The Christowitz Report: Tears, Legends & More Tears

Hello! It’s Friday! So here are another three things that grate my tits.

Babies. Crying ones.

I don’t have a problem with babies. They cry. I get it. But seriously, some parents can go eat a dick. I know people have moaned about this before, but I feel like it’s my turn to feed the fire. I don’t watch movies at cinemas very often because I remember it being an awful experience every time. This year I have gone twice. And that’s it. I’m never going again… unless there’s a cinema-only release of a movie where Tarantino teams up with Wes Anderson to film Angelina Jolie, Jenna Jameson and Scarlett Johansen eating bananas while staring at the camera for 6 hours. On both occasions there were at least three babies in each cinema and, believe it or not, they screeched most of the way through. I don’t mind babies in airplanes or restaurants. These are noisy places and the parents don’t really have a choice. But a fucking cinema?! I paid good money only to have my experience ruined by several parents who had gotten so bored of their dullard child’s shenanigans at home, they decided to come and share it with 200 innocent people! I don’t intend on having children (I wouldn’t want to pass my cunty attitude onto any poor being) but if I did I’d try be a bit more considerate. And when the above mentioned film does eventually come out, and I’m forced to visit a cinema again, it will be with a chloroform-doused rag in hand.

People who say “legend” or “legendary”

No. Piss off. Nothing you or any of your “chinas” ever do will garner enough attention from anyone to achieve legend-status. You’re lying to yourself. You’re lying to your friends. You’re lying to your rich, golf-playing, G&T-sipping parents. Your life is just a fucking lie. Downing beers and crushing cans against your neanderthal skull does not make you a legend. Boxing weaklings like myself at a party does not make you a legend. Chowing drugs for three days and shitting your face at a festival does not make you a legend.

Stop syphoning meaning from the word and the true legends with your bullshit. Have some fucking respect.

Football

Oooh, touchy subject.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of the sport and I play it myself every weekend. Or at least I did until whiskey and Irish Car Bombs convinced me to jump over a small hedge resulting in the pathetic excuse for an ankle i’m currently left with. It’s a wonderful game that requires huge amounts of skill, but my issue is with what this game has become. It’s all about the money in club football. And if you deny this, you’re probably one of those people who enjoys Debonairs’s triple-stack, dick-in-the-crust pizzas. I know every sport has similar issues, but none has deteriorated into the rotten, money-filled, throbbing cyst on humanity’s forehead like football has. There is no honor, there is no “beautiful game”. There’s just a bunch of overpaid prima donnas on a green field being cheered on by puking fucktards who, in between punching each other in the face, manage to string insults together and throw them at the poor ref. Nevermind the millions watching at home surrounded by their “choms”, practically butt-fucking each other in excitement every time some Nigerian, playing for a British club, kicks a ball to the back of the net. I just don’t get it. These bastard “sportsmen” wouldn’t even kick a ball around their backyard with their son without a $2million deal, a Nike endorsement, and a pat on the dick from each of their teammates. It’s insane!

During the World Cup, that snaggle-toothed abortion Suarez guy used his hand to stop a ball from going into the net… and I almost shat myself to death. Then people tried to justify it with bullshit like this: “The game was on the line, he had to do it, it’s the World Cup”. No, fuck that. With the same logic I could justify just about any heinous crime on the planet. Oh, that dude robbed a garage and shot everyone in the face, but it’s ok, his bank account was on the line. Diving to win penalties and shit like that just grills me. They’re not sportsmen, they’re businessmen. And fucking good ones at that. I think that every game should be reviewed afterwards, and players found guilty of diving and cheating should be punched, right where it hurts… in their wallet’s testicles. And not these piddly little fines they give them… Massive fucking fines! Fines that’d leave their seven mistresses hungry and their Ferraris on bricks. Make them fear cheating to the point that they don’t even consider it an option. But none of this will ever happen, so I’ll have to stick to watching drunk poms play darts. They’re too liquored and fat to cheat.

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That’s all I got this week! It’s been a weird week filled with so much good and bad news that I haven’t been able to comprehend anything going on around me, let alone form an opinion on said things. I’ll be back with a vengeance next week!

Lots of love and hate to you all! xx