hate mail ensues... ).

All of this hate, just after he gave me a double yolk egg on Saturday,  is obviously a sign that I am special in some way.

Undeniable proof I was chosen. Even though it looks like I just cracked two eggs into a pan.

What I can't figure out is if Harold Camping was trolling (clickable word, I will replace Wikipedia in no time*) or just a deluded old man who read way too much into one of the most ambiguous books ever written, and found the date of an event that not even God's son, Timmy, would recognise (you thought I was going to say Jesus, didn’t you. He wouldn’t know that date either but God uses Timmy as more of a PA so he is more likely to know).

Oh well at least Mr./Rev. Camping gave stand-up comedians material for years to come, well at least until the Mayans kill us all.

But through all this we have learned that you shouldn’t really be hating me for not posting (I know you were, don’t deny it). You should be thanking me for singlehandedly taking on the rapture and, as long as I don’t have coffee, kicking its ass.

Also that I, as a human being,  am not that great.

In fact, if we want to do some math with this 'god'  who caused the rapture, I defeated the rapture. With some A = B logic I am > your chosen deity. Not blasphemous, just true.

Sorry.

P.S. Definitely going to hell. But It will be warm there so it's okay.

P.P.S. If you are religious I am sorry. I have nothing against you and I love each and every one of you (unless you A) force it down others throats or B) use it as a justification for killing and/or generally being a bad person). Belief is such a great thing, a trait I almost wish I was capable of having.

*Mwahaha. This one is an actual definition of trolling if you need one. I don’t care what you say, Rick Rolling is still funny. And I was proving a point, aren't I clever? Yes, yes I am.

5 Fast, 5 Furious. A Review

I broke a promise to myself.

None of you haters can say I already failed my 100 day challenge, I know, it hurts inside (not really but if you felt bad at all, then you’re a good person).

No, my promise was I went and saw something I didn’t think I wanted to see.

Two girls one cup you say? No.

Rebecca Black live? Does that exist? If so would assassination be a serious danger?

No. I'm talking a movie. A movie so bad it became good again, then bad.

I am talking about 5 Fast, 5 Furious.

These movies were badass when I was 15, when I could take my Toyota Corolla down to a gravel pit, rip the hand break and nearly write it off into a bank.

It was cool when I lived with car nuts and drifters and we went out in their cars worth more than our house and did stupid shit.

I thought "I am a dude. I know about cars. I can make one go forwards. I can change gear. I can put petrol in it. And if it stops working I can fix that shit, providing (and it is the case with my car) that the problem is that I have run out of gas." This movie will be awesome.

But they changed something. Like a porno directed by M. Night Shamalan, it had too much story and not enough action.

At times they just flat out insulted the audience by introducing us to douchebags with cool cars, race challenges where issued, pink slips were put on the line, then just as you thought this might be getting awesome... they are at the hideout with a new car, no fucking race! Not pleased, not pleased at all.

The Fast and Furious movies have traditionally been one thing, car porn. Being awesome, without being good. And before you ask, there is a difference in my opinion; Good movies have everything going for them, storyline, characters, cinematography, and the sorts of things that win awards and you leave going “that was amazing.” 

Awesome movies, like Transformers, or really anything Michael Bay has ever done, appeal to something deep within us. That part of you that is always there but only small in some people. The part of you that loves explosions and robots and boobs. The sorts of movies that are strung together by a loose storyline, but for the most part know that they won't win any awards and go "let's just make shit explode".

If you're making a movie like this, here is my advice. Pretend you're making a porn film. No one gives a crap about the characters except girls and that’s not the audience you're trying to appeal to, is it. You’re appealing to dudes, and any dude that watches this sort of movie should be instantly transformed into the sort of meathead who tries to fight everyone on a Saturday night. They want action, cool cars doing cool stuff with pretty girls.

Simple as that.

P.S. The acting was pretty terrible aswell.

P.P.S. I think I said porn too much in this post, pretty sure my mum reads this, and I am pretty sure its now NSFW. Ah well.