Good words and bad words

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What do you call a person that swears a lot? A potty mouth. And what do you call a person that never swears? A tedious wanker.

This article is going to be about blue language, but not just blue language. We’ll also have a look at a few words that are NNSFW (Not Not Safe For Work. I guess SFW would have done the trick).

I love words. Callipygian, higgledy-piggledy, galumph, … Whenever I hear people use words like these my pelvic area jolts with intellectual arousal. I’m just sitting there listening to a podcast and suddenly, out of the blue, someone bangs out the word ‘ambulatory’. And just I find myself smiling and thinking „You could have said something like ‘able to walk’ but you didn’t. You said ‘ambulatory’ and that’s exactly why my cock is so hard right now“ (perhaps I derive more pleasure from wide vocabularies than most people do). Interestingly though, if people overuse fancy words and technical jargon for no good reason, it just makes them seem vain speakers, in the sense that they are more interested in the appearance of words than their capacity to convey meaning. The overuse of exotic and technical terms in a context where their use is not justified or in any way beneficial to the conversation is unbelievably annoying. The exact same true holds true for dirty words for that matter. I think it’s fascinating how swearing can evidence both a very deep and a very poor understanding of language and communication. Those who swear all the time may mean to prove the force of their convictions and feelings, but what results is the exact opposite. In fact, the only thing you demonstrate by re-using the same swear words over and over again is that you’re not very creative with language and don’t really expose yourself to new words. To paraphrase, read a fucking book, you twat!

Take the adjective ‘fucking’ for instance. It’s undoubtedly one of the most common dirty words in the English language. It’s a word that could have so much punch. Unfortunately, as an adjective, it’s overused to the extent that it trivialises almost every noun it is meant to describe. I don’t know about you, but the sort of people who preface every other word with ‘fucking’ really make me wish their parents hadn’t done just that, or at least used some ‘fucking’ contraception. It’s also rather telling that the only word these people seem to be masterfully acquainted with describes the most primitive activity known to humankind.

Apart from lamenting the overuse of words with great emotive potential, I also like to reflect on the origin of words and contrast their initial meanings with contemporary usage. Take the word pussy for instance. Initially the word was used to refer to cats. Then the word was used to refer to women. In our day the word is mostly used to refer to women’s genitals. No one really calls cats pussies anymore. While you’ll still find ‘cat’ as the first definition in most dictionaries, this does not at all do justice to the way we use ‘pussy’ in the real world. To anyone who is tempted to disagree with me on this point, I dare you to announce to your entire family how much you love looking at pussies on the Internet.

There is a further meaning of the word pussy that is, unfortunately, closely related to women and their vulvas. ‘Pussy’ can also mean ‘coward’, which is fascinating to me. I think it’s amazing how, particularly in the life of men, the same word can have two violently different implications depending on context. What I mean is this: For men, pussy is the highest order of achievement if you get some, and one the most emasculating verbal assault if you’re called one. Now before you get all offended, I would like to specify that the men I have in mind here are mostly heterosexual men who pride themselves on their masculinity to the extent of assuming it as an overwhelming part of their identity; the sort of men who whose self-worth is determined mostly by penis size (which in turn is compensated for by the deafening roars of their pickup trucks).

So far I’ve only really addressed people who swear too frequently and do so poorly. I feel I should also address these people’s polar opposites; people who refuse to acknowledge that in some situations swearing is appropriate. Truth be told, I don’t have that much to say about those people. My opinion on the matter is more or less that of Stephen Fry, who once said: „The sort of twee person who thinks swearing is in any way a sign of a lack of education or a lack of verbal interest is just a fucking lunatic.“

Peeoncé

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Don’t worry, that awful pun will come to make sense soon enough. Can’t promise that you will find it any funnier though.

  Every so often a Beyoncé song gets stuck in my head and there’s nothing I can do to get it out. This would not be that unusual if I actually listened to her music. But I really do not. I’ve never ever chosen to listen to one of her songs, by which I mean I’ve only ever heard her music on radio. To be honest, I can’t even remember the last time I heard a Beyoncé song; it must have been a really long time. Still, they’re there. In me. And occasionally, the songs reach the surface of my mind and I want to drown them in other music or just any available environmental noise but I inevitably fail and Beyoncé wins. Always.

  I fear I may be giving the impression that I don’t like Beyoncé, which is only partly true. Like I said, I’m not a big fan, but I can hardly pretend her songs aren’t catchy. I wouldn’t be writing this article if they weren’t, would I?

  I keep talking about her songs as if I was familiar with her entire back catalogue, when in fact I am only familiar with three of her songs. There’s that one where she endeavours do assemble an army of single ladies but continuously fails to do so (why else would she have to shout „All the single ladies!“ over and over again?) Then there’s that one where she ponders what it would be like to be a member of the opposite sex. And then there’s also that one where someone fails to „put a ring on it“, which, upon investigation, turns out to be the same song as the single ladies one. So, really, I only know two Beyoncé songs. Actually, I don’t even really know those two songs. I can vividly remember the rhythm and melody of each song, but as far as lyrics go, I remember just about nothing. What happens when a Beyoncé song is stuck in my mind is mostly this: na na na na na na na na na na ring on it!, na na na na na na na na na na ring on it! Wuh uh oh uh uh oh oh uh oh uh uh oh, Wuh uh oh uh uh oh oh uh oh uh uh oh, etc. I have quite a hard time remembering lyrics, even with songs I like and listen to a lot. The instrumentals, however, is always anchored in my mind like shameful memories. Give me any 90s pop song that I haven’t heard in over a decade and I will effortlessly hum every single filler guitar lick. But remembering five words from a song? No way.

  Let’s talk about Beyoncé’s song If I Were a Boy for a bit. It’s an emotional and impactful song, a beautifully melodic case study in empathy. However, it’s also, in my opinion, very not very credible.

„If I were a boy… Even just for a day… I’d roll outta bed in the morning… And throw on what I wanted and go…Drink beer with the guys…“

So, what about this is not credible? Well, I’m pretty sure that, no matter what kind of woman you are, the first thing you would do if, one morning, you had awoken in a male body would be to rigorously inspect your new genitalia; look at it, touch it, squeeze, stroke it, try to lick it, and just see what it all feels like. Then, after a few minutes of this, you might roll outta bed, but not to go to the bar. No, sir! (well… sir, but still sort of madame-ish, just with a cock and balls now) Anyway, you would roll out of bed and then keep rolling all the way to the bathroom, where, for the first time in your life, you would find out what it feels like to piss standing up without flooding the entire bathroom.

BEYONCÉ: „Blimey! I just had the most peculiar dream… Hang on. What is that I feel on my inner thigh? Silly me! I must have forgotten to take the dildo out again. I really must remember to take it out before I go to sleep. Hold on a second! Why does it feel so warm and… um… fleshy? That is not my dildo! (she reaches down) Dear me! Why that is a penis! I have a penis! Oh dear! What on Earth am I supposed to do now!? Oh, I know! I must dash to the pub and have some ales with the lads. No time must be wasted. I shall depart instantly! (yes, Beyoncé is actually an upper-crust British woman from the Victorian era. You’ve been lied to.)

Do you get my point here? That’s just not how it happens. You wake up with a penis instead of a vulva, you pee, you wank, maybe do a cheeky helicopter, and then you might think about going to the pub. I definitely know that if I woke up in a woman’s body tomorrow, I would immediately go for a piss and play around with my twinkle cave (one after the other, I should add; I’m not an animal). The first two weeks as a woman would probably be spent in my bedroom, eagerly trying to make myself squirt. Wouldn’t make for a very heartfelt song like Beyoncé’s but at least it’s a credible story.

  Before I go, a note on peeing standing up: I never understood the appeal of urinals. It’s not that I’m terribly lazy, but why stand when you can sit? Especially for peeing. I tend to take advantage of peeing to take a few minutes to relax and reflect on my day, on my life, on what sort of people seriously believe it’s preferable to have the bog roll face the wall and not away from it. Especially at uni, I rejoice in isolating myself from the outside world, locking myself into a cubicle, and slouching and the bog for a good five minutes. I just can’t relax at a urinal, mostly because I actively worry about the stream off urine ricocheting onto my trousers throughout the whole experience. Cubicles also give me the liberty to spontaneously decide to do a poo, which I really appreciate. When I sit on the bog, I let all my muscles relax and my thoughts wander. It’s very much like meditating; the aim is to rid my body of all waste, whether it be urine or bad thoughts. I would say it’s definitely a spiritual experience for me. Maybe I am taking this a bit far. Hm… Never mind. Well… um… that’s it I guess… NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA NA RING ON IT!

Are you alt-right?

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So a couple of days ago, I came across a short discussion in the comment section of a Reddit post, where one of the two participants was a member of the Alternative Right (Alt-Right for short). For the benefit of those who are not in the know, the Alt-Right is a political movement/philosophy that originated in the US in 2010. The very core of the movement is its rejection of mainstream conservatism, because mainstream conservatism is not radical enough for them. I think that should give you an idea about the sort of things they believe in when it comes to various societal and political issues.

     I can’t confidently tell you whether the Alt-Righter in the above-mentioned comment section discussion is a fellow or a lady, but I think it’s safe to assume the former, for the following reason: The overwhelming majority of Alt-Righters are men; men who want to see feminism die. Bearing that in mind, being a female Alt-Righter would be political masochism to say the least (which is not to say there can be no female Alt-Righters, of course). Now let’s get to the actual discussion (the Alt-Righter made only three comments, but each of them is a gold mine).

     Firstly, our fellow writes: „Debate me anytime. I’ll be studying philosophy with a minor in economics (Honours program), so I’ve got a strong understanding of this stuff.“ Sorry to tell you, but that’s not really how it works. The fact that you’re going to study philosophy and economics some time in the future does not automatically give you all the knowledge you might acquire at university. It’s very well possible that you have a decent understanding of philosophical and economic matters, but those would in no way be linked to higher education. Sorry if I’m pernickety, but that’s sort of what philosophy is about.

     The other commenter replies to the Alt-Righter by saying he’s not going to meet up with some „self-described high-school kid from the internet“, to which he then replies: „I’m not in Highschool. While I’ve yet to attend a University (liberal brain-washing camp), I’ve got a Masters level education.“ Well, his first comment definitely makes more sense now, though there are two things I’m rather intrigued by.

     For starters, if you’re delusional enough to believe you basically have a degree without having been to university, why only attribute yourself a Master’s? Why not treat yourself to a PhD? All it takes is a few more false inferences and a tad of wishful thinking, and there you go! You can now consider yourself a Philosophiae Doctor!

     The second thing I’m curious about is that, since you know that all universities are nothing but liberal brainwash camps, why are you going, mate? You’ve found us out. It’s all absolutely one hundred per cent true. Every single university on the entire planet is secretly united with all others by one ultimate mission, which is to liberalise every single student that sets foot on a university campus using whatever means prove most effective. If a student displays even the most hesitant sympathy for any conservative or libertarian view, we simply have to intervene. And sometimes there is little choice but to resort to brainwashing. And we’re pretty damn good at it, let me tell you. We’re like Scientology, but better. Wanna know why? Because no one even knows about all the messed up things we do to win people over. Well, I guess you know, which brings me back to my initial question: why the hell are you going to university? No matter what institution you’re going to attend, me and my fellow liberals will look for you, we will find you, and we will convert you. I want you to know there is absolutely no way for you to escape our brainwashing. You may feel completely safe on your first night on campus, but I can assure you that as soon as you’ve dozed off, a couple of my comrades will have sneaked into your room, tied your arms and legs to the bed posts, stuffed your mouth with a dirty, old rag, and before you know it, someone’s reading Marx to you, over and over again, and there’s nothing you can do. Muhahaha!

      Now to his last comment, where in response to being questioned about his education, he writes: „Needless to say, I don’t possess a Masters Degree (I didn’t mean for it to come across that way). However, with my intelligence and research in economics and philosophy (specifically, Metaphysics), I’ve got a Masters Level education/understanding of these things. Also, for what it’s worth, I’m in an INTJ on the MBTI (Myers briggs Type Indicator), which concludes that I’m adept at logic and reasoning; Hence why I’m a member of the alt-right.“

     Alt-Right. Alt-Right. Is it just me or is our political landscape increasingly hard to distinguish from the world of niche music genres? You’ve got Alt-Right, you’ve got Prog-Liberalism, you’ve got Classical Liberalism. What’s next, Fourth-Rave Feminism? Come to think of it, the music-genre analogy actually makes a lot of sense, because the people who are so enamoured with a particular political philosophy as to perceive it as part of their identity are probably the same people who will categorically refuse to hear any music that transgresses their personal preference. But let’s get back to the main issue.

     I’m not so sure that becoming an Alt-Righter is a valid conclusion to draw here. It’s hard to tell given the sheer number of implicit premises in your argument. Actually, your argument isn’t even technically an argument. What you’ve provided here is one premise and a conclusion. Unfortunately, in an argument you need two premises to be able to draw a conclusion. Then again, it looks like these technicalities need not concern you. Why bother with drawing conclusions when you can just jump to them, amirite?

     What upsets me the most about the Alt-Right movement is its rejection of the pursuit of equality on the basis that it’s an ideology, and, of course, all ideologies are bad and harmful. All I can say here is: have a look in the fucking mirror, people! You tell me which of the two following views is more ideological: the view a good society is one where all human beings are to be seen and treated as equals, and inequalities of opportunity between human beings should be addressed, or the view that a good world is one in which, among other things, white people are superior to people of a different skin colour, men are intrinsically superior to women, and women are the property of men.

      To all Alternative Right members who hold abhorrent views like the one outlined just above, if you’re such experts in philosophy—a lot of them unfortunately claim to be—, then you’ll definitely be familiar with Occam’s razor. Now I don’t want to be too graphic here, so suffice it to say I can think of an alternative way for you to make use of it.


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My first conscious erection

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Why the hell would you want to read this? Anyway, this article is going to be about the animated, science fiction sitcom Futurama. The show has been around since 1999 and had its final episode in 2013, meaning that when it started I was five and when it ended I was eighteen. So, I definitely fit the target demographic for at least a few years. Yet, despite the show airing almost every day of the week, I was never drawn to it. I preferred the Simpsons. In fact, the only times I ever really watched Futurama was when the Simpsons were coming up and I’d turned the telly on a bit early.

         A few days ago, I decided to reconsider my feelings about Futurama. I wanted to find out if it’s as disappointing as I’ve always expected it to be or if it’s actually funny once you get into it. But that was not the only motivation for me to spend my day bingeing on Futurama. There are two more reasons that convinced me to give Futurama a go. For one, there have been a few Futurama posts that made it to the front page of Reddit recently (the Reddit community tends to be a reliable indicator on whether shows are funny or not). The other reason is Leela.

         Leela, in case you don’t know, is one of the protagonists. She’s the one-eyed, purple-haired, slim-figured, humanoid alien. Her female assets also happen to be rather pronounced. This is where we’re getting to the point. Leela, believe it or not, is responsible for giving me my first conscious erection. I have no recollection of exactly how old I was at the time, but I think I must have been about nine or ten. Let’s go with ten. Seeing Leela on the television screen had triggered an until then unprecedented bodily response within me, which in turn triggered the formation of new kinds of desires that, unfortunately, were doomed to remain unfulfilled. Even as a ten-year-old I knew things would never work out; Leela was simply too famous for me (only upon further reflection did it occur to me that the whole ‘her being a computer animation’ thing would be an impracticality. Oh, the innocence and ignorance of childhood!). I still think Leela is a pretty attractive animation, though I can’t tell to what extent this can be separated from my discovery of my sexuality.

         The chest of memories my mind rummaged through as I got to look at Leela in every other scene was, unfortunately, the most appealing thing about watching Futurama. I wasn’t expecting it to be a laugh-a-minute type of show like the Simpsons, but I thought it would be at least a little funny. Of the 100 minutes I watched, I spent 99 trying to convince myself that the funny bits were just coming up. However, I don’t want to claim that the show is objectively not funny, for if it were it probably would not have been around for as long as it has. And Futurama, even if it did not make me laugh once, does have humorous and thought-provokingly satirical visualisations of the distant future.

         A good example of such a visualisation is the suicide booth seen in the very first episode. As absurd as the idea may seem, one can envisage a future where people’s freedoms will be expanded to include the right to die, even if they’re not terminally ill. If a person has been depressed for as long as she can remember and still doesn’t see a way out apart from the way out, who are we to tell that person they are not allowed to relieve herself from her endless pain? And if we allow people the freedom to take their own life, why not also allow these assisted deaths to happen in an efficient and minimally painful manner?

         Anyway, where I think Futurama went wrong is that assisted dying is probably not going to happen in a booth. There’s going to be an app for it. Per request, your smartphone—or whatever device we will be using in the future, maybe some implanted microchips—will deliver a laser beam to your brain that, after from killing you completely painlessly, will also conveniently dispose of your body by pulverising you into dust particles so small as to be invisible to the naked eye. All it takes to instigate the suicide is a vocal command. „Siri, I want to die“. Just a split-second to process the command aaaaaaand you’re history! It’ll be called iWantToDie (not to be confused with Apple’s other service iWantToDye, which merely changes the colour of your hair. I foresee chaos).

         In the end I think the reason why I could not make it past episode five of Futurama is that the characters lack depth, making them hard to relate to, let alone empathise with, which is a shame the show has such a promising premise. Oh well, at least I got to perv out at Leela for a bit.

The thirteenth zodiac sign

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I’ve always found zodiac signs fascinating in that no one I’ve ever talked to believes in them. Yet they continue to appear even in highbrow news sources like the Guardian. Why is that? Do people read them for kicks? Do people read them because they sort of believe in astrology but feel ashamed of the fact that they do? Is it just a very mild form of superstition? I have no idea. Maybe the only reason why they still exist is so that militant ultra-rationalists can keep complaining about the abhorrent intellectual status of society. I, for one, am quite glad that zodiac signs are still around, if only because they seem like an easy target for comedy.

In the following I will document what I have learnt about myself by doing a bit of reading on my zodiac sign, which is Scorpio.

  The main thing I found out about Scorpios is that we’re fucking arseholes, but that things work out for us nonetheless, because we’re also fucking sexy. We’re narcissistic, manipulative people with impeccably good looks and sexual desires so strong that we often cannot control them. It’s almost like we’re the human equivalent of sensationalist news articles: irresistible appearance, highly objectionable and unreliable content. Think a milder version of Patrick Bateman in American Psycho; not quite as murder-y, but there’s definitely an impulse to resort to violence when we feel we have been wronged.

  On this brilliant website called horoscope.com, you’ll find articles like „Are You Too Sexy For Your Own Good, Scorpio?“, where, in exactly twelve lines—that’s some heavy-duty journalism right there—, the author, Lola Stinger, tells you that Scorpios are indeed in danger of being too sexy for their own good and that they ought to be careful. Obviously a reference to her zodiac sign, I still think the author decided on a rather inopportune nom de plume. It just sounds like a pseudonym for someone who does rather niche work in the adult entertainment industry. Let me put it this way, if I typed Lola Stinger into the Pornhub search bar, I would not be surprised, upon hitting enter, to be faced with a woman aggressively stroking her own cock. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course. But maybe it’s not an ideal pseudonym for an astrology writer. Anyway, in the article, Ms Stinger brings in some of her own experience as an uber-sexy Scorpio. She writes: „Sometimes, when I have told some guys I am a Scorpio, they immediately become obsessed with getting me in bed as soon as possible. Once, one even said: “I have great sex with Scorpios.” Omg… yikes!“ I agree, that is a bit yikes. But I suspect that this kind of overeager flirtation is not as much about zodiac signs as it is about desperately horny, heterosexual men. What I’m saying here is that you may as well have revealed yourself to be a steam train engine, and I promise some randy imbecile of a man would have come back with „I have great sex with steam train engines“.

  Anyway, having skimmed a few articles about how and why Scorpios are attractive arseholes, I can’t say I’m convinced. Here’s why: both my girlfriend and I are Scorpios and we’ve both said that, despite being abnormally good-looking, we also have flawless personalities. We are literally the most empathetic, trustworthy and considerate people on the planet. So, this zodiac signs business is clearly humbug. I mean, what more evidence do you need? (None. That is sort of what astrology is about I guess.)

  In closing I would like to express my doubts about astrology—not in the sense that it’s pseudo-scientific nonsense; that’s obvious anyway—but in the sense that I’m not sure that routinely reading one’s horoscope can have a positive effect on one’s well-being. I, for one, refuse to let some supposed authority influence my perception of what my day is going to be like, whether the prediction is good or bad. If you genuinely believe in the information they give you, then you’re already biased before your day has even started and what results is likely to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

  Do you know what would actually be good for you to read in the morning? A joke. See, laughter is actually good for your mental health, as opposed to being told things like ‘be very careful in your flirtation so as not to sexually assault your date’. So, how about instead of this horoscope bogus, you just read a hilarious one-liner to start your day off with a chuckle? In the interest of making this a trend, here’s a joke I came up with a while ago:

What do you call an Irishman on drugs? — A baked potato!

Hilarious, right!? They don’t call me a comedic genius for nothing! (I have to pay them… quite a lot).


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Go-ogle

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If you’re looking to acquire some basic programming skills, the Internet offers literally hundreds of different ways for you to achieve just that. Among all the websites that offer programming tutorials, there is none quite like Codebabes. Codebabes differentiates itself from other platforms in that it does not try to hide the fact that it has a very distinct target demographic in mind. Need I specify what its target demographic is? Probably not. I think one need only consider the name of the enterprise and the titles of their series of tutorials: Internet virgin, SEO virgin, Programming virgin with JavaScript, PHP virgin, and Android virgin. Spotted a common denominator there?

  The way these programming programmes work is that you watch a batch of tutorials where a hot chick teaches you some stuff about about programming. Then you take a test. If you pass said test—thus documenting your increased understanding of a particular programming language—the tutor rewards you by removing an item of clothing from her body for your next set of lessons. What a concept!

  There are more than a handful of criticisms that could be directed against Codebabes, most of which belong to the category of practical ethics. However, rather than focusing on issues of female objectification and the like, I will offer some purely pragmatic criticisms of Codebabes’ services.

  This may come as a shock to about ten people in the entire world, but I don’t think being aroused is at all helpful to concentration and the intake of information. This is as much a matter of evolution as it is a matter of blood flow. To express it in the lingo of programmers, it’s very hard to learn C++ when your C is ++. Codebabes is advertised as the best of both worlds, and may appear at first to be just that, but it is in fact quite the opposite. As far as learning platforms go, Codebabes definitely isn’t among the best. The information you’re taught is pretty basic, rather like the women that impart it. What puts me off a lot more is the patronising, faux-sexy tone and the noticeable despair for innuendos. The cringe is strong with this one.

  Moving on to the undoubtedly worst part: You won’t even get to see full nudity. Underwear is as far as you’ll get, which, apart from being a huge let-down, is rather astonishing given how easily you can access much more exciting material basically everywhere else on the Internet (this one’s specifically for you, dear teenage boys: The bolt-on-tits bimbo of your dreams is only a few clicks away. That is the true beauty of the Internet. Also, even if you think your desires may be a tad too particular to type into the Pornhub search bar, just remember rule 34: if it exists, there is porn of it).

  I said at the beginning that I wasn’t going to comment about moral considerations, but since this article, so far, has turned out a bit shorter than I would like it to be, I’ll say some words about the word babe. It weirds me out. I very much like erotic models to be of age and for them to be referred to in a way that evidences the fact that they are. ‘Girl’ instead of ‘woman’ is in many cases already quite bad if you think about it. However, if you ask me, it’s got nothing on ‘babe’ or, worse still, ‘baby’. Utterances like ‘Oh yeah, baby, fuck me!’ make me severely uncomfortable. ‘Yeah, baby! Cum inside me!’ Let that sink in for a second. Unless you’re a woman who is outspokenly positive about wanting to produce offspring, this is just a weird-as-fuck thing to yell. Now I don’t know if you agree or not, but I’m a bit freaked out by mankind for having sexualised the word ‘baby’ to this extent.

  Anyway, I could conclude this article by calling for a backlash against Codebabes, but given that, at the time of writing, Codebabes is already three years old and has had its deserved share of media outrage, I will opt for a different conclusion; one that is more in line with the rest of the article. I would like to make a plea: To those men who, despite its undeniable drawbacks, buy into the Codebabes philosophy, please make sure that, in the heat of the moment, you don’t confuse dong and dongle.


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Some words about a bunch of overpaid airheads

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This article is going to be about football, which means I should preface this article with a little remark: Dear Americans, by football I mean the sport that everyone else in the world calls football; you know, the one where you actually kick the ball with your FUCKING FEET. On we go.

I love football. I love playing it. I played in a club for about six years and I had a lot of fun while it lasted. Throughout those years my position pretty much always remained the same. I was a forward and there was a very good reason for that, which was that even though my technical abilities left a lot to be desired, I was in nine out of ten cases nippy enough to outrun the other team’s defenders and could just nudge the ball past the goalie into the net. Scoring goals in matches that mattered was an incredibly satisfying thing about playing club football. There were, however, a great deal of other things I didn’t find so appealing.

  The most annoying part about playing football is undoubtedly that, no matter what the median age of the players was, at least six players on each team seemed to think they were Cristiano Ronaldo’s spiritual successor. Selfish playing styles and lack of respect for previously agreed-upon tactics are inevitable in a team of six-year-olds, but when things are still exactly the same eight years onwards it’s annoying at best and pathetic at worst. If only half the team could have just played their bloody position, not constantly tried to out-alpha each other, stopped whining so goddamn much and just shut the fuck up once in a while, then maybe it wouldn’t have been such an easy decision for me to give up club football for good.

  Of course, as we all know, the ego wrestling and whining never stops. In fact, it seems to get worse the older the players get. If you’ve ever seen a match of professional football, you’ll know what I mean. I would call professional footballers a bunch of pussies if it weren’t for the fact that women’s football is far superior to men’s in a variety of ways. The actual level of skill and athleticism of women may not be up to par with that of most male players, but at least they don’t spit on the pitch, they don’t dive all the time, and they don’t complain nearly as much. It’s a pleasure to watch. Really wish they’d make more of an effort with the post-match shirt exchange though. Well, you can’t have it all.

  Unsurprisingly, the women also have laughably low salaries compared to their male peers. If you look at world-class teams of both genders you’ll find that, essentially, male football teams have a combined salary that could feed the entire planet, whereas female football teams have a combined salary that could feed an entire female football team. The pay gap is so vast I wouldn’t be surprised if you could see it from space. Of course, there’s reasons for this; commercial reasons. Men’s football has a much longer history and more people watch it. So that’s where all the money is. There is, however, a flicker of hope that this situation is slowly being addressed as more and more people start to become interested in watching women’s football.

  Everything I’ve just described makes me wish for one perhaps peculiar change in the world of professional football. I wish the size of the player’s heads was proportionate to that of their egos. I, for one, think football would be far more watchable if all the players had heads the size of hot air balloons. „What’s Ronaldo doing there? Oh dear! It appears his ego has conflated so much that after throwing himself in the air for that header he simply remains floating and is unable to make it back down. Tragic turn of events here in the Bernabéu as Cristiano Ronaldo can no longer, for want of a better phrase, stay grounded and helplessly floats around the stadium, angrily shaking his legs in an embarrassing effort to reach the ground with his feet. Talk about taking football to a higher level!“

  Instead of comparing male professional footballers with women’s genitals, I think a comparison with babies is much more apt. Just look at the parallels: they both get pretty much everything they want. People love them despite all their shortcomings and the trouble they cause. Not much is asked of them yet we treat them like royalty. They start crying over every perceived injustice, no matter how minor. Then they complain to the closest person of authority and demand that the situation be addressed and resolved in their favour. Most depressingly, there are numerous cases where the comparison doesn’t even really fall apart when we factor in intellectual capacity. To take it even further, sometimes the comparison still stands when we factor in physical appearance. Some may consider this a low blow, but those people clearly have never seen Wayne Rooney before. Google him and tell me he doesn’t look like an angry baby in every single photo. In fact, the famous English forward has such a funny demeanour that, when my girlfriend saw him for the first time—we were watching the 2016 Euros together—, she burst out laughing and kept chuckling for a solid ten minutes. I can’t blame her.


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