No, this isn’t a ‘My Daddy’s a Hero’ post. It’s something much, much more.
About 2 weeks ago, my Father received a text, detailing that he had fortunately come into some money. Due to basic common sense, the text was not believed, however a text is much more bothersome than an email of the same nature, right?
So this, my followers, is what happens when my father feels it necessary to screw with an overseas con-artist…


4/7/2011 @ 7:00 a.m.
Anonymous Fraud: We have issued you your fund and we just received the way bill from the delivery firm. You are required to make available to us the sum of $595 dollars as insurance and postage fees. Once we receive the fee to pay the fee the insurance company is demanding for, you will receive your fund the next 72 hours. Sms or give us a call for any queries.
Congratulations!! Patrick Moore.

4/7/2011 @ 7:09 a.m.
Father: Oh Patrick. The way bill. Why didn’t you call it the dumb bill? I would be happy if you sent me the $595 and I will give you the world in return. Patrick Less.

7/7/2011 @ 10:39 p.m.
Father: Patrick. You have been selected as the winner of the Dumbest Crook Cup. Please send your liver with a hair from you great great great grand mother plus ten million donkeys and I will hand deliver your plastic daffy duck cup in a special paper bag, worth two liras.
Congrats. Elvis.

8/7/2011 @ 6:30 a.m.
Patrick: Go fuck yourself goat.

8/7/2011 @ 6:41 a.m.
Father: How easy was it to get your confession as a fraud. The use of the word GOAT also tells us your nationality and preference for sexual partners. Baaaaad Boy! Now go and get a real job before we catch you and make you a jail bride to a big hairy lifer. Oh wait. You may like that. Goat you later. Bhiiiiiiii.

9/7/2011 @ 8:59 a.m.
Father: Hey Patrick. Have you given up already? I miss your pathetic, predictable, amateur, laughable stupidity. Come on. Try some more. This is your true talent. COMEDY.

10/7/2011 @ 9:31 a.m.
Father: Where do I send the $595?

11/7/2011 @ 8:20 a.m.
Patrick: Send through western union to London. Name: Patrick Moore.

11/7/2011 @ 9:16 a.m.
Father: Require more detail. May be in London. Can we meet up?

11/7/2011 @ 9:17 a.m.
Patrick: Go fuck urself.

11/7/2011 @ 9:27 a.m.
Father: Oh Patrick. I Guess our affair is over now. And I was about to send you the $595 you requested. The gofuckurself? Is that the full western union mailing address or are you coming on to me?

11/7/2011 @ 9:29 a.m.
Patrick: I said fuck off.

11/7/2011 @ 9:34 a.m.
Father: No you didn’t. You said go fuck urself. Can’t you get it right? Now if you hadn’t tried to cheat me this wouldn’t be happening. Now go away and don’t contact me or anyone else.

11/7/2011 @ 9:35 a.m.
Patrick: Go away.

11/7/2011 @ 9:38 a.m.
Father: You just want the last word don’t you. I don’t need to go away. YOU DO FOOL.

11/7/2011 @ 9:39 a.m.
Patrick: ur mother is a FOOL.

11/7/2011 @ 9:42 a.m.
Father: At least I have one. You just slid out from under a rotting goat.

13/7/2011 @ 9:14 p.m.
Father: When can I get my $500,000? I want it!

14/7/2011 @ 12:09 a.m.
Patrick: We have cancel everything concerning this transaction. So stop contacting us.

14/7/2011 @ 6:08 a.m.
Father: We want you to cancel everyone’s transactions, G.F.Y. Goat, plus a full refund for all your victims NOW!

16/7/2011 @ 10:22 p.m.
Father: Patrick. Still have not received any refunds. What is your address?

17/7/2011 @ 2:58 p.m.
Patrick: Your father is a monkey. I have told you to stop contacting me.

17/7/2011 @ 3:04 p.m.
Father: And he is a mighty gorilla. You don’t even have a father. In fact I bet you were found at the bottom of a cow shit and kept as a novelty to see what you would grow in to. Which is now a thief with an unnatural affection for goats. Now pay back the stolen funds to your victims.

18/7/2011 @ 11:05 p.m.
Father: I changed my mind. Way over 72 hours have passed and I have not received my winnings. I want my $595 back!

Today @ 6:13 a.m.
Father: We know where you are and this is your last chance to exit from evil to good. Refund now and avoid punishment. Plus, send us $29,000 US and we will release your monkey goat bride so that you can have many offspring together. Congratulations. Michael Jackson and Bubbles.

Still no reply. I wouldn’t either.

I’ll never understand night clubs. You go to a dark room, listen to music you probably don’t like, drink your wallet away and wake up the next morning not remembering the majority of it. The whole concept seems so pointless to me. Then again many hip-party-goers wouldn’t understand why I spend $100 on a video game, when I could be ‘having a life’ as they would call it. It’s probably because a video games lasts longer than half an hour, and requires less trips to the bathroom, unless they really excite you. So here are my reasons why I don’t go ‘Clubbing’.

5. Drinks are like liquid gold

People are always bragging to me how much they went out and drank on the weekend:

“Hey bro, I had like, 6 Cans of Jimmy, 5 shots of Turkey, 3 of Vodka blah blah herp…”

Jesus. Shut-up Hero. I don’t care if you drank watery mud and got tapeworm. I really don’t. Not only that, but the next statement usually makes me even less interested in what you have to say:

“…yep. Spent about $150 on booze all up. Rad night.”

Now I don’t know if you intend on spending that much when you first walk into a club, or if the alcohol simply compels you to buy more. Either way, it’s a damn lot to spend on alcohol, when you can spend that much on 4-5 people, ad get all of them drunk at your own house, without the risk of being arrested at 2 a.m.
And the worst part about it, is that the people who do this once or twice a week, are always complaining that they’re broke! It’s almost like a junkie who uses up his entire stash in one hit, only to wake up in his own vomit wondering where it went. Rinse. Repeat.

4. I hate public transport

I have my licence. So I can drive. For those of you who managed to fib your way through the hours like I did and pass the test, you will know that catching public transport after you have your licence is depressing. It feels like a step back to those days when a trip to corner-shop was 40 minutes which included half an hour of waiting for the damn bus, rather than 5 minutes in the car. This is a reason why I find it hard to justify going out.

Why catch a bus when I can drive?

Of course you cant drive to the club/bar, because then you cant have more than one drink, therefore the night is ruined before it even began. Not to mention you wind up driving your drunk friends back to where they need to go, while they throw up in the large pocket on the back of your seat.
Plus, there’s also that one potentially violent drunk who always stands at the front of the bus, staring at everybody who gets on, talking loudly and being very rude, and the only way to get a seat is to walk past him and not make eye contact for the entire trip, until he falls off the bus at his eventual stop.
My biggest issue however, is that if you bite the bullet, go out, get wasted and manage to make it home un-stabbed, your blood-alcohol remains over the limit for at least another day. So what’s the only solution next morning when you want that sexy, greasy Double Quarter-Pounder to fix your intense hangover?

Catch a fucking bus.

3. Constant Paranoia

I always found that I was the butt of a lot of jokes. Some verbal, some practical. But with me there never seemed to be much of a limit.
So what enters my head when I think about going out?

I worry that someone might spike my drink.
I worry that somebody will slap me with their recently used and possibly diseased condom, or to a worse extent, empty it onto my head.
I worry that a guy might hit on me and trap me in a corner until I put my hand on his leg in order to return the favour.
I worry i’ll lose a shoe.
I worry i’ll get mugged.
I worry I’ll get arrested for being with the wrong crowd. 

But most of all, I worry that i’ll get lost.

Getting lost when you’re sober is not too bad. You can figure out your bearings and make your way to the nearest place of refuge or transport. However being drunk is a different story. You’re not only lost…

You’re currently a fucking idiot too.

This means that you’re screwed, because you’ll likely laugh about the situation for a couple of hours until you sober up. That’s when the fear kicks in.

The fear that you might be 3 hours in the wrong direction.

The fear that you have no way of finding that out.

The fear that there might be semen in your hair. 

None of that is a problem if you just have some drinks at home with your mates.

Oh wait…what did i just say…

Actually, I think I’ll just drink alone.

2. DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF-DOOF

Yeah I’d be famous too if I wore that.

I’m not normally one to insult other people for the music they listen to. Hell, I listen to Deathcore bands, yet I respect people who listen to Rap and Indie and even Andre Rieu. However, nothing - I repeat - NOTHING shits me more than a car full of douchebags with the windows down, crankin’ it to da’ max so the whole goddamn world can hear it!
Now these Dubstep writers, these ‘musicians’ as you might wish to call them, are making more money pressing buttons on a computer, than people who spend their whole lives learning an instrument only to earn a pittance in comparison. It’s worse than Communism!

Now this is the worst part.

• Take 2 Pop artists like ‘Lady Gaga’ and…oh…I dunno…’T-Pain’ (I don’t like them, but they write their own lyrics and it sells. Good for them)
• Get a DJ from Belgium to mix their songs together for a radio station
• The end result: MORE FUCKING DUBSTEP

It can never die. Because DJ’s will always find ways to mix songs together with a 140 tempo and a looped bass sound.
 You know what DJ’s remind me of? When a parent tells their toddler not to touch the old vinyl record while it’s spinning on the antique record player that’s worth thousands, yet it touches it anyway, because it enjoys the sound of music dying.

So, i’m going to give you a FREE lesson on how to write Dubstep if you aren’t a DJ. If you are, then you should still read this because it’s much easier than spinning CD’s for a living.
Remember in school how you used to activate the sticky-keys on the computers and make them beep to piss off the teachers?

• Just sit at a computer doing that non stop.
• Get a sadistic friend to sit next to you, bludgeoning your head to a 4/4 beat.
• With his other hand, get him/her to hit a table with a stick on every second bash to your head.
• Record it with an iPhone and put it on Facebook.

My friends, I give you the current standard of musical talent.

And now, the main reason why I have no interest in clubs whatsoever…

1. You are almost this.

Have fun you Guido dick-heads. I hope you step on a syringe.

Yes. That’s right. I. Josh (yes, THAT Josh), made a blog. I refuse call it a ‘Tumblr’ because I can’t dive roll and I’m a good speller.
You’re probably thinking, “Why does HE need a blog? He’s not that interesting. He’s rather awful in fact” to which I reply, “Well THIS must interest you if you’re reading it”.
To that, you’ll probably say nothing, unless you’re reading this out aloud in which case you will have said all of this already I am an idiot.

See what I made you do?

Probably not because it’s doubtful you were reading out aloud, meaning in turn all I did was subtly insult myself.

Anyway, I plan on putting things on here often, such as lists of things I don’t like, things I do like, game reviews and more.

And to those who snicker and scoff at my pathetic attempts at digital camaraderie, well you’ll be off my ‘Free Lamborghini’ list when I become an internet billionaire.