So fucking funny

http://www.cracked.com/article_16275_p1.html

(Thanks, Wu Tien.)

My favourite, from the Serbians:

"May your house be live on CNN" (Da bog da ti kuca bila na CNN-U)--this essentially means I hope NATO will bomb your house.

Not all their digs are quite so topical. The CNN-based insults only work against people whose homes haven't been bombed, which couldn't be more than a couple dozen.

That's why "Da bi te majka prepoznala u bureku" (Let your mother recognize you in a meat pie) and "Da Bog da ti zena rodila stonogu pa ceo zivot radio za cipele" (May your wife give birth to a centipede so you have to work for shoes all your life) are instant classics as well.

-100 for The Cannery

Okay, so I've griped about MOS before. Baggage counter was always full, drinks were watered down crap, Smoove was the shittiest hiphop room ever. (Actually, no, I take that back - Phuture is the fucking worst. Drunk lians either giggling and losing their balance and falling about, or slow-dancing with their nitwit boyfriends. What the fuck? The worst thing about couples dancing is that they really think that on a dancefloor that's waaay packed, they're entitled to their own little private, loving bubble that has a 1m radius - fuck off, you're stealing my oxygen.)

But now MOS is closed, and the new joints are terrible. No more 80's room with funky glowing floor tiles and spiralling, hypnotic wall decor. No more Pure, with its chilled out, sexy beats and hot, champagne-sipping patrons. Probably no more awesome electronica DJs in the main room as well, now that the performers need music to rehearse to. Just a few girls gyrating around poles, and aerial dancers swinging about with exaggerated enthusiasm. Really lame.

In the spirit of

This Christmas I will be thinking of rediscovery, renewal, and reaffirmation -- of struggling morals that strike me as wild grey eyes do; dark with desire, light with relish. I will turn, desperately, the pages of an unfinished book; bound in the leather of quiet beliefs and naïve convictions, joyfully earmarked, clumsily written. I will not feel the bow on a violin made of heartstrings, but I will hear its harsh melody. And when the church bells toll on Christmas morning, I will think of ersatz magic and erstwhile faith, beautiful friendships, and the road less travelled.

I will think of you, I will miss you fiercely.

Joyeux Noël.

Travel light

When you've been wronged, there are a few things you can do. 

You can take it out on someone else who doesn't deserve your anger. You can take it out on yourself, but even that isn't really true, because the people around you will still inadvertently be punished by your angst. You can escape and run - start on a clean slate, or whatever, and pretend nothing ever happened. You can seek revenge, and if you succeed, that's fucking awesome and I would love to hear how you exacted it. Or you can accept that you've been royally fucked over, realise that anger is destructive, have a good think about what you've done wrong and make sure you never do it again, and then go out and get a mindblowing shag. 

Sometimes the masochism feels good. Wallowing in self-pity and making yourself a victim of the world and harsh reality feels good, because you get a free pass to being a complete dick. The irony lies in the fact that you're so busy being angry about the injustice being done to you that you fail to notice how much more of a loser your misery is making you. 

The point of this (entirely self-referential entry, by the way)? I guess I've learnt that I'm the kind of person who doesn't get even; I get over it, and I'm really happy that I do.