GL3 Stat-Tracker: Fantasy Edition

My blog is the reason dogs can't see colours, if you email a link to it to someone you know, all their houseplants die and it will one day be used by a defense lawyer to clear my murderer's name. So Noni White, Paul Edwards, Mike Grocott and Jim Darrall, I can only apologise for this terrible violation of your privacy. But fuck it, it was funny at the time. 

***

Lady Whitebane, Warrior-Princess of the Upton Forest Clan

(Anona White)

Amazon

Weapons: Compound Bow, Poison Arrows, Convincing Arguments

Armour: Skimpy

Accuracy: Myopian

Driving Skill: Irrelevant

Rationality: Womanly

Special Ability: Exhaustively Pointing Out Your Faults

Egbor The Surprisingly Polite

(Paul Edwards)

Berserker

Weapons: Battle Axe, Claymore, Your Own Goddamn Severed Arm

Armour: Wicked Facial Hair, Apparently

Strength: Ridiculous

Agility: Glacial

Intestinal Fortitude: Blessed

Special Ability: Punching You In The Gut Until You Throw Up

Grocotian, Senior Book-Master

(Mike Grocott)

Librarian

Weapons: Really?

Armour: Hahahahaha!

Intelligence: Sagely

Wits: About Him

Repartees: Biting 

Special Ability: ...the Dewey-Decimal System... I guess?

Pius XII, Adjutant 1st Grade of the Oxfian War-Church

(James Darrall)

Cleric

Weapons: Twin Sabres, Catholic Guilt

Armour: Suspiciously Effective

Dexterity: Unsurpassed

Charisma: Self-Entitled

Luck: Absurd

Special Ability: Making Good Girls Go Bad

Alexander The Mysteriously Swaying At Two In The Afternoon

(William Franklin)

Rogue

Weapons: Rudimentary Explosives, Salty Language

Armour: Pointless

Constitution: Ox-Like

Charm: Rapey

Ethics: ...huh?

Special Ability: Vanishing (With All Your Mead & Maybe Your Daughter/Mother/Sister)

GL3 Stat-Tracker: FIFA 5-A-Side Edition

Anona White

Team Captain

Team Management: Draconian

Training Programs: Sadistic

Tactics: Scorched Earth

Opinions: Unshakable

Sportsmanship: Derisive

Taste in Men: Predatory

Paul Edwards

Striker/Oldfag

Endurance: Barbaric

Savagery: Savage

Passing: Inaccurate

Eyesight: Squinty

Family Guy Knowledge: Academic

Taste in Women: Marital

Mike Grocott

Runner/Ball Boy

Fitness: Impressive

Accessibility: Impaired

Personality: Judgmental

Opinions: Unfounded

Fashion Sense: Pun-based

Taste in Women: Ambitious

James Darrall

Centre Right/Blood Mage

Positioning: Implausible

Accessibility: Laughable

Vocabulary: Extensive

Reason: Confusing

General Knowledge: Unfair

Taste in Women: Exotic

William Franklin

Left Back (at the bar)

Weight: Considerable

Ball Skill: Nonexistent

Footwork: Hilarious

Attendance: Occasional

Music Taste: Better Than Yours

Blood Test Results: Medically Impossible

Virginal Hobbies! 6 Ways To Sabotage Your Chances of Ever Getting Laid Again.

It's been statistically proven that for every five normal, healthy human beings capable of fitting comfortably in society, there's one 'nerd'. The stereotype made famous by 80s High School films was the first place your mind went to when you read nerd I'm guessing. Well, I'm not exactly guessing, I inserted a peculiar breed of earwig into your brain a few weeks ago that gives me regular updates on your thought processes via Twitter. But the modern nerd is now a very different creature, some of whom are actually capable of not spending approximately 16 hours day getting repressed childhood memories beaten out of them by well-toned sports players in fetching knitted sweaters. Some have even found love! Granted among their own kind, but I'm not here to help you fledging nerd-sacs relieve yourselves of your collective virginities, that's a job for roofies and Furry conventions. No, as ever, I serve a higher purpose. Namely, aiding you in maintaining your perennial loneliness. Hell, I refuse to be the only one.

***

Play Videogames!
Casual interest in anything is fine, but it seems the second a hobby starts to take up more than 2 hours of your life a day and 3 hours of what would have been time to devoted to masturbation at night, it's suddenly a socially reprehensible thing to be doing. It rarely even matters what that hobby is, everyone likes music for example, but when you accidentally let slip that you own one of Damon Albarn's teeth or have a near academic knowledge of Eminem's daughter's school timetable in conversation, you've all of a sudden got less chance of putting your dick in something living than a panda going through a mid-life crisis.

'I'm thinking of getting a Ferrari'

This actually includes videogames, or at least some of them. A passing interest in Call of Duty or FIFA is actually expected of most men. It proves you've got at least some hand-eye coordination which is (I'm told) something a human female looks for in a potential mate as opposed to conducting foreplay like a quadriplegic disarming a nuclear bomb by candlelight. Getting a World of Warcraft subscription would probably do the trick, but actually maintaining it is a searing pain in the balls.

Collect something!
Ritually hording items of little or no value to the rest of the world is a pretty sure-fire way to announce that you've never felt the warmth of a woman's touch. But naturally, the extent of your alientation is going to depend entirely on what exactly it is you're collecting. In this case it's got to be something pretty fucking lame, like coins or stamps or sweaty tennis towels. In the interest of your privacy, you don't want to be lining the walls of your habitat with hookers' fingers or photos of your local primary school. There's an un-widely known bylaw that allows the Police to skip past the requirement of a warrant to search your premises for dead bodies and the like if you're found with trophies like that. And I'm pretty certain you don't want anyone poking around you're basement unless they're tied up in there. Obviously, you also don't want to be hoarding awesome things like Superbowl rings or v-plates either.

Study Mathematics!
If you're a student of mathematics, I would just skip to the next entry right now, because everything I'm about to say is going to make you seriously rethink your life. And I don't want to be responsible for yet another young suicide. Not out of any ethical consideration, it's just that I get tired of tabloid reporters hassling me for interview time. Trust me, that gets pretty fucking tiresome after the 3rd or 4th instance. Also, Maths students can be quite useful for fixing my laptop, which isn't so much true as it's just a shallow, transparent excuse for me to include this picture:

There's a point at which even someone like me, who looks like a zeppelin painted a pasty flesh colour and then partially deflated  (although I do tend to explode less when I take a drunken nose-dive) can attract a female. But that's because a natural talent for 'spontaneous' eloquent wit so razor sharp I haven't needed to shave in 8 years just about makes up for a lifetime of alcohol and pop tart abuse. And also because I despise mathematics. The things I did to my textbook back in Secondary School should count among humanity's most terrible hate crimes, yet there are people out there who willingly sign themselves up to study it.

There's never been a more nerdtastic subject in the history of human thought. Early Man may have kept tallies of how many times he'd slept with his neighbour's wife three caves over but you can bet your ass he didn't fucking enjoy it. And every time I meet a maths student who isn't a maudlin wreck counting down the days until their bourbon and sleeping pills get delivered I become a little more certain that the world is categorically, batshit insane. All I'm saying is, taking up maths as a hobby is probably the most reliable way of ensuring you'll never sleep with me. [FUN FACT! 5 minutes after this article was posted, applications to maths courses went up 600% nationwide.]

High Fantasy!
If there's one most effective way to attract the derision of every woman in your immediate vicinity and inspire every man to charge blindly in your general direction and try to kill you with whatever they're holding, it's enjoying fantasy. Fantasy novels, videogames or films fill human males with the kind of Viking Warrior Bloodlust you'd only otherwise see at Tesco when the cashier gives Chris Brown the wrong change. More than any other interest on this list, fantasy can be combined with other virginal pursuits for double, or even triple forced-abstinence bonuses! Take your average role-playing-videogame and throw in some compulsive loot collecting and a few mentally-crippling statistical calculations and you've got a one-hit KO to your junk. After all, if your not going to use it, why let it waste space in your inventory?

Watch Sci-Fi!
Knowing literally anything more about Star Wars than, didn't Family Guy do something with it? Is enough to mark you out as socially inept to a degree that modern science is still unable to equal. For example, consider the following: if I said that you're mother's so fat Obi-Wan Kenobi thought she was a moon and you thought that was funny, congratulations, you just became a curse on the human gene pool.

Sorry, I meant to say Moby-Wan Kenobi

Not only is admitting your sci-fi-fandom in public as dangerous as fantasy, it's somehow, even more humiliating. The last time I saw someone accidentally announce they loved Firefly, it was more awkward than the last time your parents let slip your middle name was nearly Broken-Condom. I don't know why this is, maybe it's the fact that most sci-fi heroes are sculpted, lycra-sporting lotharios, constantly bedding sexy alien women with (you would assume) conveniently humanoid genitalia. A far cry from standard fantasy tropes, which usually involve little more than a chastened princess and the odd lusty bar-wench. Which might explain how hilarious it is that greasy virgins the world over hold William Shatner up as the pinnacle of sexual masculinity, when clearly they think the g-spot is some kind of weak spot in a Boss' defenses. Although, that's actually pretty on the money now that I think on it, the trick is to stun it with an arrow first before going for the sword swing.

Samuel Lear: Just The Facts

Samuel Lear is the erstwhile Editor-in-Chief of Redbrick, the University of Birmingham's student newspaper. In return for the stellar work he's done in the past year, I've decided to immortalise him in the only way I know how. No holds barred, Pulitzer-worthy, face-punching journalism! I proudly! But apologetically, present: Samuel Lear's Man-Facts!

***

Samuel Lear writes 200-character tweets and Twitter doesn't fucking dare stop him.

Irony cannot define Samuel Lear.

Samuel Lear once got an iPad pregnant because millions of years of evolution weren't looking.

Being editor has a few privileges. Being Samuel Lear has all the privileges. 

Samuel Lear's regal nature actually echoes back through time, inspiring Shakespeare when he was on a really sweet opium trip.

Samuel Lear has a book containing over 2000 personal pick-up lines. But the use of any by anyone not medically classified as Samuel Lear will increase the sale of rape alarms by 400% nationwide.

... ladies.

The sun cannot look directly at Samuel Lear.

Samuel Lear's CV is just a mugshot of himself attached to his Criminal Record. I'd like to see the Editor that doesn't fucking hire him.

Every single time Samuel Lear cracks a joke, the corpse of Bill Hicks shoots its hand up for a high five.

Samuel Lear's headlines are so manly, just reading one will make a woman limp for days.

When you're tired of respecting Samuel Lear, you're tired of not living in constant, agonising pain.

The secrets to true happiness, man's existence and to beating Mike Tyson's Punch Out came to Samuel Lear in a dream. Unfortunately, he forgot them in another dream.

This game was just ludicrously racist. I mean, Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany's racist.

Samuel Lear framed Roger Rabbit.

If you're reading this in the dark, Samuel Lear is standing behind you right goddamn now.

Samuel Lear has never once called tech support. His laptop is simply too afraid of him to break.

In 1925, Parliament passed a law preventing Samuel Lear from ever taking part in a game of Trivial Pursuit. Because he always won in like 6 moves, it was just unfair to everyone else.

Samuel Lear sleeps with both eyes and the Guardian open.

Samuel Lear is so sexually charged, his erection can only point towards magnetic north.

Saying Samuel Lear's real name out loud will open a portal t- Christ! I just said it! Why?! Why can't I type in my head?! I can't help loving the sound of my own voice! God forgive me! My hubris has doomed us all!

No 'journalists' were harmed in the writing of this article. Well, not many anyway.

Whaling Under The Influence: A Drunk's Guide To Negotiating Sex With Fat Chicks

Do you crave companionship? Do you feel you say just the wrong thing at just the wrong time? Do you want to jam your dick in a woman that could be confused for a manatee, even by a shark? God's only creation known to boast Olympic Golds in Whale Detection and Murder? [While we're on the subject, seriously, fuck sharks. Why don't people realise they're the Creator's way of saying: "See, this is why I gave you legs. Stay the fuck out of my oceans." Makes you wonder what he's keeping out there. Meth lab probably, how else do you explain Australia?] Anyway, if so, are you in luck! Let's be honest though, you're toasted, you need to get this thing done quick before irreversible chromosomal damage or worse, whiskey dick. To hell with what Science or Religion might say! Those prudish fucks don't know how to have fun anyway! You my friend, are getting laid tonight!

***

You've probably heard that statistically, as a nation, fuck - as a species, we're getting fatter. But actually finding a woman that you could lose your phone, wallet and keys in is pretty tough. Large women rarely congregate. They're like Will Smith in that film, except instead of drinking scotch in the street and generally acting like a bitchy queen, they do something meaningful with their lives. Like gargling your balls for a packet of Iced Gems. HANCOCK. That was the film. Seriously, the only thing that could have stopped that movie sucking harder than a Dyson somehow engineered with pornstar DNA, would have been Charlize Theron taking her bra off. Seriously, has Will Smith ever been involved in anything more shameful?

Oh, right.

Even in crowded rooms fat chicks have a knack for blending in (it's a vestigial behaviour from back when they needed to to camouflage themselves in packs of cave-men in order to hunt). A neat trick is to scatter a handful of small objects into the air (carpet tacks usually work well) and see if a prime specimen's gravitational field draws them into orbit. Once you've picked out your chosen cetacean, wade through the school of ladies to reach it - they have a symbiotic relationship, like those birds that clean crocodile teeth for amnesty from a swift, violent death. A lot like that now that I think about it.

How's your gag reflex?

The plus size woman is a notoriously elusive creature, prone to random, crippling attacks of paranoia and easily spooked by strange objects like salad forks and penises. Despite this, they have surprisingly short attention spans, so if you don't keep one constantly focused and engaged, they may forget who you are or wander off into traffic. For that reason it's important to bring a large supply of Ritalin, but disguise them as raisins. Like pheasants, fat chicks go wild for raisins [NB: if you got that reference, congratulations on having a successful and rewarding childhood]. I've also found a lot of success baiting bear traps with take out Wagamamas.

It's unlikely that you'd have to talk to the creature, in our early stages of evolution, we were too busy doing awesome shit like killing mammoths with sharp rocks, or carving rudimentary pornography on cave walls to invent ear muffs. Naturally, God stepped in (like the gentleman that he clearly is) and fixed things so that the first place you put weight on is the subcutaneous tissue of the inner ear. Obviously, the kind of girl you're looking for thinks exercise is an archaic form of masturbation. Which is fine, only she couldn't find her G-spot with an oil rig and 2 rows of flood lights. So she hasn't heard anything clearly since her GP told her that 25% of her blood was butter when she was in primary school. If you're going to say anything, remember to focus on a point somewhere above her head so you're not speaking directly into her face, you wouldn't want her to mistake all the tequila on your breath for halitosis. Not that she would know what that is.

Knowing what this abomination is would also prove you had a more literary childhood than me.  

It gets pretty simple from here, just slip the bitch some roofies (disguised as raisins remember) and chaperon it back to your godawful apartment or whatever hovel you're currently living/squatting in. Now you've just got to get busy, gettin' busy. Mixing food with fat sex is a logical fallacy. But nothing is more awesome than fat sex, so if you try to mix it with anything else, no matter how awesome that thing might be (gin, LSD, videogames, whatever) you are diluting fat sex. However, it is also dangerous, common injuries include: crushed pelvis, punctured lung and catastrophic internal haemorrhaging. Therefore, it is vitally important to agree on a safe word or phrase that could not be confused for the conventional pillow talk/smack talk/screams of horror that usually accompany intercourse. Some examples of what not to use are below:

'I... I can't breathe'


'You sure have a lot of orifices'


'OH GOD! MY BONES!'

Something Else That Isn't An Essay

I feel like I should apologise to those of you who read yesterday's post who didn't have a near-academic knowledge of Pokemon but I'm sure you can empathise. When you have a deadline towering over you it's natural that you'd turn to something your mind naturally drifts to when looking for another way to occupy your time. On that note, here are ten other things I'd rather do than work.

***

10. Spend 10 minutes on the phone to any company's customer assistance department.

9. Co-write a screenplay with M. Night Shyamalan.

8. Lunge wildly at the Pope.

Look at him. He's just begging you to do it.

7. Slap-box a lion wearing Lady Gaga's meat costume.

6. Drink 'responsibly'.

This guy knows what I'm talking about.

5. Furiously defecate on the White House lawn. Dressed like a ghost.

4. Do jumping jacks on a prayer mat, stopping every 30 seconds to call Allah a pussy.

3. Put my dick in a blender. Or Ke$ha.

2. Be violently sodomised by a prison inmate named Scrunchie.

You want to know how he got the name? So does he.

1. Get punched in the testicles by Martha Stewart. Just because there's the added horror that when she finishes, she'd lean down and whisper: 'your genitals are now a rippling puddle between your legs, it's a good thing.'

Losing a (Pokemon) Battle to Dignity

You awake in a daze in a beret that's seen better years and little else. It would seem you are lying face down on the dusty floor of a tool shed, which would certainly explain all the tools. But not the upturned bucket with the cat sitting on it staring at you like it knows. Like it knows all the terrible things you did last night. 

And I got it all on tape.

You give the shed door a half-hearted push and it gives under your shaking hands with a sinister creak. You risk a tentative peek outside. The morning sun is gloriously bright. With a girlish squeal [well I suppose you could be a girl, I didn't exactly specify your gender yet. Honestly though? I really don't care. I don't need your life story here) you clutch your eyes, praying your scorched retinas can recover from this onslaught of IR rays. Gradually, the fireworks show going on inside your eyelids begins to slow and you can finally get a decent look at where you are.

Rolling, verdant fields stretch as far as the (granted over-exposure-fucked) eyes can see. Against your better judgement, you begin to grin inanely, stepping out onto the luscious emerald turf and gamboling away from the shed. THUMP. You taste grass and the bitter aftertaste of humiliation which allows follows a fall. You must have tripped on something, craning your neck back you see the cause of your current horizontal stance. Some kind of hole, maybe a badger run? No you're pretty sure badgers aren't 4 and a half inches or so wide. Also they don't lay eggs (you're less sure about that one though). Wait, they're not eggs. They're golf balls. How the John-Malkovich-in-Burn-After-Reading did you end up on a golf course?

A rich source of broken teeth.

Vvvvvvvv-vvvvv-vvvvvv. Holy Zombie Jesus, what now? Ah, it's your Xtransreciever, it's ringing. Man, why couldn't you have got a phone with a normal name? Like 4110 or Razzberry? You should probably answer it. Hey! It's that passive-aggressive bitch! You know, your mother! And there's nothing you can do about me calling her that because I'm the narrator! Suck it! She wants to know where you are.Where you've been for the past 72 hours and why there's a Virgin Media technician unconscious in her back garden. You feign ignorance and make your excuses as acerbic as possible. It's clear to your mother that you're in one of those moods, and reminds you that if you can't say anything nice don't say anything at all. You curtly hang up on the promiscuous harpy and smartly toss the crappy Korean toy into a nearby bush. The bush gives a baritone moan and a rustle. You've definitely disturbed something!

A wild Screaminghobo appeared! Lord Have Some Fucking Mercy! Screaminghobo uses Urine Stream! It's super awkward! But after some mild thrashing and flailing you get away safely, pride mostly, intact. The Screamingobo retreats to its bush, but what's this on the floor? You found a half-litre of hyper-gin! You chug it with some relish, it tastes like peppery shame! Holy Bat Balls! You've leveled up!

Gintuition +1
Ginnovation +1
Ginspiration +1
Gintegrity -1 (You did steal it from a homeless guy after all)

You're trying to learn Clumsily Pickpocket! But you already know 4 moves.
1...2...Tada! You forgot Basic Arithematic... and learned Clumsily Pickpocket!

The world is no longer shaking violently before your eyes - as the horror of that Listerine-inflicted (?) hangover begins to wane - but has begun to merely shimmer, like this WASP-exclusive golf club vista was painted (crudely) onto silk fluttering in a light breeze. God this light breeze is awful, you need to get out of here. There's a bus stop in the distance, and Holy Beast of the Underdark! There's the number 82B! Lucky you're wearing your Running Shoes eh? You sprint for the stop and leap athletically onto the bus. You don't pay. Because you're just like that I guess.

A few short stops later and you're back in the city. The bus kindly deposits you outside a Starbuck's. Which is just perfect. You don't need a coffee or anything, but all that gin has left you with an overwhelming urge to swing something blunt and heavy into someone self-righteous looking. And let's be honest, this is where you're likely to find one. You saunter in and shout out at the top of your lungs, I DON'T AGREE WITH ANY CHARITABLE ORGANISATION DOING ANYTHING, ANYWHERE! That should turn some heads.

You are challenged by hipster Nathaniel! Score one for intolerance! Nathaniel sends out Macbookair! But it's not very effective, at anything. You use Ultra-Fisting Fist! Against the Macbook's puny defense stat it's super effective! The surrounding customers are showered with cheap off-white plastic and shattered motherboard componenets and Nathaniel screams in rage and grief. It sounds like seals barking. You got some Petty Cash for winning! Well, you weren't so much awarded that as you essentially just rifled through the tip jar before making a run for the Fire Exit.

You find yourself in the dingy back alley behind Starbuck's, you take a moment to consider what an awesome day this has been so far, when...

A wild Twitchjunkie appeared! Great Gorgoth The Eviscerator's Ghost! Where did he come from?! It's 10.34am! Twitchjunkie uses Mildy Intimidating Glare! You use Coin Toss! While he's fumbling around on the floor trying desperately to scoop up all the loose change you threw in his general direction, you fish around in the pockets of his mouldy jacket. Nice job! You found a Rare Candy! Wait. No. It's 8 grams of rock. You hit that shit up on the spot and finish it like a champ.

May cause some undocumented side effects.

You leveled up! So many times! There's no stopping you now! You're winning at life now motherfucker! Maybe even in some way twice!

Tiger Blood +100

Outer Realm Brain +100

Fire-Breathing Fists +100

Leaving the junkie howling in the alley, you stroll away. Man you feel great, you haven't flown this high in... like... at least 6 hours! Jesus Rollerblading, virgin-deflowering, Alzheimer's-mocking Christ! You're just like that guy! You know that crappy B-movie actor with an utterly inflated sense of self-worth? Dammit, what was his name again? Wait, I've got it! YOU'RE JUST LIKE BILL PAXTON!

Baby if it'll get you in bed with me, then I'm bi-whatever.