Mankind, the greatest of the apes, is really good at two things: eating and shagging (as such, I consider myself something of an exemplar of the human race). However, doing other things in order to quell the gnawing sense of boredom that inevitably afflicts anyone stuck in their room for several weeks is a task for which evolution did not prepare us.
This article is a look at the ways I failed to cope with boredom and loneliness in the recent weeks leading up to the start of my college career. It's called "vacation," a time when Kleenex consumption goes through the roof and your bed gains a near-permanent imprint of your body. And since my girlfriend buggered off to another country, I'm still going through a sort-of sexual cold turkey. That sounds like a novelty sex toy, but it really isn't very fun.
My parents have never caught me masturbating… I imagine that would be like a Nazi patrol finding a family of Jews hiding in a cupboard.I first went to a place called Devon. It's a rural, seaside place, where it seems the entire population has been infected with a virus that makes them utterly retarded; it's like a special needs version of I Am Legend. There's an average of five brain cells per square mile in Devon, as a brief chat with any of the hideous, inbred locals will reveal. The place I stayed was situated near a town called Westward Ho!. No, I didn't add that exclamation mark. Some fatuous dotard decided that it would be a good idea to put an exclamation mark in the name of a town. Exclamation marks are my least favorite type of punctuation. Bloody hell.
While I was staying there, I witnessed a guy pissing quite nonchalantly off the side of a boat. I also watched my step-uncle bludgeon a sea bass to death. Somehow, I feel that chugging along in a motorboat with my arse vibrating like a high-speed dildo wasn't made any better by having fish guts splattered across my lifejacket.
So, narrowly escaping the Retard Apocalypse, I headed back to civilization: the comfort of my PC and the wonderful realm of dancing naked ladies known as the internet. Settling back into my hectic masturbation schedule, I returned to the mundane repetitiveness of life in my bedroom. Thankfully, my parents have never caught me masturbating… I imagine that situation would be like a Nazi patrol finding a family of Jews hiding in a cupboard.
If there's one pointless thing that I always fall into the trap of participating in, it's going to theme parks. Queuing for hours in order to have my guts turned inside out for 30 seconds is not, when considered with a modicum of intelligence, a very good idea, so I found myself questioning my own reasoning faculties when I agreed to go to Thorpe Park.
Queuing is in itself a very painful experience; while I bring shame to my British heritage by expressing my dislike of queues, I think one has to accept that queuing is especially awful when you're surrounded by disgusting freaks. And believe me, such people travel in large packs to Thorpe Park; it was as if Maury's audience had been released for a day trip.
So, it would seem that the eradication of boredom is an endeavour doomed to fail; even temporary release from its miseries comes at a price, whether it's fending off armies of goat-groping goons or waiting in line with a hellishly hideous horde of horribly horrendous humans. It does allow quite a bit of free time to think up unnecessary alliterative phrases though.
Some people go to extreme lengths to entertain themselves, such as throwing a cat in a wheelie bin:
There was a lot of outrage over Mary Bale's news story, but I think that woman may well have invented a fantastic new sport. After I've finished writing this, I'm going to assemble a crack team of cat-catchers, and try to fill up as many wheelie bins in a day as I can. If you'd like to join the team, or you'd just be willing to donate some more wanking tissues for me, drop me an email. Please note that you will need at least five years of experience doing random shit that pops into your head, as well as either a written recommendation or CCTV footage of you lackadaisically flinging cats around.
Once again, I reach the conclusion of an article realizing that there is no point. There is no point to this article and there is no point to life. But let me reassure you, dear readers, I do not intend to leave you on such a negative note. Far be it from me to spread further misery in this already-wretched world. Take hope, for I bring good tidings: I'll be serving up more of this bullshit soon.
Now, let's fuck with some kittens.