Peter's third rant to the Internetians

Right, i've decided to form a collective Bible of hatred, anger and vicious seething loathing, with which I can attack all those who utterly piss me off and drive subliminal homicidal tendencies. And don't worry, this isn't all about politics ;)


The sad thing is though, it's about something just as bad. Brown nosing. The glorious act of sucking up insincerely to people, with gifts, praise and general loyalty. I always get frustrated because like most decent hard-working individuals- I am decent and hardworking, therefor do my job. I do it well, I get it all done and that's it. I'm nice, I'm friendly I do all you ask and if I want praise, promotion or raise, I let my competence and eptitude lead the way.

Only for some Kniving Shit with a box of Ferrero Roche to go and play smarmy.

The sad truth with brown nosing, is not only that it's incredibly annoying, but that people fall for it. Unfortuneately, we all do as humans- compliments are easy to fall for, especially if your a concerned person. Take me for example, my hair looks like that of a tramp who's been washing his locks in a mixture of cider and flower, and then gone for a centre parting for panache. I can't help but worry about how bad my hair is. But I over exaggerate it, and when people comment on it being cool, I go excessively happy- wildly joyous, like a Nazi with a camera outside a blazing Riechstag. I can't even feel irritated at those who fall for it, as I'm almost certain I must do. Else that or my worries of inferiority have caused an endemic mental paranoia causing me to think so. Which is just as bad!


So, here's a big fuck you to shallowness in the pursuit of cold-calculated progression at the expense of all human decency. Go and blast your tonsils out with shotguns, you festering fungal growths of the worst nature.

Oh, I'll finish this post later! Just managed to weasel £30!

Power Horse

The demand for high quality energy drinks has never been higher, and originally in search for a can of everyone's favourite, I came across the dark horse of the pack, or rather, the “Power horse!” Served in a distinctively shaped can, like a normal coke can which didn't quite grow tall enough, you know it has it's own uniqueness already in mind, not copying “Red bull's” can shape like many other clones. Containing 250ml it was already ahead of “Red bull” on quantity and was a few pence cheaper from the fine boutique of purchase I chose. An excellent start, but could it live up to it's promise?
Upon opening it, it had the same loving smell of red bull, that sugary, fruity smell, but of a fruit that doesn't exist. Ah. Familiar territory. So, with one last look over the reassuring black equine I had a swig. Fuck me and call me Isabella, what do they put in this! One gulp and my pupils are dilating at a rate of knots and I'm immediately transversing from this spiritual plane into one of taurine induced zen and frequent caffiene blackouts. This stuff is dynamite, but packs more of a punch than the afforementioned nitroglycerine soaked clay, helped by the fact it's roughly as viscous as original lucozade! Those Austrians know how to brew an energy drink! After this initial gulp my brain and body soon started to feel some good vibes, and with each subsequent chug of this electrifying amber syrup I was thouroughly getting absolutely boosted. If Red bull gives you wings, this thing gives you a pair of jet engines and breaks you through the sound barrier. I checked the can once again, looking for possible warnings of side effects, or that excessive consumption may make you speak too fast to be understood by any human being. There were no warnings, either that or I scanned too quickly to notice, and was too busy doing random gorilla poses and smiling inanely to be objective anymore. Walking down the street post beverage the world was a brighter place, and I was ready to carry on going.
However, the real test in an boost juice is how long you spend rolling in bed. Normally a few hours are spent headbanging to my MP3 player. Nothing unusual there, except this particular evening I was headbanging to folk. Not folk metal, or folk rock, but folk. 5 hours I spent sandwiched between a mattress and duvet, my head either engaged in permanent linear motion, or spinning cyclically like something being sucked into a vortex. Sometime after dawn started to break and I'd exhausted every position bar sticking my head up my arse, I finally got some sleep.
Overall, a wonderful drink for those extra special moments, but it's limited availability here in cornershops for the time being mean it can only be given an
8/10