Sunday, March 02, 2008

Ins and Outs: March '08

Slamdunk the funk, poindexters!

Here we are then, what? The merry month of March and once more the Ins and Outs Committee have strained every sinew, busted every gut and climbed every mountain in order that you, yes you!, will know your rampant rabbits from your filthy habits, your Ann Summers from your Selwyn Gummers and what's bizzle and what's drizzle.

Quakers and shakers, Ins and Outs am here!


Whilst front and centre in the Spearmint Rhino, beckoning the Ukrainian pole dancer over and, producing a battered box of Milk Tray, asking her if she'd care to be your sweetheart?
Telling impressionable young ladies that you are a musician and once won a coveted Metal Hammer magazine award (Riff Lord, 2002)
Addressing men as 'My dear' and women as 'Mate'.
Having endured a windbag spending fifteen minutes on his take on American Middle East policy with particular reference to Syria and Iran, leaning across and asking him if he has any idea where you can get a moody MOT?
Asking your GP if he will give you a sicknote as you are suffering from "existential ennui".
On being asked by a work colleague about your plans for the evening, cheerily informing them that you will be "fucking two black guys".
At the golf club's sherry morning, when the Captain asks if you prefer dry or sweet, beckoning him towards you and muttering in his ear, "Can you help a brother out with a little taste of 'brown'? I got a fucking monkey on my back that's needin' feedin'!
Firmly establishing that your friends and family are aware that you "aint no hollaback girl".
When preparing your last will and testament, stating that any eulogy must begin and end with "Much love and respect to Dr. Dre".
Dickson Etuhu. He's not strange. He just wants to live his life this way.
Having a right old chin-wag about the novels of Milan Kundera with the lady who puts the labels on the jars at the Sperm Donor clinic.
Dancing the night away with senoritas who CAN sway. Those non-swaying bitches can fuck right off.
A propos nothing, slowly intoning "Bonedigger bonedigger. Dogs in the moonlight."
Swearing, angry old blokes playing cards in the pub.
Complimenting a lady acquaintance on her new hairdo, making reference to the fact it gives them a definite resemblance to Moses Kiptanui.
Claiming that one's minuet steps have dazzled ball-goers throughout the major kingdoms of Europe.
The rump-shaking, serious point-making musical stylings of MIA.
Making frivolous appeals.
When paying for your Doritos and chocolate digestives at 3am, telling an unconvinced service station sales assistant that you get "more play than the RS mu'f'kin' C!"


Any person "amusingly" referring to the non-diet version of Coca Cola as "full fat" Coke.
Protracted conversations regarding the Weight Watchers points values of various cakes and pastries. Here's an idea; if you're on a diet, why not eschew the cake option altogether?
People who print out their e-mails. Worse than Hitler.
Weirdos who wear Nordic mountaineering gear to go to the pub in.
Tubbyboohooing about third world child labour. If some of Britain's pampered layabouts had to put in twelve hours a day in a sweat shop they might not have so much time for happyslapping, binge-drinking, texting and being obese.
Sponza Palace in Dubrovnik. Shite.
Superheroes with "ordinary lives". You've got the chance to walk around in your pants all day, fighting crimes and banging cocktail waitresses two at a time. Instead you choose to work in a poxy office and wear jam-jar specs? Caped cunts.
Going on and on about tapas. Just get a ham and cheese toastie down you before you go to the pub.
Facebook groups. As pointless and wassock-infested as "Socs" at University.
Giving serious thought about whether you should switch to grieving for Brave Eduardo, having put in a good solid year getting unnecessary over Brave Maddie.
Murdering prostitutes. That is so nineteenth century.
At your trial for unlawfully re-connecting your gas supply, claiming to be a modern-day Prometheus.
Dish-faced pop chanteuse dullard Adele. Chasing pavements? Chasing burger vans more like.
While one of your dreadful mates is busy pressing his suit with a prospective soul-mate, repeatedly bellowing "Get in that ass, Larry!" in their direction.
Oxford commas. They are, rubbish.
On receiving an e-mail from one's Head of Department with an attached consultation document, with instructions to prepare a departmental response and identify key action areas by the close of business inst., returning said e-mail with the single comment "LMFAO!!!!!!"
Reckoning that your recipe for jugged hare is to die for, dahling!, when frankly, it ain't all that.
Obese giant pandas, unable to get pregnant. Lay off the bamboo if you want to get some Tyne Dock, toots.
The Bronze Age.
Refusing a friend's request for a small loan, claiming your hands are tied by those pricks at City Hall.


heidikraut said... jugged hare IS to die for dahling!

Couldn't you make this a weekly thing? That would work for me.

Anonymous said...

That works for me, who knows what dreadful lifestyle choices I could be making without any form of regular guidance?

Anonymous said...

I am laughing at my desk too much these days and it is mainly your fault and I don't care if it's "Out", I'm still putting LMFAO next time I respond to my director - she won't say anything, she'll just think it's a government department she's not heard of yet.