Vegans. What’s not wrong?

Pasty faced individuals who refuse to touch anything. Jes-louis! You rarely get anything more annoying than a Vegan going off on ‘one’.

Yep. That’s it, Vegan are everything that’s wrong with society.

Ok, let’s look at the facts…

Red meat in any quantity is a bad thing, science has proved bowel cancel, and a heap of other things are linked to red meat.

Death is not a good thing. Death is the most natural thing in the world but breeding hundreds of animals in mini Alcatraz’s before going to Mr Spinning Automated Meat Clever of Death to a conveyor belt that also does Tesco/ASDA/Sainsbo/wherever shrink wrapping ain’t a good thing.

Forcing a cow to be in constant after birth state, aka lactating through hormones and constant artificial insemination to keep them rearing new calfs to aid in additional income is not good.

Ok, what’s wrong? I agree with the old native Americans and their view towards the Buffalo. If you’re going to murder something thing (that’s what it is at the end of the day) the least you can do is use all of the animal. If you’ve got a cow you can use its skin for shoes, its meat for tasty goodness, innards for pies or cat meat, its tail for a good soup, its eyes for secondary school science classes, its bones for your dog or making into gelatin ummmm, Haribo!

Free range is certainly better, luckily it seems there is a bit more emphasis now on keeping animals in a happy lifestyle before they go to chicken/pig/….Heaven.

The idea of forced lactation is a horrible one, and it really isn’t right. There seems to be lots of propaganda around the health benefits of milk, it is a good substance being naturally developed to help Calves become big Cows . But there’s the problem right there, calves to cows. Breastmilk from Babies to Men and Women. We don’t breastfeed at 21 (I’d hope the majority of the population would stop around 20 years before that age!)

There’s a case that ‘skimming’ the fat, e.g. anything that’s not gold or silver top takes calcium levels down by halves. In which case eating most green vegetables will give you more Calcium.

Fair enough we’re not developed to handle dairy every meal time but we can digest the odd bits and piece like eggs.

Now eggs get shat out by a hen most days of the week unless shes bored or pregnant. I’d love love love love to hear the vegan argument against eggs.

Yes they have a high fat content, a high protein content, a high Omega 3 content, they get shat out anyway and will rot unless eaten, where’s the problem. Seriously? We need all these aspects of a diet to survive.

Omega 3, there’s another buzz word. So you get this amazing oil in fish, some other white meats, eggs, seeds, nuts and other birdfood.

I’m a purveyor of the old birdfood until I find Omega 3 from seeds and nuts can’t be digested if you have particulars in your body such as alcohol, high acid levels… rah rah. Time to cut out the drink in that case.

Stuff you might not know!

The powers that be filter wine and most commercial lagers through a substance that is basically fish guts.

Most cheese needs a component called rennet to set, which is formed from the lining of a cows stomach.

Milking cows don’t tend to get eaten, they tend to get milked as long as possible, e.g. until the flesh is too stringy to eat so either a natural death or the Haribo factory for your boney goodness.

There’s a few good things about the vegans we know for a fact…

That last steak in the reduced section of the supermarket wont get grabbed by a vegan…

the last pair of Dr Martins in the sale won’t get bought by a vegan.…

I can sit in a major chain coffee shop drinking those bloody tasty hot chocolates with the fake whipped cream and marshmallows in without fear of a vegan tea leafing it.

I can’t be sure about the following…

Your fellow Vegan might buy the last vinyl copy of 1000 Hurts under your nose.

This is because Shellac is naturally derived from bug shells, not from killing. Debate it next time you go to your local independent record shop. The fact that the vinyl isn’t made from Shellac and Albini has probably eaten every creature in the rainforest doesn’t count.

…I agree with the old native Americans and their view towards the Buffalo.

Additional Research Notes :

Linda McCartney was a hardcore vegetarian. She died of cancer. What does that say for you vegans? Animal products alone aren’t going to save you from the inevitable.

Chugging away...

Street and Phone based Charity Collectors.
Charity Muggers. Spoonerism : Chugger.

Walking down the street. That person has a nice smile. Are their eyes on yours? They're saying hello! What a nice change. How friendly!

Oh hang on there. Wait a minute, children in Ethiopia? Dogs in Spain? My bank card? I've been charity mugged.

Phone call? This time? Might be important. Security questions. Oh it is important. They sound really nice.

Wait a minute, children in Ethiopia? Dogs in Spain? My bank card? I've been charity mugged.

Oh I know your type. I used to share an office with the lot of you. You do one area in the morning as 'Greenpeace', lunchtime comes and you're changing into 'Shelter' mode. Really? Really? Do you really have a soul doing this? The moneys great though, I love using my looks, my charms, my lovely voice to manipulate others so I can get a little more of that commission pie...

CHINK CHINK CHINK goes my coins into your BACS transfer, CHINK CHINK CHINK goes the pick axe on the nice parts of your soul.

Where does your money go when a Chugger has wh*red at you enough to make you give over a monthly BACS?
It goes on commission, it goes on charity admin, it goes on management.
B*llsh*t if they tell you nothing goes on admin, they lie at African dictatorship governmental type proportions.
If it was admin free they simply pay a 'grant' to someone who does the work for free and that 'grant' has no admin associated.

The volunteers who do the work may not get paid but the manager’s definitely get some money. Around 5-12% is the expected admin cost on your Chugger cash. If you're paying £8 a month, £0.96 is going on the management fees if we're doing 12% admin. If threes commission involved for our Chugger at say 10% there's another £0.80 gone. £6.24 is going to our old pot bellied sick African child.

This means you're giving them £74.88 a year in good costs and £21.12 in admin costs. What can you do for £74.88 over the coarse of a

year? How many gallons of petrol in the Chugger Landrovers will £74.88 fuel? I reckon just under 15 gallons of petrol. How far is it from Chugger base camp to Village Middle of nowhere? Once they get to Nowhereville what are they going to do? They’ve spent your money on petrol. Radio crackles, Chugger #1 to Chugger #2 we need another victim, guerrilla clipboard tactics ahoy! Send the troops back into the streets and the cold calls…

Ok Chuggers get in more cash than the charity cases had before but it doesn’t change the fact that I f*cking hate our fellow souless Chuggers.

Why trying to get a book published these days is like trying to suck your own cock By Opium Dennis

I wrote a book. It’s not Thus Spake Zarathustra or A Clockwork Orange, but it’s decent enough for a first effort. Now I want to get it published. So would you if you’d literally been driven mad in the process of writing and editing the swine. I was possessed to the point where I saw blue spiders burrowing into my palms. I spent weeks without speaking to a soul and with only my fracturing psyche for company. Of course, it doesn’t have to be this way. You don’t have to flagellate yourself to create great art. But for this particular story I had to live it, no acting or contrivance, feeling the way the character felt, even if that meant feeling like fucking the wet sand your sister just pissed on. Problem is, our dear friends in the publishing industry have little interest in whether or not your work is authentic, from a real place that will connect, perhaps, with others. It sounds so obvious, but they want work that is GUARANTEED TO SELL. Doesn’t matter if it’s the most spineless, yellow-bellied, cookie cutter shit you’ve ever clapped eyes on – if it’s been written by a celebrity cook or singer then those pound signs start pulsing in Jemimah Bookseller’s noggin, down come her coolots and there’s Satan’s black cucumber fucking her in the ass before you can say ‘Henry Miller wouldn’t have stood for this shit’.

It’s enough to make you sick. Just a peep in the window of your average bookseller and you see what gets those registers a-singing: books by The Stig (lord love a duck), Jeremy Clarkson, Alan ‘fucking’ Sugar Tits, Cheryl Cole out of Girls Aloud, Dannii Minogue – and then of course the parade of cuntdom that is the ‘celebrity cook TV series spin-off’ by a variety of the country’s most fuckhanded individuals – Jamie ‘please piss on my face’ Oliver, Nigella ‘my Dad looks like a used condom but I’m happy to lick the cake mixture off your terrific cock’ Lawson, Huge Fearnley Cripplestalk and, of course, England’s number one cunt (sorry Bono, you’re Irish) and bully, Gordon Ramsays. He says ‘fuck’. It’s his trademark. “Make sure you put a few ‘fucks’ in with the recipes, Gordo, give the punters what they want, eh?” Page 78 - Chicken fucking curry with a side fucking garnish of fucking mindless bullying because Daddy didn’t love me, and I felt so, so small, now fucking cook it again and don’t burn it this time or I’ll say fuck again, or maybe even something really scary like I’M JUST A FRIGHTENED LITTLE BOY AND I’M GOING TO BULLY YOU SO I FEEL BETTER, EVEN THOUGH I’M 50 AND LOOK LIKE GRANITE MAN.

However, the book that really, really got my goat was Food for Friends by Levi Roots, featuring the Reggae Reggae Sauce man on the cover laughing like a Rastafarian hyena at the bewildering fact that he’s got a book on the shelf when all he’s ever done is jazz up tomato sauce a bit and wank off a dragon. I’m sure he’s a real nice guy, but that image and that book summed up for me what has gone wrong ACROSS THE FACE OF WESTERN CIVILISATION. Yes, Mr Roots, you are the epitome of the downfall of all that is sacred to God and man. It’s not your fault. Like so many, you’re just a puppet. But you symbolize the rot at the heart of the modern age, a disgusting disease that has been going on for some decades and has now reached epidemic proportions. It’s called ‘progress’… and it kills.

Look at how music used to be recorded (and still is in some enlightened quarters, like my kitchen) – analogue, none of this digital malarkey to ‘make things easier’. And guess what? 90% of digitally recorded music sounds like a dog turd in the ear compared to the lovely angelic golden masterpiece of heaven that is analogue sound. Maybe it’s just my luggers, but I can barely fathom how we could have mastered such a wondrous process only to desecrate it in the name of ‘progress’ – meaning convenience. Now you can replicate virtually any sound and ‘it sounds just like the real thing, yeah?’ Does it fuckola. The point is that there is SOUL in doing something, anything IN THE MOMENT, FROM SOURCE, and to condense these magical experiences into easily approximated mutations for the sake of convenience is to entirely miss the point, and DIE LIKE A SYPHILLIS-RIDDLED WEASEL IN A JELLY OF YOUR OWN PUS.

And so the ghouls and vampires of the advertising/marketing deathzone centre in on what they perceive as the ‘value point’ in anything, the soul or magic or wonder of a thing, and extract it and reduce it into a quantifiable and sellable product, usually these days in the form of an ‘experience’. Yet to do as such renders the true magic of the moment, the real experience, a lifeless facsimile of itself. Life is a living thing, and these murderous and vile roosters would sell their own babies’ quivering labias to the highest bidder, obliterating the life force from Life itself, reducing the gardens of Eden into parking lots for mummies as they drink the blood of virgin midgets and fellate camels in hospital waiting rooms.

Where was I? Oh yes – Levi Roots. These fidgety, cock-headed, whelk-pussied, juggle-nosed piss drinkers called publishers love fellers like Levi - instantly recognizable, ‘celebrity’ product. And the programmed masses lap it up like bukkake veterans. Of course there are novelists aplenty of merit on the shelves, yet a cursory glance at the bestseller list reveals a festering heap of clowns’ cocks, homogenized literary sick rice, a dizzying succession of ‘meaty’ novels about someone’s uncle in Ireland who fucked a tree and now the Pope’s got a hardon (just as a little aside, don’t you think the Pope looks the very ARCHETYPE OF A PAEDOPAPA?)

Phew, maybe I’ve got a little worked up under the collar about this, and maybe I’m actually adding to the overall malaise, but WHY CAN’T THEY JUST RECOGNISE A GENIUS WHEN THEY SEE ONE AND GIVE ME A BIG BAG OF MONEY?

bikes and rock climbers...

…new bike? By Judge DAmNation.

Oh, have you bought a new bike? Great, what make is it? That really well-known purveyor of bikes everyone who knows anything about bikes says us good? That’s cool. Do you have a photo of it, or lots of pictures from different angles? Brilliant… You’ve got Spizz-Monkey 10k Shock Absorbers? Wow, cool. Do you have a reflective badge shaped like the Honey Monster, or those stupid clacky beads that go on the spokes? They come free in Sugar Puffs…

Hang on, what year is this? It’s not 1992 – you mean I’m a grown up, not a child, and subsequently I don’t give two shrieking fucks about your bike? That’s alright then – to be honest, even if I was bud I still wouldn’t be interested – whereas if you happen to own a Red Venom Spaceship from Manta Force I ight still be impressed…

So you have a bike, do you? Well congratulations, you are now officially a “Fucking Menace” (registered Trademark.)

Yeah, it does look like a lot of fun freewheeling down that hill, feet motionless on the pedals- I’ll be it’s even more of a treat for the snaking queue of cars tailgating you down that hill, foot hovering desperately over the brake to prevent momentum from dragging you under their wheels, a precaution I fail to the point of frankly.

Isn’t it annoying though, having to wait at traffic lights along with the other – oh wait, you’ve just sailed on through without stopping. Oh I see, you’re above the laws of the road because you’re an eco-warrior, saving the planet one little bell-tinkle at a time? ….

You just ride on the pavement. No, fair enough….

Yeah I know trucks and Hum-V’s are bad for the environment – they also look fucking cool, don’t they? You’re unlikely to see Christian Bale in the next Batman film, careering out of the Batcave on a stupid long handled contraption, before folding it up into a suitcase and going into his council meeting about new dustbins, still wearing his highlighter-pen yellow trousers like a dick, now are you?

And at least I can count on a Hum-V to stay in the fucking road, regardless of how many lanes it may take up – I’m not going to suddenly see one wobbling down the pavement towards me, chopping down pensioners in its wake with your stupid helmet-wearing face in an expressions of imbecile obliviousness.

Oh you don’t wear a helmet. I’m sure you’re keen to do your bit for good old Mother Earth, and save a few pennies against petrol or bus fare while you’re about it, but to be honest I care a bit less about your Carbon Footprint than I do about your handlebar currently impaling my pancreas. How much have you saved by the way? Make sure to bring it with you to court on Monday…

…some rocks? By Judge DAmNation.

Who’s that mate of yours, what’s he looking so smug about? Oh he does climbing does he? I’d love to see a Facebook App saying where he’s been….

“Mike has just been climbing on Some Rock that’s near a Bridge.”

Wow, I wish I could have been there. I might download that App myself…

“Judge DAmNation has just been climbing out of a Monumental Trough of Boredom.”

Hey, this is fun! Yes, I know he likes climbing. Why doesn’t he do it without a rope then? Well, it’s kind of pointless otherwise, isn’t it? People go rambling or walking in the mountains, but they don’t stablisers to their fucking legs do they?

“Judge DAmNation walked from Rusty Cattle Grid across a field to poky looking turnstile Cowpaths trodden in : 1. Human Fatalities : 6.”

I’m beginning to understand that “buzz” or “rush” you were talking about now.

Remind me again how you delete friends? No, I mean in real life, lol.

Write your own title. Heart Alice Damages...

When asked to do 'something' for the next 'Supergeräusche' issue the singular 'Damages' mind quivered with a kind of excitement over the vast number of possible subjects to pick from. However, trying to fit 3 almost fully grown people onto one keyboard to write something readable by human eyes is harder than you might think, so we drew you a picture, it's possibly the diagram of the perfect being. I mean, SEE FOR YOURSELF.

Seeing as I'm doing so well at writing all by myself, maybe I'll extend what was to be a simple introduction of a joint effort into something more of a short story I've been wanting to write for a while. Here we go. You can write your own title on the dotted line, you can call it just about whatever you like.

Love From Alice.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

"There's this place I've been going, this point between a light and a shade. Just below the morning, underneath the settling of dew. I have to climb through that thick black air that covers the night, as it gently recedes it feels like it could be satin; and I'm there. Have you ever stepped into a complete hollow Elizabeth?" He questioned, while deciding between plain or chocolate coated digestive biscuits, an extremely difficult and crucial decision.

She crushed a beige crumb to dust on the perfectly flat and solid table the couple had come to see as a friend. "I don't believe i have." She paused, as if to reconsider her answer before continuing with a hasty "Go for a chocolate one."

"Your right, chocolate it is. How could someone hesitate over a choice like that. It's crazy."

"It really is Henry, are you sure everything is alright, this place you were telling me about..."

"It's slowly becoming more difficult to see where the chocolate digestive begins and the plain one ends, but it's not that that bothers me. If anything it's been making the real problem slightly easier to deal with. Every morning, i wash, i dress, i check my reflection to be certain I'm still here, i sit, opposite you, and upwards from the table, day in, day out stare two biscuits identical to the ones the day before and the day before that. Everyday my hand reaches towards the chocolate coated one without fail. So why everyday is there still a plain biscuit staring up at me?"

"I thought you might like something different for a change, I'm sorry if you find that life altering proposal intimidating Henry." Elizabeth rose, removing the constantly rejected biscuit from the table and placing it into a small brown paper bag, walked straight out of the front door, laying the package on the road, standing back and watching as the tyres of strangers cars smashed the poor morsel to dust.

Henry smiled to himself, at least it couldn't get to him now. "Today will be a good day."

Blackjack, the magic detective cat.

Blackjack, the magic detective cat.

Every now and then a little memo card comes in the post for Blackjack the cat. He's always up before his owners so they don't know he gets the mail, it’s only the Postie who thinks a person called Blackjack is a bit queer but it’s another piece of his job. On this morning Blackjack got on such memo card... "Dear Blackjack, I would be humbled by your assistance since my Grandfather Waffles has gone missing and we've been unable to contact him. Yours Faithfully, Shimla."

She seemed desperate. Blackjack who stood strong to his true moral heart decided his bowl of Whiskers could wait a few hours and headed out of the house to the address on the card.

On arriving at the house Blackjack gave that native cat meow greeting to call out Shimla, who pottered out looking rather lost and upset. She explained that her Grandfather Waffles had been kidnapped and she had a ransom note demanding 1000 litres of fish paste. No cat apart from the Kitten of Brunei could afford 100 litres of fish paste!

On looking at the note Blackjack deducted it was a male cat from the aggressive tone and claw writing style. He decided however based on the lack of information in the note, further investigation would be needed and Fred owner of Das Tot Maus Bar would be the ideal informant...

Blackjack told Shimla to stay home and he'd sort the whole thing out. Das Tot Maus Bar was on the other side of town, a rough neighbourhood full of multiple seedy characters. The interior of the bar was dated and unclean, Blackjack however had himself a double Cream on the Rocks. He drank it in one and began to speak with Fred.
"How's business Fred?", "Slow Mr. ...jack, no one really comes here now. I only ever see you when you want information?", "I'm sorry Fred about the business, some information would be appreciated and I could give you some extra income for your troubles?", "What you wanna know Mr ..jack?" Blackjack shows Fred the note and it turns out he knows about the matter...

He's a mean one, don't know his real name. Everyone calls him 'No Tail' on the account of a bad scrap once, he lost his tail but the other cat's dead. I heard this old guy Waffles had created a crazy invention that will change the world of cats. All I can give you is No Tail lives down by Dockyard, dock number 17. Blackjack handed over some Kitty Treats, thanked him and headed towards the dockyard.

The docks were another notoriously rough area, stalked by Sailor Cats. There was a large group of Sailor Cats on the end of dock 17, it appeared the SS Pussy was back and its crew were on shore leave. The crew seemed ready to unleash pent up sea anger with a good bout of fighting, this didn't worry Blackjack who was a high level belt in the ancient art of Catjitsu.

One of the crew, Baggins, shouted at Blackjack and demanded some action fresh from his battles against the sea. Before Blackjack could reply Baggins was swinging his huge fists about like the huge oaf he was, a quick cat kick and paw swipe to the neck rendered Baggins unconscious The rest of the crew parted like the Red Sea when they saw what Blackjack was capable of, he continued his journey to the end of dock 17....

At the end of the dock was a large ominous looking warehouse. Blackjack found a backway in that was unguarded. He heard voices behind the massive crates. "Only you know how to work the device, you must tell us how to use it." "NEVER! You want to use it for evil!" "Haha, you know my kind too well. If you don't I will eventually kill you with all this torture." "I'd rather die than unleash your twisted mind on the world!" "Very well..." Some horrid electric noise was made and there was an awful smell of burning fur. Blackjack looked from above the crates to see No Tail with his henchmen flicking a switch which sent electric currents through a wire coat hanger Waffles was strapped to. On a table was the device they were talking about, it looked like a walky talky in a collar.

Time to put this mistreatment to an end, thought Blackjack as he jumped into the centre of the action.
"WHO ARE YOU?" screamed No Tail.
"I'm here to rescue a friend and put an end to your shenanigans. Now! You either let the device and Waffles go or else!" replied Blackjack.

"Oh hahaha, you are going to stop me and my henchmen? I'm keeping both and you're going to be dog meat. Henchmen attack!!!"

Half a dozen henchmen flew at Blackjack who sprang in the air and used the surrounding crates to bounce off and unleash chops and kicks. Within minutes him and No Tail were the only ones standing. "Right, time to finish you properly!"

No Tail ran straight at Blackjack who with a swift kick launched No Tail out of a window into the sea. Through the sea howls you could remotely hear No Tail screaming as cats do when dropped into water.

"Time for you to see Shimla!" said Blackjack to Waffles who was slightly burnt but very thankful to be going home. Blackjack picked up the invention, they left and walked along the dock which was getting misty now with sea fog.

As they walked Blackjack's Great Uncle Jasper suddenly appeared in a fog. This was bizarre because he'd been dead the last 2 years however in Blackjack's line of work nothing surprised him anymore. Great Uncle Jasper said that kitty heaven was great but he'd foreseen a horrible future where Waffle's invention had been used for evil purposes and cats had enslaved the human race! Some humans are indeed evil to their pets however the majority are not and we should live in harmony. The invention needed to be destroyed! Waffle's agreed with Jasper, if one evil cat wanted it for bad uses imagine what the rest might do. And with that Waffle's took the invention from Blackjack and tossed it into the sea, the caustic seawater instantly blew up the invention’s circuitry.

Blackjack and Waffles walked to Shimla's house talking about the whole ordeal. When the pair got outside the house Waffle's asked how he could repay Blackjack, to which Blackjack replied "Its my job, as long as you're safe and sound that's my repayment." "There aren't many cats left like you", was the response as he went in the house. As Blackjack walked home he caught a glimpse of a happy Shimla hugging her Grandfather, which warmed his heart as did the thought that his bowl of Whiskers was waiting at home for him. Fini.