Worst Things Ever: 5 Of The Least Funny Youtubers

The internet is a double-edged sword. If it was a town, it would be Basin City because walk down the right darkened alleyway and you can find anything.

But one site changed everything. You no longer had to spend some time ankle-deep in human waste, searching furtively behind bins and boarded up shopfronts to find the more fucked-up goings-on because the advent of Youtube meant you could wander into the biggest town square and find the lion's share of the entire populace engaged in passionate amateur street theatre. Mostly pertaining to cats and groin impacts.

Every once in a while though, a bright, fresh-faced young talent would emerge and failing that, the now almost eight-year old video sharing site could be relied upon for some easy laughs in bite-sized morsels but here's the thing: When you give every fetal alcohol syndrome survivor with access to filming, green screen and auto-tune equipment the ability to publicly broadcast you have absolutely no right to complain when they biblically flood your servers with cultural vomit.

Every retard with a messiah complex growing up in an area with more modern trappings than the dark side of Mars seems unable to resist the allure of webcam vlogging and film production and in the absence of any real quality control, there are now more videos of people being generally awful than there are people in the world.

It's kind of inevitable when you think about it. We trust the cream to rise to the top but it's we, the public, who are in charge of rating and publicising everything. And people are, in most cases, tasteless, ignorant cretins without a shadow of critical wit and it's comedy where this shines out the most blindingly. 

Yes it's largely subjective, yes it's difficult to qualify but the mere fact that people make comedy that invokes not a sense of mirth, but an overwhelming impulse to punch their nostrils out of the back of their skulls so they deploy like tiny, wee airbags should be a clear sign of failure on their part, not ours.

Of course that won't stop these pioneers in terribleness raking in millions of views, proud, erect green lightsabers and of course the sweet, sweet ad money. If this is starting to sound like it was motivated by bilious envy, it's because it was.

***

Real name: Jenna Marbles

Realer name: Turnatrick Cockstopper

Subscribers: 6,226,503

Total views: 955,576,207

Worst offence: How to trick people into thinking you're good looking

Jenna Marbles is the Youtube vlogger's answer to Heidi Montag. As in, another screeching, shallow maniac whose chitinous exoskeleton could be cracked open to see an entire colony of daddy issues nesting within.

Also lodged in there (behind the chestplate), bizarrely enough, is a powerful yearning to impart wisdom upon the tragic millions of viewers aching for guidance and guys looking for something to masturbate to that talks back at them.

Real name: Smosh

Realer name: Backpack Smashvag & Codey Cakely

Subscribers: 7,214,204

Total views: 2,069,878,44

Latest offence: WE'RE IN SUPER MARIO!

Do you love video games but feel there isn't enough lazy, shameless abuse of industry icons? Then have I got the on-again, off-again highest subscribed channel for you. In one sense, it's heartening, to know there are so many people out there with the hearty respect for the creative sphere's greatest outpouring of unfettered joy that is the video games industry, but then again it's dejecting to be be reminded what pedantic, mouth-breathing twats most gaming fans are.

And this the absolute worst kind of comedic pandering to the absolute worst kind of audience. You wouldn't call any of it parody, it's just a series of references and pokey logic gags that anyone with slightly more processing power than lukewarm cake batter between the ears picked up as they were actually playing. It's t-shirt slogan comedy spread out into tortuous three minute videos.

Oh, you too noticed that Mario's status as a hero is slightly dubious considering he murderously headstomps his way from A to B through an entire ecology just trying to get from B to A? And has no-one stopped to think whether Peach might be happier spreading her legs for Bowser? Also, the cake was a liieeeeeee!!

It requires as much energy as a solar-powered black dildo belonging to a Floridian puritan. But it could almost be bearable. In different formats referential video game comedy can be alright, like the occasional webcomic, but any reverence Smosh might have for their subject matter is utterly undermined by their interminable unlikeability, having concentrated obnoxious-ness into some kind of quantum singularity -- viciously sucking all potential laughs into a dimension populated entirely by douchecopters in wide-brim caps groaning, 'duuuude, what if the cake wasn't a lie?'

Real name: Nigahiga

Realer name: Flaily Spazzhammer (AKA: Nigel Hi-gel)

Subscribers: 6,801,589

Total views: 1,434,338,167

Latest offence: Best Super Bowl Commercial!

Using the 'that's what she said' line in this day and age should be punishable by death and using it ironically by some kind of double death. Perhaps by reincarnating the offender as Sean Bean. Annoyingly, like Smosh I feel like the potential for me to not hate sharing the same planet as these people is there. The Superbowl Commercial sketch that marks Ryan Higa for death is actually host to some good ideas.

But you can see how years of producing bedroom budget, absurdist shit has laden this kid with the haughtiest of airs. His recent videos now watch like convoluted meta-sketches so far up their own arses they're one sharp tug from being inside out.

Real name: Shane Dawson

Realer name: Gargle Faghag

Subscribers: 3,260,251

Total views: 798,164,049

Worst offence: Fred is dead

Opening a vlog by telling the world that there's no way you could ever hope to match the creative genius of late term abortion and movie star, Fred, is like turning up to your first day at medical school loudly announcing that your inspiration was Harold Shipman.

All Fred had was a seemingly endless supply of nitrous oxide and the revelation of where fast-forward was on his webcam's video editor. It's not like his content was up to much, it was just a bunch of madlibs about his dick-repellent medication and mother. Don't pretend that was an original notion, kid. Eminem was bitching about his mother back when you were just a cyst on the ovaries of yours.

There's no point harping on about what a stain Fred was on the zeitgeist because thankfully he's kind of evaporated into the ether. And on the internet, that basically is as good as overdosing in a motel room with your belt around your throat. What bothers me is that Shane Dawson feels the need to venerate his memory. Because when you've been abandoned by a deadbeat father, you don't build a shrine to him.

Real name: The Angry Joe Show

Realer name: Hormonal Ragedump

Subscribers: 434,638

Total views: 64,330,944

Worst offence: DmC: Devil May Cry Angry Review

What's this? Another video game-related show? Will, you jaded misanthrope with delusions of eloquence, you just don't like humour that makes light of your most beloved of mediums.

Firstly, I would say that your use of 'delusion' is incorrect and second, let me tell you about being a dick on the internet. Executing a sweet burn against a product or person you feel deserves it (however entrenched in your industry of choice) is empowering. Fondling the egotistical vision you have of yourself lounging on an obsidian throne, feet resting on a pile of skulls, sipping a martini with one hand and casually ashing out a cigarette on the up-turned palm of a nubile sex slave with the other. Although that might just be me. It's deliriously satisfying and now the only way I can achieve an erection.

All nerds have some kind of power fantasy but differ in how moral it is. Saving the world snags you pussy but plotting its dominion is actually fun so its a tougher choice than just Kirk or Pichard. More like Dark Elf or regular, fey, pan-sexual elf. Most throw their lot in with evil for the aforementioned fun but without the influence IRL to commission the Death Fortress just off the coast of Papau New Guinea with the aforementioned archvillain school of interior design and the rivers of lava plummeting from the eyes, our kind generally flock to internet figureheads with the most obscene critical vocabulary.

Seen here, kindly designed by some absolute schlub on Minecraft. 

That's why my blackened heart swims with admiration for entertainers that do dickheadedness well. It's why there's a photo of Yahtzee on the ceiling above my bed whose disapproving gaze I cannot drift into Lovecraftian dreamscapes without. But the scale of fanaticism I have for the great arseholes of nerd culture in my charred organ is only matched by the seething hatred for people who can't do it well.

Tell me you hate me. Please. Just once, I want to know how it feels. 

Angry Joe is the poster man-child for terrible use of anger as a comedic device. Charlie Brooker is angry. Bill Hicks was angry. Angry Joe is a chemical imbalance that walks like a man and talks like a volume control failure. Bellowing into the camera with all the grace, tact and comedic timing of a fart at a funeral. Even disregarding all the commotion masquerading as humour, he can't write for shit and I use the word 'write' in the same way as I would: 'Ebola'. He construes entire eight-minute reviews from single comments made in forums by retards with more advanced brain tumors and even less knowledge of the games industry.

Case in point: Ninja Theory bucked the more cynical assumptions by rebooting Devil May Cry and not fucking it up. They kept all the sword-swinging, bullet-juggling fun and trimmed all the bollock-stroking narcissism in favour of a Dante that only starts out being an obnoxious prick but grows to show some maturity and attachment to people that weren't studiously sucking him off. Of course, the internet interpreted that as 'DmC is emo as all shit' and started the critical equivalent of throwing their faeces at the walls until someone started paying them attention.

Naturally, Angry Joe did and begins his review of DmC by showing a music video by a glam-rock band that look and sound like Brokencyde were raped by costume designers* and comparing it to the content of the game. He's then perplexingly stupid enough to point out that this is the opinion of one, solitary consumer review whose pretty open about their distaste for the series as a whole. Joe then, seeing as he's apparently immune to the forces of irony goes on to say (read: intermittently yell) that there's no need to get uppity, internet, the game isn't that bad.

Do the world a favour and jump off a bridge you cancerous, Ewok fuck. Don't laugh. It isn't funny. I seriously fucking hate this creature.

 
*I have resolutely decided to like this band**, who seriously, presumably, call themselves Blood on the Dance Floor with a straight face, because hopefully mentioning them here will get them a few hits and the abject horror on Angry Joe's face at the thought that they might challenge his reign (because his is the kind that measures their entire worth as humans by monthly pageviews) is rapidly becoming my favourite thing to think about during sex. Round my way, they call that fucking revenge.

**You know what's especially depressing about all this? I had all these vids open in tabs and the only one I didn't rush to close once I was done like a Catholic masturbating belonged to a band called Blood on the fucking Dance Floor? Maybe I really am in no position to judge.

Worst Things Ever: PC Gaming

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Worst Things Ever: Budget Drinking

My hero.

There are people out there who've forgotten more about sobriety than I will ever know.

There are also people out there whose indefatigable desire to not be good to drive led them to make poor decisions. Decisions that make that one time you thought it would be fun to mix Everclear with more Everclear look like it was worthy of a Nobel prize in chemistry.

Douglas Adams once said that a sip of the greatest drink in the universe is akin to having your brain lightly smashed in by a slice of lemon wrapped around a large gold brick. These drinks aren't like that. Necessity is the mother of invention and sometimes even the biggest, strongest, cheapest drink behind the bar just won't do, and that sentiment has contributed to creations whose very use in battle would be judged a war crime.

***

Four Loko

Saying you're 'as wild as Four Loko' is tantamount to saying you need twelve pounds of sugar in your coffee before your virgin palette can choke it down. The Chicago-based energy-alcopop combo has all the machismo of bed-wetting.

HAHAHAHA. Does your mother know you're up this late?

It's a toxic mix of caffeine and cheap grain alcohol which technically, and I've never used the term so hard, technically makes it a speedball. This is normally where I'd throw in a John Belushi joke but seeing as I've met my quota of making light of celebrity deaths for the year already, I'll instead say that Four Loko basically robbed us of a real sequel to 'The Blues Brothers'.

There's a site dedicated to feats of drunken stupidity committed after imbibing this stuff. It's like all the worst picks from TFLN fronted by a banner ad for ad tabs. So it's marketed to students, obviously. Did I mention how cheap it is? Because it's cheap. Anywhere between $1 and $3 plus medical bills. And comes in a variety of flavours: Lemonade, grape, fruit punch, cherry, mango, vanilla, watermelon the list goes on. But I'll bet you your first born child that every single one tastes like children's cough medicine mixed in a U-bend.

If Four Loko is starting to sound appealing (and God help you if so), you'll have to act fast. It's being busily outlawed in every American state, bar Ohio. But feel free to import it.

You coward.

Purple Drank

Speaking of cough medicine and overcompensating, there's this. If you're up to speed with Houston-based hip-hop circa the nineties, you'll have come across Purple Drank thanks to A$AP Rocky and his forebears because if there's one thing East coast rappers like more than Purple Drank, it's rapping about Purple Drank. It's the answer to the West coast's Hennessey, except, really, really illegal.

See it's not really a drink. Basically, it's codeine and promethazine, the active ingredients in, you guessed it, prescription cough syrup. Which make it a recreational drug. It's only here because, well, it's drunk. Popular mixers include Mountain Dew and Sprite of all things and produces, according to the 2003 Journal of Drug Education: 'Altered levels of consciousness'.

The fact that promethazine is an antihistamine would be hilarious, conjuring images of weedy rap stars growing super resistance to hayfever, were it not for the fact that it's included as a measure against overdosing and many from the rap community, including the guy who popularised it, DJ Screw, have, fatally, regardless.

Christ. This is getting really depressing.

Liquid Nitrogen Cocktails

I have to admit, there’s something vaguely appealing about sipping on a cup of something that looks like it was brewed by Maleficent. But then again there’s something less appealing about a drink that boils at -196 degrees and so is potentially lethal. Death by ‘cryogenic burning’ sounds like a fate many a mercenary met at the hands of my engineer in Mass Effect 2.

Yes I know no-one got that reference. But I made it anyway.

It wasn't until early October of this year that we learned of the dangers of drinking cocktails that look like they should be part of some necromantic cult's initiation ceremony. An 18-year old girl from Lancaster was hospitalised after a birthday bash involving Liquid Nitrogen cocktails. Know what the medics diagnosed her with? 'Perforated stomach'. That's right. This drink tore her digestive system open like a first class stamp from its fellows.

[I really wanted an image of a stamp being torn from its book as the others scream for it to go here, something like:  'Gary! Nooooo! Take me instead!' But apparently, that's too much to ask of Google Images.]

It's still legal to put liquid nitrogen in a cocktail to produce that cute smoking effect in the UK, but, somewhat frowned upon.

Tharra and Changaa

It's official. The final place for worst drink ever is a perfect knock-up.

In the red corner, weighing in at an unholy 90% ABV, from Northern India and Pakistan, it's Tharra!

And... in the blue corner, available now for the princely sum of $0.15, it's the killer from Kenya, Changaa!

I'm done joking now. These two drinks are, honest to god, probably as dangerous as anthrax. Let's break them down. Hope you've got your HAZMAT suit on. Tharra is India's answer to moonshine. It's sugarcane or wheat husk fermented in ceramic containers, often far, far away from human settlement, because it smells so diabolical. In Karachi, Pakistan, in September of 2008 alone, 22 men died as a result of a night on the Tharra. Mostly from copper formaldehyde poisoning.

These men know no fear.

Changaa is similarly, a home brew and no less lethal. It's name, quite literally, means 'kill me quick'. And with good reason. Also like Tharra, it's distillation is often cornered by bootleggers as part of organised crime. One such group involved in the Changaa business is the Mungiki, who you might remember as the street gang slash terrorist group that basically declared war on Nairobi police in 2002. As you might have guessed, these people aren't bound too tightly by ethics.

The grains Changaa is distilled from, millet, maize and so on produce pretty volatile alcohols anyway, but can be cut with anything from jet fuel to embalming fluid or battery acid to give it more kick, as if it needed it. Are these people actually unkillable?

And you thought Frosty Jack's was bad.

You know, I think I'm starting to get the hang of this.

ABV: A buttload.
Now available down your nearest dark alley!

Worst Things Ever: Sex Advice

Look, I'm not a prude or anything, but I find, err, you know, the whole human reproduction system, umm, vis-a-vie, well... sex thing kind of unnerving. I can't help it. I grew up in the kind of environment that meant that between the ages of 7 and 16, the concept that humans had genitalia was attested only in slow-buffering, two-minute videos that you had to click 'Aged 21 and older' to see as part of some time-honoured, arcane ritual.

I suck at life. I'd be the first to admit it. But my experience of fucking, limited, though it may be, has taught me much. Mostly, that a lot of people who write about sex for a living are demented fucksticks who take their personal preferences for gospel inspiration and pour all over keyboards in their eagerness to illuminate the rest of us like a bucket of hot, wet disappointment. 

People like Amber Milt need to be stopped. Not only are they creating utterly ridiculous standards of practice, they're making the whole human race look stupid by speaking for us. We need to say no. No. By and large men don't want their testicles swatted around like shuttlecocks no matter how much they appreciate the wordplay. I don't mean for this whole post to become a 'Women. Stop telling us what we want' thing but it's kind of all your fault, ladies, for doing exactly that for the last decade. 

What? As if any of this shit was written by men. In fact, you can empirically tell it isn't. Because it doesn't involve any double D hooker-bots gatecrashing the set of 'Lesbian Avengers Assemble!: Big Booty Bitches Invade ComicCon'.

[NB: I'm almost sorry that these excerpts have almost exclusively come from Cosmopolitan. I clearly have nothing against the publication.]

***

'The most amazing oral sex I've ever had was from a woman who jiggled my balls back and forth with her hand, like she was shaking dice in a cup. I thought I was going to explode!'  Curtis, 33.

OK, so I might have been slightly misleading when I said that it's only women that hold gruesome misconceptions about what men want. What the fuck is wrong with you, Curtis? Is is the fact that your parents named you Curtis? I know, I'd be angry too. But that's no reason to go spreading this kind of misinformation.

'Dice in a cup'? What does that even mean? That if she rolls a double she'll get out of jail? What do you think would happen if I shook up your two brain cells in a cup?

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'Sprinkle a little pepper under his nose right before he climaxes. Sneezing can feel similar to an orgasm and amplify the feel-good effects'. Cindy, 32.

Fuck you for making me google 'Sneeze porn', Cindy. Rule 44 exists for a reason and the fact that something as grotesquely simple and unambiguous didn't leap up to announce itself in any search engine proves that we can talk about the internet providing for even the most depraved taste as much as we want and Cindy will still be dangerously wrong about everything.

By comparison, there exists in the darker waters of the net: animal porn, midget porn, parody porn, parodies of parody porn, period porn (that's the period drama kind of period, not the other one that I was too scared to research in case my suspicions that it exists were validated), nun porn, balloon porn and body art porn. That's just in the first five minutes.

If there isn't enough interest in the eroticism of allergies to finance even one porno, and that would within reason require only three people: two to be desperate, out of work actors and another to wish they'd never pursued filming as a career, then basically the whole world thinks this idea is ridiculous. And most of the world as sick as hell.

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'Hold his penis in one hand and lightly slap it with the other... you can tap it back and forth like you're volleying a tennis ball and lightly pinch the skin on his shaft and testicles. Many women make the mistake of being too gentle.' Cosmo.

What is it with you gals and ball sport comparisons? Are you just trying to fulfill your fantasies of being violated on centre court by Nadal? Because that would be wishful thinking, you maniacs.

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'Have him tie your hands with a scarf and hang them on a hook on his door (the kind you would hang your coat or towel on) before he tantalizes you with oral. Since you’ll feel totally like his sex toy, you can add to the arousal of being restrained by begging him to “release” you and let you orgasm.' Cosmo.

So many died needlessly.

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'Have me lie on my stomach then wet the skin below my butt with your tongue. Blow on it.' Beckett, 33. 

Cosmo can't talk about perineum enough. Perineum, perineum, perineum. You'd think they'd beaten a fucking ROM hack from the satisfaction they get telling readers to 'knuckle' the pelvic wasteland as if it would undo years of emotional torture. 

To be fair a lot of men write in begging to be knuckled.

'When your man is really close, lightly roll your knuckles between his balls and his back door.' Tobias, 30. 

What, you thought I was joking about the use of 'knuckle'? It's quite a vile word isn't it? And yet, here's another:

'Place your fist knuckles-up against the area right behind his testicles. Quickly shake your fist to send powerful vibrations into his prostate gland (aka, the male G-spot).'

That one came direct from the sexfessional sexearchers at the Cosmopolitan sexaboratory themselves. And I certainly can't think of any way that 'quickly shaking your fist' over the 'male G-spot' could possibly go wrong. 

'Press his perineum repeatedly. This will make him orgasm.'

You know Cosmopolitan? For a magazine about sexy rumpus and hot shoes you managed to phrase that little chestnut with all the eroticism of an instruction manual for hemorrhoid cream.

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'Move my penis round like an old-school Atari joystick - up, down, side to side, in a circle'. Ted.

You're being weirdly specific here, Ted. Is 'up, down, side to side, in a circle' the cheat code to unlock your orgasm?

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'Firmly hold the bottom of his shaft in one hand and slowly push it towards the base. (Imagine you're pushing his penis into his body).' Cosmo.

They wouldn't do that to a cock in Guantanamo fucking bay.

Dr. Gintang: Online Agony Aunt #2

Now, is it the red tube? Or blue? Shit. I really shouldn't have taken all those pills at med school. How lucky are you feeling, buddy?

The doctor is in. And though he may not have one of those fancy-pants real doctorates, he does have something his competitors don't: a sense of humour and a litre and a half of budget bourbon. Yes, that is two things. Thankfully we can strike basic arithmetic off his list of things.

Remember, if you have an issue you'd like Dr. Gintang to address, just stand in front of a mirror at midnight on the night of a blood moon and intone his name three times.

Let the advice commence!

[NB: As before, all of these questions are from real people with real problems that apparently they really asked a complete stranger about.]

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David from Lincoln asks:
'Dear Dr.,

I have recently moved into a townhouse. It is lovely except for my next door neighbors. They are a pair of lawyers who are savvy about staying within the letter of the law and pushing the townhouse association’s rules.

They have annoying behaviours such as claiming unassigned parking spaces in such a way that puts the rest of us at a disadvantage. They drive their motorcycles off their patios, filling our homes with exhaust and noise, and leave on bright floodlights for nights on end, which lights up my window and is annoying.

The other neighbours have adjusted to this pair’s limit bending. I seem to be the neighbour most affected by their behaviours. Is there anything I can do? I'm about ready to lose my mind, it just isn't fair.'

Dr. Gintang says:

Now David,

I don't want to say this is what you get for moving in next to lawyers but this is exactly what you get when you move in next to lawyers.

As you have already (and I can't stress how fucking boringly enough) mentioned, the problem when fighting the Man, is that he has the law on his side. The way to fight back is to ambush your enemy with your Orphic knowledge of planning law.

Here's a good way to start: Did you know that it is, according to the Lex Vicinus Bitchpiss, perfectly legal to take a roaring, public shit on your neighbour's doorstep if they've given you suitable cause? Neither did they.

Hope this has answered your question.

Fight the power.

Dr. G.

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Charles from Hoxton asks:
'Dear Dr.,

I am twenty years old. I have the opportunity to work as a silent partner in fake ID production shop for the local college students. In exchange for a small capital investment and access to some of my contacts, I can own 40% of what could be a very lucrative business.

I would want to be to be a silent partner with absolutely no paper trail linking me to the business. I think this fake ID business could be a gold mine. What do you think of the problems it could present?

Dr. Gintang says:

Dear Charles, 

I can't believe you bothered to write in with this of course it's an excellent idea with absolutely no possible negative reprucussions. I can't think of any problems it could present. I can think of opportunities though. Lusciously-juicy opportunities that should be turning your pupils to dollar signs not making you run sobbing to me, an online agony aunt to ask if it's ok.

Also, what's this nonsense about leaving no paper trail? You always, always leave a paper trail dammit otherwise how will you be able to rub it in bitches' faces when they say 'ya can't afford it honey'? What would you do? Drag them to the nearest ATM and show them your balance? Once bitches start badmouthing your credit history in the street it's a slippery slope, my friend.

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Aggie from Milton Keynes asks:

'Dear Dr.,

I love my partner dearly but I can't cope with his aversion to soap and water and clean clothing. He wasn't like this when I first knew him. He lives in my house and helps with the bills but I hate him being in my bed because quite frankly, he smells.

The idea of sex with him is abhorrent for the same reason. I've tried dropping hints and also just being direct but nothing works. I don't want to ask him to leave but I will have to if he can't respect me enough to spend five minutes a day in the shower. He has enough time to spend 4 hours a day in the pub when I'm at work. Any suggestions? Many thanks.

Dr. Gintang says:

Dear Aggie,

You know, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's a clean freak. You guys are the worst. Always up in our grills about changing clothes every month and washing our sheets every year, where do you get off? If you wanted to be regularly fucked by a washing machine, they have adaptable cycles you know.

Why is cleanliness such a big deal anyway? You could put your panties through the most vigorous sanitary programme possible and they'd still harbour more micro-organisms than a clumsy, hyper-allergenic Biology student's Petri dish experiment.

Luckily, I have the perfect response to your bitch girlfriend's question, Aggie's boyfriend. Just remind her that her chopping board harbours more bacteria than her toilet seat and she'll be too busy screaming to ever bother you again.

Hope this has answered your question.

Dr. G.

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Lucy from Croydon asks:
'Dear Dr.,

I'm ready to find love this Christmas, but always end up going out with the same friends, who are partnered up. I'm wary of online dating sites, so what else can I do to meet someone dishy in time for a New Year's kiss?'

Dr. Gintang says:

Dear Lucy,

Did you know that suicide rates are higher at this time of year than any other? Or, wait was it incidence of domestic violence that's higher? Hey no it's totally both! Yeah you can't win. Your options seem to be finding some fresh meat for New Year's and getting brained with a casserole dish when he realises how much of a humourless bitch you are or spending the festive season alone and braining yourself with a casserole dish.

Maybe you should just go get blitzed with these friends of yours and blitzed enough that they'd consider a swinger's party.

Hope this has answered your question.

Season's Greetings,

Dr. G.

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A Bible For The Modern Gentleman

According to the previous generation's definition of what constitutes a real man, I am a failure in every direction at once. I know nothing about cars, sport, politics and apart from a cursory understanding of which end of the hammer you hit a nail with, DIY either. But the world is a different place now; the human race has made remarkable strides in all fields, and a different world demands a different breed of gentleman. So here are the commandments which all men should live by in this age of drinkable yoghurt and fuckable dolls. 

***

I. Thou Shalt Read

Don't listen to your parents - literacy rates are higher than ever before. Cynical bastards have made the logical fallacy that as material media continues to die, reading is sure to follow. 

While it's certainly true that books, newspapers, magazines - the written word in all its forms is on the decline, the ease of access to the internet means your average Joe, no matter how inbred, is constantly bombarded by literature.

What you're doing right now is a fine example. If the floating shapes on the screen in front of you are forming coherent sentences with a deliciously sardonic slant, then congratulations, you're absolutely in the majority. And that is exactly where a real man wants to be. Besides, when evolution takes its course and we're all non-ambulatory, amorphous people-sacs connected by the hivemind network that finally rendered all human contact obsolete, you're going to want to understand exactly what that Nigerian Prince's lawyer means by 'collateral'.

II. Thou Shalt Know Things

COMMENCING RAPE IN: 3...2...

By things, I mean things that interest you. Knowing the bullshit that enables you to be a better accountant or whatever you do for a living only enables you to be a better accountant, not a better person. Not everyone is lucky enough to have a job that’s interesting to themselves, let alone anyone in earshot of you drunkenly pontificating. It's almost tragic that the people who are the easiest to despise are those with the least interesting things to say. Don't be this person. It doesn't matter what interests you -- pursue it.

The search for knowledge doesn't have to be academic, a gentleman should learn about shit that he enjoys. If all you like to do in your spare time is wear a gigantic red squirrel costume and masturbate into a grey gym sock in convention centres, there are more forums for that than you could ever send blurry photos of your tiny dick to.

III. Thou Shalt Know Thyself

Commandment number II is clearly facilitated by this one – to pursue what interests you you need to know what interests you. This one sounds easy but actually isn't. Basically, as a young gentleman growing up in a confusing world that contains things like this and an internet to make it all way too easy to find, you're bound to come under some pressure to display interest in things you couldn't give two flying ape carcasses about. 

But stay strong, young gentleman. Sure, all your peers couldn't be more excited about that cool new blog about a cat with no face but you just want to settle in every night to watch endless playlists of tortoises fucking inanimate objects. Don't worry. Thanks to the internet, you'll always be able to find people who share your sick, sick hobbies in future so there is no need to fear social ostracism now. You might have to wait until university, but trust me, those kindred souls are out there.

Nosce te ipsum, my son.

[You better have been checking up on all the links I assiduously put in this entry. God help you if not.]

IV. Thou Shalt Not Experiment In The Bedroom

You are genetically programmed to find sex fun without a Carrot Top-size trunk full of props. Don't listen to Cosmo. I'm sure I once empirically proved that they don't have a bloody clue about anything and if their latest biannual article for men told you to mix something stupid like food with sex, don't listen. That's exactly how inconvenient fetishes crop up and eventually, you won't be able to even get an erection without having three fingers in a Viennese Swirl while Mr Kipling watches.

V. Thou Shalt Sleep Around

It is now absolutely normal to get married, have kids, grow old, hate, get plastic surgery, relove, rehate and then die with number n in your black book. I can't personally speak to having a magic number that looks like something Paul Erdős would masturbate to but this is what I hear. Get out there, don't spread your seed but find out what you like and what women, on the whole as far your experience extends, like. Think of it as sex research. Knowledge can't harm. Right? Right?

VI. Thou Shalt Choose Your Chaps With Caution

Not everyone's interests will appeal to you and vice versa. I've always found it confusing that people like Meatloaf for example. Not ironically. Just like him. Even though he sings like he's got a mouthful of dong and false sense of entitlement. Or Phil Collins. Who never hasn't got his mouth around one or more dongs.

'I hereby solemnly swear not to screw you over eight ways from Sunday.'

But the people you spend your early years with (and in this case, early can mean anything from age 15 to 21 depending on your talent for networking) will have a profound effect on how you turn out as a gentleman. In this case, I was lucky. And you, as an aspiring man will need to take great care in choosing the kind of people you associate with. Not because you're planning a career in politics (although if you are, try to downplay your relationship with your wonderfully enterprising drug dealer) but because of the effect they will have on the development of your own identity. [See all the above commandments]. 

Also, I truly hate to mention this, but everything you heard about 'life' being about 'who you know and not what you know' is basically true. There is no fucking substitute for nepotism in careerism but as I thought I pointed out in Commandment II, knowing interesting things as well will hopefully result in everyone who isn't busy employing the shit out of you, not hating you.

VII. Thou Shalt Try Not To Die

Yep. Don't feel self-conscious about this in the slightest.

OK, that is perhaps a marginally excessive way of saying ‘just take care of yourself’. Wash occasionally, wear deodorant and aftershave – hell, throw some moisturiser on there too. No woman will ever be grossed out to such an extent that she swears she’ll never self-lubricate again because you have soft, smooth skin.

This commandment also includes slightly more peremptory self-maintenance than personal hygiene. Nobody wants to hear this, but men tend to die younger than women because when something like a brown mole appears on their thigh their first thought isn't: ‘Should probably get this checked out. Maybe by a medical professional.'

No, it’s: ‘Hmm. Probably a smudge of gravy’. Sixth months later when it’s the size of a fist, your average man is seeking medical advice by showing it to their mates and measuring their reactions for sarcasm.

Get yourself a spine and drop your pants in front of your GP now and again.

VIII. Thou Shalt Not Aspire To Tolerance, But To Not Giving Much Of A Damn

Tolerance is great. The whole 'equal opportunities' thing is great. But I would hazard that what people who consider themselves part of a minority group want, is for everyone else to not care. If you find yourself working in HR, the Raiden of careers, every single person who applies to you is (provided they aren't a raving narcissist) praying that you don't give a diggety hot damn that they are white, black, Asian, Mesopotamian, Presbyterian, or whatever. The art of tolerance isn't having to make a concerted effort to not hate someone on the basis that they are, say, ginger, but not caring that they are anything at all and just judging them on their merits or lack thereof.

Tolerance isn't something you should have to work at, at all. 

IX. Thou Shalt Not Concern Thyself With Pointless Gender Stereotypes

Aha! It's only romantic 'cause I can afford all these martinis.

All men, at some point in their lives, have been victim to this (on the face of it) seditious feeling that 'just because I'm a man and you're a woman, I should have to front the entirety of this dick-withering restaurant cheque?' And responded (often internally): 'FUCK. THIS. NOISE.'

It's natural. A product of the fifties and not much else. This: 'Here's lookin' at you kid!' kind of 'gentleman' knocks back their twelfth scotch, lights up a Lucky Strike and casually tosses a conveniently unlimited American Express card onto the waitress's frothing crotch and, would you look at that? The entire fucking universe suddenly decided that this is the only kind of man that existence is going to feel the need for for the next sixty years.

To hell with that. Men, if your woman is making you feel bad for suggesting something as chronically unmanly as splitting the cheque, then you have officially shacked up with something that has the common sense of a Flying Destructive Dragon Punch.

X. Thou Shalt Make At Least A Token Effort To Not Be A Total Dickhead

If I really have to explain this one to you, then you are truly beyond saving. I would say: 'Enjoy your decades of sexual, cultural and emotional fucking desert you vile, caustic stain on our gender', but I know that kind of person didn't pass the first challenge of making sense of all the floating shapes on their screen.

As I began by saying, I am about as entitled to preach about the tenets of manhood as Jeremy Kyle and he appeals to women in the same way as yeast infection. And yes. I definitely do not adhere to many of these commandments consistently. But as De Botton once said: 'Yeah but Proust was all self-righteous about how we should act around bitches and he got, like, no pussy at all.' Or something like that.

Worst Things Ever: The 5 types of Facebook user

Put your hand up if you think you use Facebook too much. That was an order. I know no one put their hand up because you're all too busy using both to molest everyone else's news feed. Facebook is one of the great time-wasting staples and the only reason it isn't beaten by masturbation is because everyone spends a few minutes trawling other peoples' photo albums while their porno buffers. 

I'm not suggesting we do something stupid like try and boycott the social network, firstly, because boring, self-important types have already tried and second, because you might as well try to boycott blinking. I am suggesting we take a long, hard look [I see the porno users have now joined us] at the kind of people who use it most often and usually, in the most clearly defined ways. 

***

The Stalker

If you don't think you're any other kind of user on this list (but trust me, you definitely, definitely are) then this one is you. You log onto Facebook for the occasional few minutes just to see how everyone else is doing. Which usually boils down to: 

'FUCK ME SIDEWAYS. She got fat, didn't she?'

 And, 

'Yep. Still doable.'

Those are, by the way, the typical female and male responses to Facebook intel respectively. 

The Teenage Mother

Stop doing this. Please, please just stop doing this. I know it's wonderful. Miracle of life and all that but some of us couldn't give two flaming shits that you managed to get yourself knocked up. 

I know what you're saying. It's something along the lines of: 'OMG look! He's trying to unscrew my bottle of Jack! Isn't he da ceeewwwttest?!'

What? You're telling me that your child did something vaguely people-ish and it was funny? I had no idea. It's not like the internet has any photos like that.

The Poet/Motivational Poster

If this one is you, then congratulations. You might actually just be one of my all-time most hated things, after bus drivers, Bon Jovi and Catholicism. Nah, just joshing Benny. You're alright by me these days.

Seriously, when will people learn that the place for asinine fridge-magnet philosophy is nowhere? If I tried to stick a card that said something like: 'Inspiration is 99% perspiration and 1% actual, reasoned innovation!' to my fridge I sincerely hope that it would swing the door open in my face, simultaneously shrugging off that fucking stupid note and causing a little mild damage to the brain I clearly no longer needed.

You! You right there trying to close this tab. Yes, I can see you. This also includes your type that laboriously types out song lyrics to pose as a poetic or motivational status. You might actually be worse. Sure, we're all glad that those two lines from a Fallout Boy song made you feel better about life. But we're also pretty sure we hate you.

The Narcissist

Now we come to the meat and potatoes of the Facebook user base. All due emphasis on the meat. You, the narcissist, spend hours meticulously erasing all evidence of your existence in posts and es-extra-fucking-specially photos that make you look like anything less than the idol you frantically believe that you are.

You detag yourself from more photos than Bigfoot and all for the sake of your already grossly inflated ego. You spend more time on Facebook looking through photos of yourself than playing Bejewelled like the rest of us and silently seethe about a person looking pretty good in a photo while you type: 'Loookin gawwwwgoouuusss darlin!' in the comments.

The Braggart

Sigh. You can't believe how normal it is that you're just sitting by the beach in the Caribbean. You don't know, maybe you kind of expected this to be more, I don't know, impressive? Doesn't everyone do this?

Well no. No we don't Braggart Facebook users. Some of us don't spend several months backpacking through the Himalayas on a suspiciously comfortable budget. Some, in fact most of us, have never gone backpacking in the Himalayas on a suspiciously comfortable budget. But that isn't going to stop you posting motherfucking hundreds of photos of yourself looking bored in parts of the world that we'd burn down whole orphanages to visit? Does it?