Back in the 80s and 90s people were always impressed if you worked in computers. Old people were especially impressed, but even teenage girls were in awe of a man who was handy with a mouse. You’d be sitting in I.T. class watching your teacher flirting with the most attractive girls and thinking “Damn, that man’s got girl skills and computer skills. He’s like James Bond.” Even when he got suspended you just knew that he’d land on his feet, he could just go freelance with his computer know-how, like a rogue agent working for the Russians.
By the time I got my PHD in computer engineering it was 2001 and everybody was already working in computers. It was like being a soldier back in World War II, nobody cared. So, now, when people ask me what I do for a living I say “I work as a computer.”
“You work in computers?” they always reply.
“No. I am a computer.”
“Wow.” They say. “Is there a lot of money in that?”
“Yes.” I tell them. “Lots.”
283
After the success of Batman Begins, movie studios started to realise that you could make a serious and good superhero film and still make millions of dollars. People wanted to see what made the hero tick, what made him the man he becomes.
In a moment of money making genius, the head of Warner Brothers bought the rights to Super Mario: The Movie. “It’s the biggest selling game of all time!” he told his secretary.
“But they already made a movie. It was a massive flop.” She explained.
“Yes” he said “But that was before Batman Begins. All we need is a British director.”
As luck would have it, I was on a tour of the Warner Brothers studio at the time. Whilst walking and reading a tourist map I bumped into Mr. Warner himself.
“I do apologise” I said “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“You’re British!” he cried.
“I have as much right to use the bathroom as any other, sir.” I told him.
“No, no, what I mean to say is would you like to direct a movie?”
“I don’t know.” I said “What’s it about?”
“Super Mario, the biggest selling game of all time!”
“Ah, I was always more of a Sonic man myself. What’s the budget?” I asked.
“$100,000,000” he said, straightening his tie and slicking back his hair. I could see that he was a man of vast resources. Testing my luck I told him:
“I couldn’t direct a backseat blowjob on my camera phone for that. I wouldn’t dare attempt it for a dollar less than 250 million. Call me when you’re ready to make a real movie.” I walked off, not daring to look back to see if my bluff had worked.
A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder. The out of breath executive said “Ok, ok, 250, but you are British, right?”
“As British as Bob Hoskins in gravy.”
Within a month I was on the set of "Mario: Prologue" and had managed to negotiate myself complete creative control, as well as an extra $50 million to budget.
Eighteen months later the film premiered at Sundance, but nobody knew what to think. A month later it hit cinemas worldwide. Time Magazine called it the flop of the millennium.
It seems to me that people just weren’t ready for a three hour superhero origin film that focussed on the protaganist’s move from carpentry into plumbing and his struggle at plumbing school as he tries to raise his younger brother.
Roger Ebert criticised my decision to shoot it entirely in Italian without subtitles, calling it “pretentious beyond belief”, and said that the whole Jesus/Carpenter/Messiah-Complex metaphor was uncomfortably forced.
I guess most people just weren’t interested in the internal struggle of a man ready to give up a well paying job to learn the trade of a higher paying job. Barry Norman called it “The Pursuit of Greed."
When the studio asked how I managed to spend $300 million without having a single action sequence or any CGI I knew that I wasn’t working for true artists.
"Catering ain't cheap" I told them.
"It hasn't even taken $10,000,000 wordlwide after four weeks!" they cried.
"Well I'm sure when people see the film they'll all rush out and buy the game"
"But they've already got the game. It's the biggest selling game of all time!" they said.
"Then I think it's about time we started talking about my raise"
Charles, London.
In a moment of money making genius, the head of Warner Brothers bought the rights to Super Mario: The Movie. “It’s the biggest selling game of all time!” he told his secretary.
“But they already made a movie. It was a massive flop.” She explained.
“Yes” he said “But that was before Batman Begins. All we need is a British director.”
As luck would have it, I was on a tour of the Warner Brothers studio at the time. Whilst walking and reading a tourist map I bumped into Mr. Warner himself.
“I do apologise” I said “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”
“You’re British!” he cried.
“I have as much right to use the bathroom as any other, sir.” I told him.
“No, no, what I mean to say is would you like to direct a movie?”
“I don’t know.” I said “What’s it about?”
“Super Mario, the biggest selling game of all time!”
“Ah, I was always more of a Sonic man myself. What’s the budget?” I asked.
“$100,000,000” he said, straightening his tie and slicking back his hair. I could see that he was a man of vast resources. Testing my luck I told him:
“I couldn’t direct a backseat blowjob on my camera phone for that. I wouldn’t dare attempt it for a dollar less than 250 million. Call me when you’re ready to make a real movie.” I walked off, not daring to look back to see if my bluff had worked.
A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder. The out of breath executive said “Ok, ok, 250, but you are British, right?”
“As British as Bob Hoskins in gravy.”
Within a month I was on the set of "Mario: Prologue" and had managed to negotiate myself complete creative control, as well as an extra $50 million to budget.
Eighteen months later the film premiered at Sundance, but nobody knew what to think. A month later it hit cinemas worldwide. Time Magazine called it the flop of the millennium.
It seems to me that people just weren’t ready for a three hour superhero origin film that focussed on the protaganist’s move from carpentry into plumbing and his struggle at plumbing school as he tries to raise his younger brother.
Roger Ebert criticised my decision to shoot it entirely in Italian without subtitles, calling it “pretentious beyond belief”, and said that the whole Jesus/Carpenter/Messiah-Complex metaphor was uncomfortably forced.
I guess most people just weren’t interested in the internal struggle of a man ready to give up a well paying job to learn the trade of a higher paying job. Barry Norman called it “The Pursuit of Greed."
When the studio asked how I managed to spend $300 million without having a single action sequence or any CGI I knew that I wasn’t working for true artists.
"Catering ain't cheap" I told them.
"It hasn't even taken $10,000,000 wordlwide after four weeks!" they cried.
"Well I'm sure when people see the film they'll all rush out and buy the game"
"But they've already got the game. It's the biggest selling game of all time!" they said.
"Then I think it's about time we started talking about my raise"
Charles, London.
282
Wouldn't it be just swell if it turned out that men have been having periods this whole time, but we were so manly that we just hadn't noticed?
Eric, Swindon.
Eric, Swindon.
281
I’d always made it very clear that I never wanted children. She said she felt the same way. When she started setting her alarm to go off every two hours throughout the night with the sound of a baby crying she insisted it was just a thing that women did sometimes. She categorically stated that she wasn’t preparing herself for anything resembling parenting. Even when she got pregnant she said it was just because we needed the milk. Then when she gave birth to the twins she promised me that she just needed a couple of extras for a play she was writing. Now, as I sit here staring at two teenagers with my nose, I can’t help but feel that she lied to me. I guess it's finally time to tell her that I've been secretly impregnating catholic prostitues on three continents for the past twenty four years.
Owen, Las Vegas.
Owen, Las Vegas.
280
You’ve probably never met a rich person. Even if you are constantly relaxing in the company of people with millions of pounds in the bank you cannot count them as rich. The real rich people are never seen nor heard by mere mortals and their wealth is beyond calculation. I’ll warn you now that I don’t mean to suggest that money does not make you rich. I’m not trying to say that it’s family and love which makes someone the richest person in the world. I’m no hippy.
Luckily for me I once knew a rich person, because it was my job to be his Yes Man. Not a Yes Man in the sense that he paid me to always agree with him, much like the fake rich people of the day often do. It was simply my job to always be in the same room as my master and if somebody asked him a question to which the answer would be yes, I would step in to spare him the effort and trouble. There were three of us employed in such a role, one for Yes, one for No and one for Perhaps. For this service we were each paid ten billion pounds a year, but we were far from rich.
To give you a further example of his wealth I will tell you that whilst everyone else was lighting their cigars with £50 notes, my boss was using winning lottery tickets, especially rollovers. Although I must admit that his cigars were always of the lowest quality. He would say “Unless I enjoy the act of smoking, spending money on expensive cigars would be a terrible waste. I’m no fool.”
The rich communicate in a different way to the poor. Whereas the unwashed masses communicate through speech and social networking sites, people of wealth speak through horses. When a rich man wishes to court a rich lady, he asks her by using a racehorse. He does this by buying the fastest horse on the planet and naming it something along the lines of “Patricia, Will You Marry Me?”. He then enters the horse into a high profile race.
When Patricia browses her copy of the latest newspaper to see which horse has won the Grand National, the message is instantly delivered. It is vital that the best horse is chosen, otherwise the message would be lost amongst the other loser names like “Bobby’s Ticket” and “Green Wednesday”.
If the lady accepts the proposal she will fund a Hollywood blockbuster and ensure that its name is “Yes, I will.” It is important for her to find the best director, writers and cast to guarantee the film reaches the top of the box office, because this is the only way for her response to make its way back. If the film flops, even though the answer is yes, it is considered the ultimate insult. To us it would appear to be a long and time consuming process, but time moves differently for the rich.
There are still a few similarities between the rich and the poor when it comes to dating. Rivalries are common place, just as in the animal kingdom. Lizards battle to the death and koalas compete at karaoke to win a mate. The rich have equally elaborate ways of proving themselves to be worthy suitors.
When my former employer was pursuing the love of a fair haired lady he became locked into a battle of wealth with a man of similar richness. To prove his stature, my boss’s opponent bought the New York Yankees and the Miami Dolphins. I’m sure you’re thinking “Big deal, people buy baseball teams and football teams all the time.”
However, he did something only a truly rich man is capable of, he switched them around. The Yankees were forced to struggle at American Football, whilst the Dolphins flopped out of the World Series. Destroying something which brings enjoyment to the lives of millions is a fine way of seducing a rich woman.
Fortunately, my master was able to combat these actions by doing the exact same thing, but with the NHS and every Fire Brigade in England.
Now they’ve been married for nearly fifteen years. A common person would celebrate this anniversary with a gift made of crystal. Sadly when a rich person reaches fifteen years of marriage they have to attempt to assassinate Billy Crystal to prove that their love is still as strong as the day they got married. Luckily for the actor rich people marriages don’t tend to last that long.
Luckily for me I once knew a rich person, because it was my job to be his Yes Man. Not a Yes Man in the sense that he paid me to always agree with him, much like the fake rich people of the day often do. It was simply my job to always be in the same room as my master and if somebody asked him a question to which the answer would be yes, I would step in to spare him the effort and trouble. There were three of us employed in such a role, one for Yes, one for No and one for Perhaps. For this service we were each paid ten billion pounds a year, but we were far from rich.
To give you a further example of his wealth I will tell you that whilst everyone else was lighting their cigars with £50 notes, my boss was using winning lottery tickets, especially rollovers. Although I must admit that his cigars were always of the lowest quality. He would say “Unless I enjoy the act of smoking, spending money on expensive cigars would be a terrible waste. I’m no fool.”
The rich communicate in a different way to the poor. Whereas the unwashed masses communicate through speech and social networking sites, people of wealth speak through horses. When a rich man wishes to court a rich lady, he asks her by using a racehorse. He does this by buying the fastest horse on the planet and naming it something along the lines of “Patricia, Will You Marry Me?”. He then enters the horse into a high profile race.
When Patricia browses her copy of the latest newspaper to see which horse has won the Grand National, the message is instantly delivered. It is vital that the best horse is chosen, otherwise the message would be lost amongst the other loser names like “Bobby’s Ticket” and “Green Wednesday”.
If the lady accepts the proposal she will fund a Hollywood blockbuster and ensure that its name is “Yes, I will.” It is important for her to find the best director, writers and cast to guarantee the film reaches the top of the box office, because this is the only way for her response to make its way back. If the film flops, even though the answer is yes, it is considered the ultimate insult. To us it would appear to be a long and time consuming process, but time moves differently for the rich.
There are still a few similarities between the rich and the poor when it comes to dating. Rivalries are common place, just as in the animal kingdom. Lizards battle to the death and koalas compete at karaoke to win a mate. The rich have equally elaborate ways of proving themselves to be worthy suitors.
When my former employer was pursuing the love of a fair haired lady he became locked into a battle of wealth with a man of similar richness. To prove his stature, my boss’s opponent bought the New York Yankees and the Miami Dolphins. I’m sure you’re thinking “Big deal, people buy baseball teams and football teams all the time.”
However, he did something only a truly rich man is capable of, he switched them around. The Yankees were forced to struggle at American Football, whilst the Dolphins flopped out of the World Series. Destroying something which brings enjoyment to the lives of millions is a fine way of seducing a rich woman.
Fortunately, my master was able to combat these actions by doing the exact same thing, but with the NHS and every Fire Brigade in England.
Now they’ve been married for nearly fifteen years. A common person would celebrate this anniversary with a gift made of crystal. Sadly when a rich person reaches fifteen years of marriage they have to attempt to assassinate Billy Crystal to prove that their love is still as strong as the day they got married. Luckily for the actor rich people marriages don’t tend to last that long.
279
Is there anything worse than walking through an abandoned sewer at night when a rat jumps onto the back of your neck and in your panic you fall to the floor to roll around and crush it to death, then an hour later you realise that the label from your t-shirt is sticking out and the rat was only trying to tuck it in?
Fraser, Birmingham.
Fraser, Birmingham.
278
I’ve never had much luck with the ladies. It’s impossible for me to say the right thing, because there’s a special “Wrong” filter in my brain. If I’m with a girl and I know that I only need to say the words “You’re beautiful” to have sex with her, by the time those words have passed through the filter they come out as “You’re beautiful. Maybe too beautiful. I might have to cut you up a bit.” Then if I don’t get my laugh exactly right afterwards I come off looking like a genuine psychopath.
It’s a special treat when I have a girlfriend at Christmas. There’s always that Winter doubt when you’ve got a lady in your sights and you’re not sure if you should wait until January to make a move, because you’ll have to buy her Christmas presents, but what’s a couple of quid in exchange for a non-lonely festive season?
The girl I was with last Christmas was great. Her name was Snow. She always had these great hats and scarves. If there was ever a girl built for winter it was her. My parents waited until they were 75 to have me, so they’re long gone. Snow invited me to spend Christmas with her family, even though we’d only been dating for five weeks and three days.
We got to their house on the morning of Christmas Eve. They lived in something bigger than a house, but smaller than a mansion in a tiny generic countryside village. Their snow covered driveway looked like a boring Christmas card, the perfect Christmas setting.
The day was spent putting up decorations. They leave it that late because it’s their tradition to wait until the whole family is together. On the surface it seemed pretty lazy, but I suspected there might be some kind of warm family spirit hidden away in there somewhere.
Throughout the day various members of Snow’s family introduced themselves. There must have been about twenty of us staying in the house. They were all really friendly, but there was one thing which stood out: every person I spoke to asked what Santa was getting me for Christmas. I assumed they were being jolly and patronising, but when I was putting up some mistletoe in the hallway I overheard Snow’s mother talking to herself in the study. “Oh, Santa, please don’t let me down again this year. I’ve been ever so good.”
Panic struck my heart as I came to a realisation. I crept into the living room where the tree had been completed over an hour ago. There was not a single present beneath it. I ran upstairs to Snow’s parents bedroom and tore the place apart. There were no presents in the cupboard nor under the bed. Something was very wrong.
I went back downstairs to confront Snow. “Lady” I cried “What did you get for Christmas last year?”
“Nothing.” She said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I guess I was a bad girl.”
It became clear that I was trapped within a house of madness, a house where nobody had ever broken the news that Santa didn’t exist. None of them had bought any presents, because they were confident that come nightfall the man in red would fill their stockings with jewels and gadgets. They would be heartbroken.
At 8pm they all went to bed. “Early to bed, early to rise” said Snow’s father.
“We don’t want to catch Father Christmas in the act, do we?” Snow’s sister said to her son.
Laying in bed next to the girl whose family had been kind enough to invite me into their home on the most magical day of the year, I had a pain in my heart. I could not allow the events of tomorrow to occur. There would be a Christmas.
I got out of bed and dressed myself. As quiet as a mouse I tiptoed out of the house and into my car. Those kind people would have presents in their stockings if it was the last thing I ever did.
It was 9.30pm on Christmas Eve. The only shops still open were Petrol Stations and 24 Hour Jewish Sex Shops. It wasn’t ideal, but I managed to get something for everyone at the cost of £4,000. What’s four grand for Christmas in a loving home?
Morning came and I was awoken by screams. Snow’s mother came running into our room waving a dildo crying “He came. He finally came”. It was generally agreed by everyone in the household that it had been the greatest Christmas of all time. As I sat watching the children playing with their inflatable dolls and the men smelling their car air-fresheners, I felt at peace with myself. A night of roaring log fires passed and we all went to bed a little bit drunk.
The next morning the sunlit hit my eyes. In my drunken state I’d forgotten to close the curtains before bed. As my eyes shifted into focus I saw that the curtains had vanished. I rolled over to Snow to ask her where the curtains had gone, but she too was nowhere to be seen. She must have already been having breakfast.
I crept downstairs, careful not wake anyone, because it was still early. However, the sight that awaited me in the living room caused me to cry out in despair. Everything was gone, the decorations, the furniture, the potraits on the wall. A cold sensation ran down my spine. As I took a step backwards I could feel something wet under my foot: blood. It was flowing from my back. My kidney was gone.
The police arrived an hour later. “It’s not that uncommon.” The shortest one said “Gypsies. Every year some poor sod gets reeled in.” It seems that it’s been going on for centuries. They find an abandoned house, invite a lonely man over for Christmas and play the old “We still believe in Santa Claus” routine. He then rushes out in the night and spends his life savings on gifts. They all get merry and drunk on Christmas day, they wait for the guy to pass out, remove his kidney, clear the house, then sell all the gifts. They don’t even sell the kidney. It’s just a Christmas tradition.
Andrew, Leeds.
It’s a special treat when I have a girlfriend at Christmas. There’s always that Winter doubt when you’ve got a lady in your sights and you’re not sure if you should wait until January to make a move, because you’ll have to buy her Christmas presents, but what’s a couple of quid in exchange for a non-lonely festive season?
The girl I was with last Christmas was great. Her name was Snow. She always had these great hats and scarves. If there was ever a girl built for winter it was her. My parents waited until they were 75 to have me, so they’re long gone. Snow invited me to spend Christmas with her family, even though we’d only been dating for five weeks and three days.
We got to their house on the morning of Christmas Eve. They lived in something bigger than a house, but smaller than a mansion in a tiny generic countryside village. Their snow covered driveway looked like a boring Christmas card, the perfect Christmas setting.
The day was spent putting up decorations. They leave it that late because it’s their tradition to wait until the whole family is together. On the surface it seemed pretty lazy, but I suspected there might be some kind of warm family spirit hidden away in there somewhere.
Throughout the day various members of Snow’s family introduced themselves. There must have been about twenty of us staying in the house. They were all really friendly, but there was one thing which stood out: every person I spoke to asked what Santa was getting me for Christmas. I assumed they were being jolly and patronising, but when I was putting up some mistletoe in the hallway I overheard Snow’s mother talking to herself in the study. “Oh, Santa, please don’t let me down again this year. I’ve been ever so good.”
Panic struck my heart as I came to a realisation. I crept into the living room where the tree had been completed over an hour ago. There was not a single present beneath it. I ran upstairs to Snow’s parents bedroom and tore the place apart. There were no presents in the cupboard nor under the bed. Something was very wrong.
I went back downstairs to confront Snow. “Lady” I cried “What did you get for Christmas last year?”
“Nothing.” She said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I guess I was a bad girl.”
It became clear that I was trapped within a house of madness, a house where nobody had ever broken the news that Santa didn’t exist. None of them had bought any presents, because they were confident that come nightfall the man in red would fill their stockings with jewels and gadgets. They would be heartbroken.
At 8pm they all went to bed. “Early to bed, early to rise” said Snow’s father.
“We don’t want to catch Father Christmas in the act, do we?” Snow’s sister said to her son.
Laying in bed next to the girl whose family had been kind enough to invite me into their home on the most magical day of the year, I had a pain in my heart. I could not allow the events of tomorrow to occur. There would be a Christmas.
I got out of bed and dressed myself. As quiet as a mouse I tiptoed out of the house and into my car. Those kind people would have presents in their stockings if it was the last thing I ever did.
It was 9.30pm on Christmas Eve. The only shops still open were Petrol Stations and 24 Hour Jewish Sex Shops. It wasn’t ideal, but I managed to get something for everyone at the cost of £4,000. What’s four grand for Christmas in a loving home?
Morning came and I was awoken by screams. Snow’s mother came running into our room waving a dildo crying “He came. He finally came”. It was generally agreed by everyone in the household that it had been the greatest Christmas of all time. As I sat watching the children playing with their inflatable dolls and the men smelling their car air-fresheners, I felt at peace with myself. A night of roaring log fires passed and we all went to bed a little bit drunk.
The next morning the sunlit hit my eyes. In my drunken state I’d forgotten to close the curtains before bed. As my eyes shifted into focus I saw that the curtains had vanished. I rolled over to Snow to ask her where the curtains had gone, but she too was nowhere to be seen. She must have already been having breakfast.
I crept downstairs, careful not wake anyone, because it was still early. However, the sight that awaited me in the living room caused me to cry out in despair. Everything was gone, the decorations, the furniture, the potraits on the wall. A cold sensation ran down my spine. As I took a step backwards I could feel something wet under my foot: blood. It was flowing from my back. My kidney was gone.
The police arrived an hour later. “It’s not that uncommon.” The shortest one said “Gypsies. Every year some poor sod gets reeled in.” It seems that it’s been going on for centuries. They find an abandoned house, invite a lonely man over for Christmas and play the old “We still believe in Santa Claus” routine. He then rushes out in the night and spends his life savings on gifts. They all get merry and drunk on Christmas day, they wait for the guy to pass out, remove his kidney, clear the house, then sell all the gifts. They don’t even sell the kidney. It’s just a Christmas tradition.
Andrew, Leeds.
277
Over one thousand people said we’d take four steps back when we reverted to using horses instead of cars. Most celebrities and politicians said it was a greener sideways step towards to a brighter future. At least we were free from oil’s slick black hands.
All until Jay-Z made Puff Daddy’s horse drink a barrell of oil at Kanye West’s birthday party. Jay-Z had only bought Kanye £50 worth of Dixons vouchers and feared a horse would upstage his gift. The oil was designed to kill the horse, because a dead horse is a terrible birthday present. Sadly the horse found the oil most refreshing.
Pretty soon all the kids were doing it. Horses didn’t want to drink anything else. Within five years there wasn’t a horse on the planet that didn’t run on oil.
Sol, LA.
All until Jay-Z made Puff Daddy’s horse drink a barrell of oil at Kanye West’s birthday party. Jay-Z had only bought Kanye £50 worth of Dixons vouchers and feared a horse would upstage his gift. The oil was designed to kill the horse, because a dead horse is a terrible birthday present. Sadly the horse found the oil most refreshing.
Pretty soon all the kids were doing it. Horses didn’t want to drink anything else. Within five years there wasn’t a horse on the planet that didn’t run on oil.
Sol, LA.
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