On Dating Websites

Recently the number of adverts I'm seeing for Dating Websites is getting higher and higher.

For the most part, the adverts are the usual crap: Various couples, usually ethnically diverse, partaking in some light sailing or a piggy-back ride through a wood, whilst a female Voice Over gives us dubious statistics about the success of the company or some kind of unlikely situation in which two people spontaneously play a song in a music shop or tie their shoes together and dance.

The companies also tend to work in the same way. Men and Women sign up and are then matched to others, based on whatever lies and embellishments they have put in their profiles.

However, there is one dating website I have seen advertised that defies logic.

It's called Matchmaking4men.

The clue to why it makes no sense is right there in the name. Matchmakin4men.

If it's a matchmaking service just for men, then where do the women come from?
And before you jump to conclusions, this is not a site for gay men and I have never seen an advert for a possible partner site (no pun intended) called Matchmaking4Women.

I can only assume that either the people who run the site walk the streets recruiting/kidnapping women to pimp out to lonely men over the internet or it's all mail order brides from Eastern Europe.

Source.

On Lowering My Standards

Hi All and a Merry 2011!

So, FWF has been on hiatus whilst I tried to get through my writers block and some other stuff.

One of the main problems I've been having is that I feel the need to write long pieces and if I can't write at least a couple thousand words on a subject, I don't feel like the piece is worthwhile.

However, my wonderful and loving Fiancée, who, for reasons unknown, is always there for me, no matter how stupid my problem, has assured me that I don't always need to write huge posts.

The main reason I started this blog is because, in my every day life, I rant a lot and people tend to find my rants quite funny so I thought I'd try my hand at internet comedy. At first, I got a little hung up on list-based humour, being a big fan of Cracked.com, but I couldn't make that work for me as I often get angry at things that don't lend themselves to numbered lists. I also did a couple of "Nature/Computers wants to kill you" articles, but that too was not sustainable (although I may still do more in the future).

Eventually, I started to find my stride and posted some good content, but I was still getting hung up on length. And we all know that it's not the length that matters but what you do with it. Or maybe it was Girth that matters... I don't think this metaphor is working.

Anyway, one day I was having a little rant to my Missus and she said, "You should write stuff like this more."
I explained about being hung up on word counts and how I didn't feel I was putting the effort in if an article was short.
She told me that was stupid and didn't matter; that a short but funny rant could be just as good as a long article and that I shouldn't worry so much.

I have mulled over her words a lot since and I think she is probably right, as usual.

I was discussing my writers block with a friend who reads my blog, explaining how I tend to be a lot funnier during spur of the moment rants when something has annoyed me and he asked if I've ever thought of using a Dictaphone to record my rants so I can transcribe them later.

Although it's a very good idea, in theory, I don't think it's something I could do. First of all, my rants tend to be off the cuff and mid-conversation. Secondly, they're spontaneous. I'll be having a conversation with someone and something will set me off. I can't exactly pause and say, "give me a sec to get my tape recorder."

It wouldn't be natural.

I'm not going to start promising lots of posts and I am not going to stick to any sort of schedule but I am going to try and be less hung up on word counts and just post what I want.
After all, it is my blog!

I'm currently editing a post, so that will be up soon.

Thanks for bearing with me. I will be back.

Why we should all be supporting Julian Assange

Source.

If you don't know who Julian Assange is then you haven't been paying attention to the Internet or the News.
Julian Assange is the founder of Wikileaks and right now the USA would rather spend their time trying to prosecute him than any major terrorist.

What is his crime?
He's telling the US Government's dirty little secrets to the world.


And that is, in fact, not actually a crime. The US Government are falling over themselves trying to pin something on Assange so they can put him away somewhere out of the public eye. Chances are he would disappear into the kind of place where the US Government likes to undertake some light waterboarding.
True, the man who supplied Assange with the leaked Cables broke the Law but Assange most certainly has not.
As he said in this article on The Australian: Don't shoot [the] messenger for revealing uncomfortable truths.
The US Government themselves have admitted that his actions have not caused harm to anybody, yet they are liberally applying their very favourite label of 'Terrorist' to him.
Of course, they apply that to anybody they want to make conveniently disappear.
A Terrorist, by definition, is a person who terrorizes or frightens others, usually to get what they want. Therefore, the US Government are the Terrorists, along with every other government trying to silence Assange for exposing their lies, using underhand tactics, like freezing his bank accounts, when he has committed no crime.

We should all be supporting him because what he is doing is right. He is a very clever man and, no matter how hard they try, they will never be able to silence him. He has the support of the internet and many people of import, around the world. The documents the US Government are desperately trying to keep under wraps are now all over the world in encrypted files and Assange has assured his detractors that if anything happens to him, the decryption key will be sent out as well.

All he's trying to do is bring a little transparency to the underhand dealings of the Government. Candidates all over the world build their platform on promises of transparency but never actually deliver it. Assange is simply taking the decision out of their hands.

As the famous quote goes, "People should not be afraid of their Government; The Government should be afraid of The People."
And the US Government is fucking petrified.

On The Stupidest Parcel I Have Ever Received

I know I'm supposed to be on hiatus and I totally still am but this was too stupid an occurrence for me to not post about it.

The story goes like this:

I ordered somebody a Christmas present from Lakeland.co.uk. then received a letter a few days later telling me it was out of stock and some crap about 'A Big Thank You Coupon' and a 'Kitchen 4 Catalogue'.

Click to embiggen

Fairly annoyed that they hadn't bothered to mention stock level when I ordered, I just hoped it would get shipped out in time.

Then today I received this box:

CD is just for size reference. It's a copy of Linux Puppy, in case that helps.

Assuming the item had come back into stock as quickly as I hoped, I proceeded to open up this rather large box.

Do you know what was inside? It certainly wasn't the present I was hoping for.

If you haven't figured it out by now, they sent me what is tantamount to an empty box. They sent me this large box, complete with packaging I might add, so they could rush me my 'A Big Thank You Coupon' and 'Kitchen 4 Catalogue'.

What. The. Fuck.

Not only have they sent me a large box for no reason at all, by courier, they will have to send me another one when my item comes back into stock. I just cannot understand why anybody would pack and send this box. It has packing material in it, for fuck sake!

I just had to share this piece of utter idiocy. Hiatus back on from...... Now. Unless something else like this happens, of course.

Oh and, Mum? Your present may be a little late...

FwF is on Hiatus

As I'm sure you've noticed, I've not been writing recently.

I feel like I'm stuck in kind of a rut. I just seem to be enveloped in a cloak of apathy most of the time and that doesn't exactly make for funny posts. So I've decided to put FwF on hiatus for a bit to give myself time.

Knowing it's sat here waiting for content is putting pressure on me to write and the more I try to write, the worse it is. I figure that if I put it on hiatus, I can write if I want to without the pressure that another Monday has come and gone without a new post.

I'm hoping Christmas might jump me out of this slump and I can get back to writing in the New Year. Who knows...

What I do know is that, up until I stopped writing, I was getting more hits which, although good, increased the pressure on me to fill the site with worthwhile content.

I am a very self-analytical person and, usually, my own hardest critic. Now every line I write seems like crap and even on the odd occasion I write a line I actually like I can't seem to link it to more to create an actual paragraph. The chance of managing a complete post is nigh on zero.

One of the most irritating things about it is that I do have some good ideas sat in my drafts; ideas that could become good posts and one that could become an easy and reliable way to post new content every week. I just can't write them.

I suppose it all comes down to the fact that my biggest fear is failure and every time I try and write and all that comes out is crap I know I've failed and then the next time I think about writing I don't even want to pick up my laptop because I know there's a damn good chance I will fail all over again.

I saw this picture today and it brought home how much all this is affecting me:

Source.

Normally I would have been like the rest of the internet community and had a good old laugh at this picture but today it just made me really sad. In case you don't know, the old fella on the right is famous Comic book author, Stan Lee and the guy on the left is dressed as Wolverine, one of Lee's most famous characters.
This picture makes me sad because this is probably the happiest day of that guy's life and now people are mocking him on the internet. Yes, he's fat; yes, he's most likely a massive loser who lives in his Mum's basement but on that day he was fucking Wolverine and he got to meet Stan Lee and have his picture taken with him. You can see it in his body language: The way he's holding his hands like a little girl meeting a big movie star, the slightly bewildered smile as his mind rushes to process what is happening.
He probably has that photo framed in a place of honour.

Now imagine you're that guy and you see this on the internet. Imagine how it would feel to know that your proudest moment is the butt of an internet joke. Imagine looking at that picture with fresh eyes, rather than the rose coloured spectacles you've always seen it with before, and seeing what everybody else sees.

That's how I feel.

I don't actually expect anybody to be reading this but, if you are and you have been where I am and got past it, please tell me how. I'm sick of feeling like this.

In Memoriam

Today I'm saying goodbye to my Granddad.

It's strange how you can not see someone for years and then miss them so much when you realise you will never see them again.
You also realise how little you really knew them. I know so little about him. I know he was a Veteran of WWII, where he was a Ships Gunner in the Navy; I know he did a fantastic job raising my Mother; I know he was a wonderful, kind and caring man.

But I never really knew him as a person. I guess most people feel like that when they loose a Grandparent. Grandparents are the kindly old people who would always give you sweets or a pound when you were a kid. You tend to see them less as you get older, which you justify to yourself with excuses.

Then one day they're gone.

My Granddad was 92 years old. He was born in 1918, when you still had to hand wind most cars before you could start it, and before television. I wish I had just taken some time to talk to him about what it was like to see the 20th century unfold, what his life was like, the details, the stories.

When I was about 10 years old, I did a project on WWII for school. I interviewed my Granddad and did the project around him. He told me stories about his time in the Navy, what it was like living on the ships, what it was like being a Gunner. He showed me his medals and even let me take them into school. I was like Gollum with The Precious. I wouldn't let them out of my sight. Now I'd just like to hold them again and remember being a 10 year old boy, sat on the floor with a tape recorder. On that day, he became a hero to me and it's only now I realise it.

That project was thrown away, along with all my other old school books and things, when I moved out of my Parent's house. I got an A for that project. It was probably the best bit of school work I ever did. I even got a certificate.

Today I'm saying goodbye to my Granddad. I just wish I could tell him he's a hero and shake his hand one more time.

Jim the Tractor Fan

Jim loved Tractors.
Like, really loved Tractors. Imagine the thing you love the most and how much you love it. Got it? Jim totally loved Tractors at least 5 times more than that.

It all started when he was a young child. When he was no more than an infant he saw a large Tractor rolling down the lane outside his house. He was transfixed. Everything about the Tractor, from the huge wheels to the growl of the massive engine, excited Jim more than anything he'd known in his short life (and babies totally get excited about the dumbest shit).

After that, the only books he would read were Tractor books; the only toys he would play with were Toy Tractors; the only things he would draw were Tractors. Tractor, tractors, tractors, all day, every day.

His parents figured this obsessions with Tractors couldn't really do any harm and it was nice seeing their child so excited about something so they encouraged it, figuring he would grow out of it sooner or later.

They decorated his room with Tractor wallpaper and carpets, bought him a Tractor lamp, bought him every tractor toy they could find. His father even custom built him a bed that looked like a Tractor.

When Jim hit 17, his tractor obsession was still very much alive and his dream was to study agriculture and mechanics with the aim of one day being a Tractor operator and repairman.

He worked hard all through college and University, putting in long hours and working part time at the local garage to garner both experience and money to put towards buying his own real-life Tractor.

Then finally, on his 21st Birthday, he put a down payment on a brand new FarmMaster 3000.

It was a majestic machine, capable of pulling all manner of farm equipment and moving huge loads.
He packed his Tractor centric belongings into the cab and, with a farewell to his parents, set off to pursue his dream.

After enquiring at several farms he eventually found one that was hiring. They snapped up his offer as their Tractor had just had a nasty run in with a herd of angry cows and was a little worse for wear so his FarmMaster and mechanic skills were invaluable.

For a while Jim was the happiest he had ever been. He was living his dream: Working on his Tractor by day; fixing the farmer's ailing tractor by night.

Alas, the happiness couldn't last. A year passed on the farm and things seemed to be going perfectly, until one fateful day.

The day started much like any other day. Jim got up early and went to check on Bessie (which his FarmMaster was now named). After doing the daily maintenance and hooking up the trailer to haul a load of Cattle Feed to the upper dairy fields, he set out to get on with his work.
As he was unloading the feed the herd of cattle began to act strangely towards Bessie the Tractor, mooing at it and stamping their feet. Too late did Jim realise that this was the same cattle who had ruined the Farmer's other tractor many months before.

"Imma fuck you up."

The biggest cow of them all started pawing the ground and snorting, eyes fixed on the Tractor. Before Jim could do anything to try and avert the imminent crisis, she charged, hitting the door of the Tractor with enough force to buckle it. The door swung open and she stuck her head straight in, pulling the hand-brake off with her long, prehensile tongue.

Straight away the Tractor started rolling away down the field. Jim went to run after it but was roughly yanked off his feet. A piece of metal jutting from the trailer had snagged his thick overalls and was now dragging him along behind the rapidly accelerating Runaway Tractor.

Jim could do nothing but yell warnings and try not to get too badly hurt as the tractor careened down the hillside, heading straight for the Farmer's house. All he could see about him was cows. The whole heard was flanking the Tractor and bellowing, some even overtaking the out of control machine. Suddenly there was a searing pain in Jim's head as it made contact with a large rock, protruding from the grass, and he was overcome by darkness.

As he opened his eyes it took him a minute to orientate himself. His eyes searched his surroundings, trying to digest the carnage that greeted them. Rubble was all that remained of the Farmer's house, strewn here and there with bits of Cow.


With an effort he pulled himself to his feet. To his surprise, the tractor was still running, idling away on top of the remains of the Farmer's house, although now when he looked at it he no longer saw a thing of beauty.

All his eyes saw, when he looked upon what he had previously though of as magnificent and beautiful, was a machine of carnage and death; a monster bent on destruction.

"Imma fuck you up."

 He ran from the farm, running as if pursued by Tractor Satan and all his Tractor Demons.

He ran and ran, he knew not for how long, until he collapsed from exhaustion.
He was woken by somebody gently shaking him and upon opening his eyes he saw it was his Mother.
He had unwittingly run to, and collapsed in front of, his childhood home which he had not been back to ever since the day he rode forth to start his new life.

For the next few days he lay in a deep fugue as he recovered from his injuries and the long run home. His Mother dutifully ministered to his needs, pouring water over his parched lips and pressing a damp cloth to his feverish brow.

Eventually he stirred and opened his eyes to see his Mother looking down on him. At first all he could focus on was her smile but after a few moments the rest of the room started to swim into view.
It was his room, as he had left it, only now all the toys, furniture and decorations he had treasured seemed sinister and evil. The very sight of a Tractor sent a chill straight to his bones.

Jim bolted from the room and refused to return until every single Tractor was disposed of. After that he became progressively reclusive, spending more and more time in his now very bare bedroom, rarely venturing into the outside world, until he ceased to go outside at all.
He spent day after day in the dark, haunted by visions of the carnage at The Farm.

His parents became more and more worried about their son. He was becoming almost hermit like: his hair long and unruly, his skin greasy and pale.
Eventually they decided something needed to be done and as soon as possible. They could no longer sit and watch their son, once so animated by life and passion, fade away.

They sent him to the best psychiatrist they could afford and, after many sessions and much leading, she managed to get him to relate the events from The Farm and set him on the path to dealing with them and putting them behind him.
"After all," she said, "it wasn't your fault! There was nothing you could have done."

Jim came home that day a changed man. He felt alive again. He finally felt like he could move forward with his life.

He set out for a walk, his body still weak from so much neglect. He took it slow and didn't pay much attention to his course. The sun was warm on his face and the light breeze brought him the scent of fresh cut grass.

Jim was snapped from his revelry by a scream. It was piercing and filled with terror. He looked in the direction he thought it came from and saw thick smoke billowing from a house down the road.

He ran to the scene and, looking up at the upper windows, saw a woman holding a small child. It was she that had screamed and he could see, from the way the flames licked from the windows on the ground floor, that she was well and truly trapped.

Thinking not of himself and only of saving the poor woman and her infant child he ran to the front door.
He opened the letter box, placed his mouth to the heated metal and proceeded to suck all the fire and smoke from the house.

With the Mother and child safe he collapsed onto the front lawn, coughing smoke and ash.
The Woman appeared at the front door, child in her arms, and rushed towards him, tears of joy streaming down her face.
She embraced him and thanked him over and over again.
"Thank you so much for saving me and my baby!" she effused through her tears, "But how did you do it?"

He looked her in the eye, cleared some ash from his throat and said:

"I'm an Ex-Tractor Fan."

Author's Note: This is my second Shaggy Dog Story and I hope you enjoyed it. Find the first one here.