Cockheads and HQ

Or: A tale of two rants
Or: There and back again

Rant the first.
I’ve just been to the shops, as you do on days off, to purchase some of the necessaries. [Damn, where’s my toothpaste? Shit. Fuck. Sod.] The usual Sunday afternoon fuckwits were there with their fuckwit brats [if you don’t hit it, I might], the obviously single men [hint: I looked in Men’s Health, those tips on how to treat your bird will get you knackered – especially if she’s also read them. Try asking, twat.], and sadarses like me who’ve just run out of all the important stuff [TOOTHPASTE NOOOOOOOOOOO]. The killer moment in a series of irritating moron [the teenage staff] moments was getting stuck in front of a bunch of cockheads at the checkout. [What is the collective noun for cockheads?] The chief cock was, oh of course, closest to me and my basket of goodies [oh toothpaste why hast though forsaken me]. For a good five minutes I had to endure the absolute bullshit coming out of his mouth, a spiel about some vegan girl [vegans are a whole other rant], his staring at everything I unpacked, his general ughy unwashedness, and the filthily butchered hair of his female companion. Oh and the bored, disinterested, twelve year old checkout chick who has somehow managed to lose my toothpaste. I hate shopping. It leaves me absolutely surly and irritated. I hate the way people look at me [yeah, at least I washed today – with soap and not dogshit…] like fat people aren’t allowed to buy things. I hate the way everyone is so damn selfish and self-important, how they loiter in front of you as you try to escape as quickly as possible, how people dither, I just generally hate supermarkets. I’ve got to start shopping online. Fuck it. I just loathe masses of people. There is no need to sound or behave like a sheep. There is a reason that they’re chopped up and presented hygienically in plastic. There is a reason why we eat them and they don’t eat us [other than teeth of course]. Oh bring back cannibalism. Eat the stupid and save the environment!
Rant the second.
Having gotten through the ordeal that is groceries I stopped off at the newsagents to purchase a newspaper [the Sunday paper is a ritual torture I am much addicted to purchasing and little addicted to actually reading] and, thinking stupidly as is my wont, I lingered looking at the glossies, and not so glossies, and spent some five minutes attempting to find some kind of magazine wherein I might find pleasure in reading. I was much mistaken. [And here comes the rant.] This little rant goes out to the compleat fucking shitwit cockhead who stopped production on my all-time favourite magazine, a magazine, I add, which has never been replaced by anything even vaguely equal to it’s charms or upper-middleclass pseudo intellectualism. From the time I was an innocent wee lass of about 15 [okay, okay, already a pretentious (without anything to be pretentious about other than my ability to differentiate between anything and nothing) little cunt] I had regularly purchased a magazine called HQ. Always something interesting to read, nice and glossy, a level of culture entirely lacking in the hick inbred hole I was [temporarily] stuck in, and an enjoyable rag through and through. The only magazine I’ve ever subscribed to. The one that gave me insights into things that simply did not exist where I was. The magazine that along with JJJ and SBS [all three came into my life and to Hellsville around the same time] seriously broadened my horizons. I am so tragic that I looked forward to the next issue. I’d search for it until it came out. I’d read every damn line of every damn page. Right up until some high powered fuckwit, who already had more money than sense, pulled production. I didn’t buy any kind of magazine for a very long time after this. I was too pissed off. Those bastards weren’t getting my hard-earned. Now, though, hope has crept back and I will, every so often, linger at the newsagent hoping against hope that there will be something decent to buy. Nah. Nope. Not a fucking chance. I am not a globally delayed child. I am not overly fixated on my hair or weddings or fashion or yoga or cars or cocksucking celebrity losers. I don’t want any of that crap. I want a balanced interesting read. A little bit of literature, a little science [dummied down, but not too much], a review here, a review there, an interview with someone interesting, an in-depth story on something I’d previously ignored [or the general media had]. I want a decent magazine that doesn’t have 50 pages of crappily lit fashion [fashion so badly lit that you cannot discern details] that I cannot fit into and have not got the many thousands of dollars needed to purchase – should I want to. I’m chasing chimeras, apparently, magazines, like the rest of us, are increasingly specialised. If you want politics you purchase a politically oriented magazine [left, right, centrist, downright fascist – the choice is yours], if you want science then you purchase science, no chance of cross-over, no holistic world view, no renaissance wo/men, no renaissance magazines. Put us all in specialised boxes and give us our specialised literature so that we may all speak the jargon of our specialisation but not communicate with outsiders.
Rants endith.