“Man Caves” are fucking disgusting places for cowards to retreat when they realise their fuckwit ideas of masculinity don’t translate to, you know, the real world. There’s a reason why all that parasitic alcohol and sport related paraphernalia isn’t standard issue in a home and that reason is it fucking sucks. A discount lager branded beer mat on a wooden bench in a garage isn’t an identity or a form of self-expression; it’s not homage to some sort of working class collective consciousness. It’s just big business marketing guilt tripping your deadshit mind via feelings of nostalgia associated with times when you thought you were happy (you weren’t, you were drunk). Bundaberg Rum isn’t a badge of honour, it’s a distilled alcoholic beverage, it’s not real, it’s a product. You know that bear they use in their ads? I know the idea is great but he isn’t real either, he’s not your mate, you and the bear, you never went on fishing trips together. Don’t buy into their shit, just fucking go inside and talk to your family you big dumb man cave cunt, stop sitting there pretending you’re having a good time, we all know you aren’t, you’re pathetic in there, stewing away on some disgusting couch on your phone leaving racist comments on news articles, hate-tweeting local celebrities until they kill themselves, insulting “faggots” while rubbing one out to some lesbian porn, reminiscing about the great years gone by (they weren’t great, again, you were drunk).
Also, chances are if you’re the kind of big sook of a man who has a man cave and buys shit like supermarket hummus and mass produced crackers and cabanossi to make themselves feel special, your wife is probably a bit of a cunt towards you, and it’s not totally fun to be around her all the time (go to the pub when this happens by the way moron). It’s not her fault she’s like this, it’s because you’ve got all these emotional and communication and identity issues and are a big fucking child who can’t support his family properly. Trust me, it’s not her, or the gays or the Muslims or random indigenous football players that have caused this fucking mess, it’s your lack of personal responsibility and accountability. There’s a reason Andrew Bolt and his contemporaries soothe you so much; they make it feel like it’s someone else’s fault, all these feelings of resentment and indifference, but the hangover only gets worse mate, you can’t stay in here forever.
So get up, put some proper fucking pants on and leave!! You don’t need this cave Robbo, leave, go free, go for a walk in the park, the beach, go to Bali with your fuckhead mates, whatever, please, just stop living this primal cave myth.
![How absolutely bored shitless and how little do you need to
value the sack of human skin and blood that is your fucking conscious
life to go here? Seriously, the Dominos and Pizza Hut CEOs are presently sitting at a bar in some Polynesian shithole tax haven
country, pissed as fuck and putting your use of ROFL to shame with hysterical
laughter as they play literal limbo with the human race: “How low will
they go?? Ah hah hah we have so much fucking money thanks to all our fuckhead customers” they’d say and just start passionately kissing because they’ve made such a
beautiful infallible business model they’d have no choice not to. “2 tomato sauce squeezies included”
😐 did everyone in
Australia just turn 4 years old? Flaccid
pastry encrusted [and I hope I go down in history for the use of not two but
four quotations marks here] ““meat pies”” as a crust for what I refuse to call a pizza? That’s like an AIDs dick
ejaculating several smaller AIDs dicks - but you’re all giggling now aren’t
you, isn’t it funny? He he he what a fun
treat, like that vegemite/Cadbury bullshit that came out a few weeks ago, fuck
you all. And all the fucking local radio
station/gen y media Facebook pages are sharing it and everyone is having a
right old laugh and we all think it’s just a bit of fun but it isn’t - this is
reality and you will all die one day and on your death bed I want you to
fucking remember the day you and your little dickhead mates with their clothing
purchased from parasitic companies like H&M/Zara and your stupid fucking Macklemore
haircuts bought this horseshit on your high interest rate credit cards and sat
around and watched Q&A and shared your ludicrous and unreasonable political
opinions on twitter, begging for retweets from irritating and irrational left
wing twitter personalities. Not so
fucking carefree and #yolo now are we? In that public health system hospital; that agonising bowel cancer that is
tearing your soul from your body - was it worth it?? All those
😂
😂
😂 emoji comments and the instagram likes from people you don’t even know? Not such a big old joke now, is it, you dying, debt ridden piece of shit.](http://40.media.tumblr.com/f60a85b55b882129f3ae24966e270181/tumblr_nozklzBGKS1r5f1uio1_500.jpg)
How absolutely bored shitless and how little do you need to value the sack of human skin and blood that is your fucking conscious life to go here? Seriously, the Dominos and Pizza Hut CEOs are presently sitting at a bar in some Polynesian shithole tax haven country, pissed as fuck and putting your use of ROFL to shame with hysterical laughter as they play literal limbo with the human race: “How low will they go?? Ah hah hah we have so much fucking money thanks to all our fuckhead customers” they’d say and just start passionately kissing because they’ve made such a beautiful infallible business model they’d have no choice not to. “2 tomato sauce squeezies included” 😐 did everyone in Australia just turn 4 years old? Flaccid pastry encrusted [and I hope I go down in history for the use of not two but four quotations marks here] ““meat pies”” as a crust for what I refuse to call a pizza? That’s like an AIDs dick ejaculating several smaller AIDs dicks - but you’re all giggling now aren’t you, isn’t it funny? He he he what a fun treat, like that vegemite/Cadbury bullshit that came out a few weeks ago, fuck you all. And all the fucking local radio station/gen y media Facebook pages are sharing it and everyone is having a right old laugh and we all think it’s just a bit of fun but it isn’t - this is reality and you will all die one day and on your death bed I want you to fucking remember the day you and your little dickhead mates with their clothing purchased from parasitic companies like H&M/Zara and your stupid fucking Macklemore haircuts bought this horseshit on your high interest rate credit cards and sat around and watched Q&A and shared your ludicrous and unreasonable political opinions on twitter, begging for retweets from irritating and irrational left wing twitter personalities. Not so fucking carefree and #yolo now are we? In that public health system hospital; that agonising bowel cancer that is tearing your soul from your body - was it worth it?? All those 😂 😂 😂 emoji comments and the instagram likes from people you don’t even know? Not such a big old joke now, is it, you dying, debt ridden piece of shit.
(note: the original image contained such classic hashtags as #ihatemuslims #fuckoffmuslims and #antihalal - by the time I got around to taking a screen grab, Instagram had deleted it)
__
I love bacon but isn’t it funny how it’s the food of choice for the lowest common denominators of the world? The kind of people who think Anthony Kiedis’s “Scar Tissue” is a crowning piece of literature, the kind of people who grow beards when they realise they don’t have a personality and the kind of scared little fully grown children who go out of their way to boycott Halal certified food.
Isn’t it just a mind blowing concept a trivial fee is imposed upon one company for providing a service for another company? You say you don’t want one single cent going to a company that operates under a loose religious guise? Well guess what, you pay 10% GST on pretty much everything you buy, and that goes to the treasury, and the treasury funds our school chaplaincy program, so you’re fucked regardless. Aren’t happy? Go on, fuck off then, what is it you put on the t-shirts? Australia, love it or leave it. It’s not like Halal Abattoirs & Certification companies have a stranglehold on Australian producers like, say, the actual most dangerous duopoly in Australia. The heads of pretty much every company you and your family personally finance routinely blow their money on all sorts of immoral bullshit, defrauding retirees of their entire life savings, snorting cocaine of the tits of hookers and killing them when they’re done. Oh no! The big bad Halal company wants to run a business and employ people, oh boo hoo, the Australian way of life, what, having shithouse BBQ’s with pork sausages, drinking foreign owned “local” beer and hitting women? The local Halal team is coming to take away our unique heritage.
“But the animal cruelty Cook Suck! Won’t you think of the Animals?” Ding ding, news flash morons - cattle slaughtered in Australia, Halal or otherwise, aren’t tortured. They don’t have their throats slit while they writhe in agony. They’re stunned and slaughtered in essentially the same, unconscious, cruelty-free way that regular fuck-off-we’re-full true-blue aussie cows are slaughtered. When I called Javaid Qureshi from KJ Halal Abattoirs not only did he confirm this, but they don’t even pay a fee for certification: “Trust me mate,” he laughs, “we don't make enough money to fund terrorists” - who would have thought? It turns out (unless you’re a true blue aussie greyhound trainer) you can’t just torture animals in Australia - you’ve actually got to adhere to Australian law - what a concept I know. Funny how everyone cares about animal rights when it comes to Islam, want a cause that possibly could actually mean something? Here’s a start, although I’m going to hazard a guess you’ll pass on this one.
All you can really say is Halal Certification companies are full of shit and are lying to us all and, instead of providing a rudimentary service under a religious umbrella, like monks who brew beer, like christians who build cafes (and serve undrinkable coffee), they secretly fund terrorist organisations somehow. That’s it, that’s the only opinion you can have, that it’s your belief (ironic huh) that there’s some sort of conspiracy because that’s what you reckon. If so, stop being such a chicken shit coward spreading your fucking lies and admit that it’s just your bigoted little hunch and align yourself with other contemporary conspiracy theorists, because when you cut through all the bullshit, you’re not some proud Australian, you’re not protecting your children, or stopping terrorism, or championing animal welfare - you’re sitting in the same fucking parent’s basement with your tiny dick in your hand as the kind of people who think George Bush did 9/11.
If there’s one thing myself and everyone including your partner who definitely masturbates to everything but the thought of your naked body hates its shithouse nibblies. Where’s the cheese cunt? Why are you serving this? This isn’t for you, no no no. go back to what you deserve sitting alone in a park on your enforced 30 minute lunch break, eating your fucking 80 cent tuna hastily stuffed into your supermarket bread roll. Do the tears come at night? Do they cunt? Don’t lie to me, I know they do, we all know they do. I’m not saying everyone who eats lightly flavoured tinned tuna on their lunch break is a broken person, it’s just they definitely are. Don’t worry; you’re just an afternoon and 45 minutes of unpaid overtime away from your next forced dinner date at the latest Broadsheet-hyped restaurant.
Why are you even at this restaurant? No-one wants you here, the establishment has catered itself for people of a certain socio-economic level - chances are if a venue feels fancy to you no-one wants you there. You know that feeling you get when you see an ice addict on a train during peak hour with a longneck and a pram abusing his 17 year old girlfriend? That’s you and your peplum wearing fiancé at a restaurant with a scoopon voucher. No-one wants you here and everyone claps when you leave. People rise from their tables! “Oh! Thank God those ordering-wine-by-the-glass pieces of shit have fucked off! Those pedestrian nothing cunts have gone back to their mortgage!!” - mortgage - that’s right, mortgage - not a house, not a home; doesn’t sound so Facebook life event worthy when you say it like that does it cunt? You’re not building some sort of empire, that photo of you and your soon to be wife that most of us have had some sort of sex with in front of a “SOLD” sign isn’t making anyone envious and your new year’s healthy living binge - fuck - why the fuck do you want to live for so long you greedy fuck? Have you looked in the mirror - do you really want to extend this pedestrian existence? Why do I have to constantly apologise for being drunk at dinner, yet agonising #glutenfree menu substitutions are a cause for celebration? Ugh, you think you’re killing it with your fancy blood-free stools and vomit-free jogs, stop setting these pretend micro-goals. You fucked up, you failed, and you didn’t become the person you wanted to be, stop putting yourself and world through the indignity that is your broadcasted attempt at creating a semblance of life progress.
Food blogging as both a hobby and an economy is about equal to stamp collecting in terms of the skewed perception of value it brings to society. I used to collect stamps and I can tell you now I had a pretty fucking good stamp collection. I’d fill that fucking book up with kooky stamps from Soviet Russia to Swaziland and by golly did I think it was a mighty fine piece of work. To my sense of self-worth, the people who sold me those big bags of old stamps, to my fellow stamp collectors and to my mother I sure was something, and boy did I have the evidence to prove it in the top drawer of my bedroom. That’s kind of like food blogging. Being a sort-of but not really food blogger I’ve met plenty of food bloggers and some are fine, hobbyists mostly, some build a nice community around it, some have the clout to take it to paid work, but that’s basically it - it’s stamp collecting (minus the primary school bullying).
The majority of food bloggers, nowadays anyway, are beyond parody. Most exist in that no-mans land between their initial shitty concepts and some completely distant and unattainable food blogging ideal of full time paid writing work, “sponsored posts”, free products, gifts - logic worse than children. The sheer desperation that oozes from their I-swear-this-isn’t-a-sponsored-post sponsored posts, fuck, I know drug addicts with more integrity.
That’s the problem, lack of integrity, lack of spine for honest depth or analysis. Review time; here it comes - stumbling with the culinary cadence of some heels-in-hand 3AM human gutter animal filled with phrases like “it has a nice taste” or “the consistency wasn’t what i expected” or some other completely erroneous piece of non-criticism. Depending on the perceived receipt of food blogger royalty treatment from the restauranter there will be a subtle bitch about the lack of preferential seating or a humble brag about how dinner was on the house. Following this will be a series of impulsive and poorly composed photographs with some of the biggest watermarks you will ever see on someone who is, by designation, an amateur. These fucking cancerous watermarks, ugh, why are you doing this? The bigger the watermark, the bigger the fucking idiot behind the camera. That giant opaquely translucent branding on a snap of your eggs benedict is going to get you, at best, a “keep at it” comment from your more cowardly friends and some worthless click through traffic, at best. At worst you’ll be losing all respect from any major food/wine/dining publication you hope to write for and I challenge any food photographer to post an example of any better outcome. Save that shit for your teen nightclub photography empire.
The culture of receiving free food in exchange for writing a favourable review of a restaurant is one of the most hilarious displays of an endless clothed gangbang of un-erect dicks and dry vaginas I have ever seen in any industry ever. I’ve seen food bloggers write featured posts about receiving a free complimentary mainstream cider, a fucking bottle of cider? How can I even begin to trust someone who writes anything more than “yep, bottled sugary mainstream cider for girls who haven’t learnt to drink wine yet, on the house, cheers guys” on the topic of anything food or drink related? This festering circle jerk of product-for-promo; you’re supposed to be a critic - just think about it - how many publicists have widely read and respected online publications? That’s right, none of them do, they have shithouse 9-5 jobs working for balding marketing pigs that no-one respects. All this for what, the odd free feed? What are you, homeless? Here’s a tip food bloggers - have integrity, show an actual desire to master your craft: photography, writing or defining your palate, because outside your own little worlds your reviews mostly mean as much as my stamp collection.
Anonymous asked: Who are you? What is your name? How can I marry you?
Nah
Anonymous asked: please post more.
Nah
Look at this, a lovely plate of regional Italian food, all that completely appropriate Italian macaroni and authentic Italian pizza from Italy, where did you cook this, in a clothes dryer filled with piss? Why is the pizza and the pasta on the same plate! Why do people do this? Just get another plate you fool; it’s the culinary paedo in a playground: no good can come from this, no good!
Stop fetishisizing the cuisine anyway, microwave pizza and frozen prawn pasta is as much to Italian cuisine as Nespresso is to coffee. Fuck Nespresso and fuck everyone who owns one. Nespresso is made by Nestle, who make Blend 43, it’s that simple, how the FUCK could anyone even consider buying something from a company who has done such a thing to the world? I can just imagine some smug self proclaimed swinging bachelor in his shitty Politix smart casual attire, standing by his customised Nespresso pod based coffee system, passionately stroking his dick over how much he thinks he’s killing it in life as some bullshit coffee and milk based beverage pours from its overpriced pod based delivery system. Just about to head off to work to his digital media creative job in an office filled with irrelevant beanbags, thinking about all the Byron Bay Pale Lager (not brewed in Byron Bay) and $17 Cheeseburgers he’s going to consume with all his dickhead friends doing shitty coke at some hidden alleyway bar named after a novel his life bears no resemblance to.
Ugh, Americana; are we done with our tex-mex are we? All you hot shit big potato men with your hot wings and your sliders and your fucking imitation KFC - listen, you can’t tell the difference between a McDonald’s Cheeseburger and a $17 Tarantino burger. You think you can, but ya can’t - deep down ya know ya can’t, dontcha now, you big fuckhead?! The same goes with your rebranded KFC. You think it’s better, you think it holds cultural or culinary significance and you think you can taste the difference - and even if this were true you can’t taste the difference because how else could you sleep at night knowing you’ve just bought fast food at 4 times the price, you self righteous coward? I liked a good burger as much as anyone, yet you all had to do this, repeating, repeating, taking it to the fucking extreme - pulled pork, brioche buns, fried chicken, sliders, sliders, fat men drinking pretend craft beer - fucking EVERYWHERE, thanks for ruining everything you FUCKHEADS!
No, none of these things, individually or as a whole, are “the best” and if you serve your food like most people serve animals then you aren’t allowed to even comment on what’s the best, or worst, or anything at all - what did you cut your tomatoes with, your fucking elbow? You’re becoming a food photographer as much as The Daily Telegraph is a source of news and that filthy plate makes me question whether you should be around animals.
I love this time of year, all the new years’ resolution dicks, uggh, their aspirations make me sick but oh their failures bring a thousand joyful smiles to the piece of shit that stares back at me every morning in the bathroom mirror. “But cooksuck they are just trying to better themselves, positive choices, nike free runs etc leave them alone" well to that I say if the discussion and discourse surrounding losing insignificant amounts of weight is dressed as life changing positive steps then we’re clearly having the wrong conversation. Read any given comments section in that menstrual cycle of an article about ‘borderline’ ‘Plus Sized’ models -filled with all those flies-to-shit opinions: “AS IF !! SHE IS HEALTHY AND BEAUTIFUL! THIS IS WHAT’S WRONG WITH SOCIETY” like being called a plus sized model makes you inherently any less ‘beautiful’ than a regular model, or a tall model, or a short model, or any model or human at all - fuck, why is this the world? What is wrong with everyone?
Anyway, this plate of toddler food was from some fitness ‘bootcamp’ page; lots of bullshit about kale curing diabetes (don’t get me started on this) and various other health food company perpetrated lies about the nutritional and health perks of consuming their overpriced manure. Quinoa, kale, chia seeds, insecure boys and their fucking pre-king-hit protein mush/shakes, all of this shit - eating “Instagram food” makes your body skinny but your mind fat. I stare at someone drinking green juice and immediately think ”your personality is a big overweight piece of cellulite covered shit”. You’re now worse than the previous greedy, mediocre and despicable human you once were, what, with this new sense of entitlement to this magical, wonderful life of pictures of your shitty thighs at the beach, the not-eating-of-bread (which is just fucking ridiculous) and these big old jogs - jog, jog, jog - what are you jogging from cunt? The ghosts of your past? They’ll fucking find you, oh, they will, don’t you worry about that. You can feel them in the breeze; I know you know, ambivalently dormant, waiting for your frivolous life of wanderlust to catch up with you. Suddenly, the lie that is your instagram account will crumble and fall apart - you’ll come jogging in to apologise to me in the pub: “Cook Suck! Cook Suck! You were right, I am a big fuck head, please can I have some of your wine?” and I’ll say “No! This is my fucking discounted wine! Go drink some more juice from a fucking jam jar you cunt!!” and kick you out of my beautiful castle with its fine steaks, delicious burgers and boutique beverages and you’ll have to march back to fucking Deception Bay, Holsworthy, Elizabeth or whatever piece of shit suburb you came from.