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"I tell you, freedom and human rights in America are doomed. The U.S. government will lead the American people, and the West in general, into an unbearable hell and a choking life." Osama bin Laden, October 2001 Terrorism – it’s not just for Arabs and other people with haggard beards. Without getting involved in the politics of the thing, as politics is restricted to insecure power mongers and society’s leprous dregs, provided here forthwith is a simple guide to D.I.Y terrorism. With this useful guide, you too will be able to embark on a sadistic rampage of havoc and carnage. Read on. Disclaimer Being a terrorist is neither as easy nor as glamorous as it sounds. Do not try this at home unless accompanied by a consenting adult. Something to believe in Firstly you will need a cause. You can’t just run around blowing up people and inanimate objects for no good reason. You have to make up at least a half arsed excuse. E.g. “You have been brutally oppressing my people with your illiberal campaign of selfishly motivated prepollence and lies for decades” or “You kick my dog, bastard guy.” This allies you with calculated reason and wholly justified malice, which you can let fester until unleashing it in a sardonic and hateful expulsion of pure frothing fury. If you are fortunate enough to be bowel quiveringly angry about the same point of conflict as another person, then you are entitled to form a group, which may then be known as a network, army, organisation, crew, or any other sufficiently sophisticated sounding title. Examples of these include Al Qaeda, the Irish Republican Army, Germ and Naughty’s Fucking Crew, the Kurdistan Workers' Party (PKK) etc. You may then begin to formulate your plans for your acts of violence that will ultimately gain you the sympathy and understanding of the greater population. Purification through destruction You will then need to identify a target or targets. Your cause will be helped immensely if the target has some attribute or location that is directly relevant to your fight for freedom, justice, or fun. The World Trade Centre was not only a fucking great excrescence on the New York skyline, but it was conveniently tall and thus easy to hit with a plane. It also happened to be the symbolic centre of American commercial vitality– which may or may not have been relevant. Your choice of target will depend heavily on your cause, but a good example might be the statue of Liberty, being an obtuse and highly hypocritical expression of U.S foreign policy. The structure details are easily obtainable on the Internet and your attack would have maximum symbolic impact without the casualties encouraging the U.S to decide to further decimate your people in your pursuit. This is assuming of course that you have a beef with American policy, which is the latest in extremist chic. Actually if you’re pissed off about anything at all, the Americans are a good target. You can always find something objectionable. The FBI is going to kneecap me for this and then steal my shoes. A target that is symbolic of everything that you loathe is always the most effective for getting across your irrational and fanatical point of view. For this reason Osama’s choice of the WTC was excellent. You might also like to consider such despicable icons of odium as The Chrysler Building, Stadium Australia, or Nicholas Keesing. The Plan You will need to spend a long time researching your intended target to learn security systems intricately. It has taken me about 6 months just to learn the sequences of the traffic lights on Queen St so it will probably take you a bit longer than that to detail the ins and outs of the security and structure of a major target. Your approach and egress to and from the target will need to be sufficiently stealthy so as to avoid immediate detection – unless that is your intention. This will largely depend on your target. You will also need to make your base of operations in some place sufficiently isolated as to not attract any undesired curiosity. Such places may include Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, or Hamilton. Should you decide to take the altogether easier path of a suicide bombing, then you are able to forgo a large portion of this planning stage. All you will need is a willing disciple to eviscerate into martyrdom….and a bomb. Things that make you go ‘boom’ Weapons that make an exceptionally large bang and decimate fuckloads of expensive stuff are usually the most sought after. Not only do they inflict wicked carnage and copious ‘collateral damage,’ but also it’s awesome to watch and you will make all the papers. You could try a subtle approach, but Dubya (or any other leader) will just take you for a child or a pussy and you won’t get any publicity. Other approaches can include nuclear, chemical, and biological weaponry. The U.S has a bit of a funny policy on these and for some reason seems to object to extremist groups possessing such joyous playthings. However, not to worry, after a quick poke and tickle on the Internet and several emails later, I had no less than 3 organisations willing to illegally sell me various artillery and explosives – for a fairly high price. Details of how to make money to bankroll your pyrotechnic exploits are included later. Right now here are a couple of bomb recipes I found on the Internet to get you started: Ammonium Nitrate If you’re not good at sourcing pure reagents, you’re probably fucked. Here’s the rundown – Start by pouring Nitric acid into a large flask in an ice bath. Then, pour household ammonia into the flask and run away. Say hello to your Ammonium Nitrate. After the materials have stopped reacting, (you should try this and see what they do, it’s wicked), one would simply have to leave the solution in a warm place until all of the water and any un-neutralized ammonia or acid have evaporated. There should be a fine powder remaining. This powder has a nasty tendency to pick up water from the air which results in non reactance – to remedy this you just have to mix 94% by mass Ammonium Nitrate with 6% Kerosene to make what is known as ANFO or Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil Solution. You will need a very large amount of this stuff to blow anything up. It also happens to be annoyingly stable and this will require a fairly large amount of TNT or similar charge just to get it to react. When it does though…. Awesome. Plastique explosive from bleach To manufacture potassium chlorate from bleach (5.25% sodium hypochlorite solution) - Heat 3.8L of bleach in a non-reactive container. Add 63 g of potassium chloride (salt substitute). Boil Solution until you get a hydrometer reading of 1.3. Cool in a fridge until it is between room temperature and 0 degrees C. Filter out the crystals that have formed and save them. Rinse and repeat. Take the crystals that have been saved and mix them at 56 g per 100 ml distilled water. Heat this solution until it boils and allow it to cool. Filter the solution and save the crystals that form upon cooling. Powder these crystals. Melt five parts Vaseline and five parts wax. Dissolve this in white spirits and pour this liquid on 90 parts of your crystals in a plastic bowl. Knead this liquid into the potassium chlorate until intimately mixed. Allow all the gasoline to evaporate and place in a cool dry place. Well done, you now have a highly unstable home made explosive. Don’t heat it up, or induce friction or static electricity. In fact, keep your grubby fucking hands the hell away from it. Enjoy your 3300 m/sec detonation velocity. Fizzing Bath Bombs Bath bombs are shaped products that are dropped into a tub of warm water. The bombs fizz and bubble until they dissolve. When the bomb is dissolved, it leaves behind oils, fragrance and other ingredients that are very beneficial to the skin. These bombs tend to be quite expensive, but you can make then at home for a fraction of the price! Materials Needed: 1 cup Baking Soda, 1/2 cup Citric Acid, 1/2 cup Corn Starch, 2.5 Tablespoons of cooking oil, 3/4 Tablespoon of Water, 2 teaspoons of essential or fragrance oils, 1/4 teaspoon of Borax, Food colouring. Mix the baking soda, citric acid and cornstarch until well blended. In a separate bowl combine cooking oil, water, essential oil, and borax. Mix well. Add wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and blend thoroughly. Add a few drops of food colouring, and blend. Pack into candy or soap moulds. Press firmly. Turn mould over and remove bath bomb. Allow 1-2 days to dry. Enjoy! If anyone successfully detonates a fizzing bath bomb on Nicholas P Keesing, they can claim a quality prize from the Craccum offices. Funding for dummies If you’re a bit of a pussy, or have any brain cells left after smoking all that ‘P’, you will be more than a bit nervous about making the above dodgy explosives. This means that you will probably want to purchase some quality explosive produce. For this you will need a shitload of cash. You’ll either need a legitimate business empire or a lot of sneaky cunning of the variety not looked upon kindly by people like police officers. You can get some quite well paid jobs by making up bullshit on your C.V. Employers are somewhat clued up on this tactic due to recent events, so other ideas might be in order. Starting a scam is a great way to earn money. Tricking old people out of their life savings through dodgy investment schemes is a great idea if you can pull it off. You could also try building substandard houses for fuck all and charging a lot for them, then dissolving your company before people figure out their houses are shite. This may have been already used. There’s no tried and true method for making a lot of money for a terrorist organisation so you’re going to have to dream up your own filthy plan. This article should have provided you with a good basis for how to go about starting your own terrorist network, or at least a fun way of blowing off both your hands. And probably half your face. Good luck with your terrorist exploits. Should you require any further guidance, or happen to be appalled by the above article, you are welcome to email Happy Ahmed at tired_pseudonym :at: hotmail.com. |
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| Warning: The following article may have teratogenic effects on your baby. In my holiday I rode a plane. I marvelled at the people around me. They calmly filed onto the aircraft, faces smiling, friendly, happy people. They sat in their allocated seats, still smiling. All the while doing exactly as was expected of them. Like asinine slabs of meat they sat, contentedly handing over their lives to an impalpable agent of aviation. Pulling the proverbial blanket over their own heads, and ignoring the proverbial troll grinning and giving a knowing wink from under the proverbial bridge. The male flight attendant with horribly unflattering glittery eyeliner performed the safety demonstration. “We’re all fucked,” screamed my internal monologue. I began gnawing on my tray table in abject despair. The flight attendant gently reminded me of airline protocol. Why must I have my tray table folded away for takeoff? A simple question with a complicated, nonsensical answer. After several minutes of circular logic and preordained responses, I gave up. I had the last laugh though; My seat was not quite in the upright position. Oh rebellion! My one sweet indulgence! During the flight, with the masses politely chatting amongst themselves, or enjoying a non-offensive kip, I was exceedingly bored. I fidgeted. I scratched myself. I had no leg room. I explained to one of the cabin crew that I thought I was developing acute Deep Vein Thrombosis, and was greeted by yet another rehearsed smile and giggle and curt pseudo reassurance. I accepted my miniature bag of ‘locally produced’ chips, mouthful of water, and bite of cake. There was no laughter when I extrovertedly performed the Penn & Teller exploding eye trick with my ultra pasteurised milk carton and matching rubber fork all over the back of the upright position of the seat in front. I needed to scream. If you scream down an airline toilet whilst activating the extreme suction flush, only those lucky devils in the flight path can hear you. I sauntered to my seat, guided by the patronising glow of the ‘seatbelts fastened’ lights. During the landing, we experienced ‘slight turbulence’. I sat in terrified silence, wishing I knew how to return my seat to the upright position, so as to be safe. As we touched down I felt like kissing my tray table for its sturdy reassurance and knowing complacence. Their transportation complete, the droves of mind raped husks duly egressed. They exchanged plastic pleasantries with the flight crew, who perform countless iterations of the “goodbye” followed by ‘glowing smile’ stance, which they studied for exhaustively during their arduous years in flight attendant academy. I scowled menacingly and was vehemently escorted from the aircraft with a condescending pat on the bottom. My conclusion from this chain of events is that in a roundabout way I discovered that to do that same thing as everyone else is by far the path of least resistance. If you do what you are ‘supposed’ to do, that which is expected of you, everything is easy. Why bother trying to question the powers that be or think creatively when you can slide down the gentle greasy path of nonchalance upon your tender naive buttocks. Think about it kids, you’re at university now. Word to your collective mothers. For any comments or criticism, please email me, Happy Ahmed, at tired_pseudonym :at: hotmail.com |
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| Warning: This column is just a shallow excuse to print lots of rude words. “Vulgarity would be a comical mistress indeed. She would have intense Tourette’s and be capable of violent and prolonged spurting eruptions of coprolalia that would make a sailor shit his pants. She would kick you in the nuts as a matter of ritual, steal all your scat flicks and show them to your mother, and regularly prod your buttocks with a pointy stick.” Being fairly ribald myself, it intrigues me that people can be offended by the simplest of words and phrases. Today’s generation have become much more tolerant of extreme vulgarities such as ‘cunt’. This is more than likely attributable to the venerable Honest Colin and his proliferation of such words in this delightful mag in previous years. Cunt is generally perceived to be the single most offensive word, although my Mum dislikes me to call her a motherfucker more. Levels of offence of various phases are difficult to gauge. It really does depend on the recipient. Were I to outright call you, an open minded and liberal student, a cunt, as is regularly the case, chances are you wouldn’t care too much. However, were I to proclaim to have smeared your darling Granny with excrement and forced her to tongue my perineum, you might be somewhat more offended. So naughty words do not necessarily equal vulgarity. In order to further your grasp of obscenity, it is worthwhile to investigate the past. Perhaps we should engage in some basic etymology. The word fuck derives almost certainly from old Germanic, although it has many forms across Europe. Swedish: fock, Norwegian: fukka, and German: fokken. All of which in some forms mean to thrust or to copulate, with fock also meaning penis. Actually, almost all obscenities - with the exception of cunt, can be traced back to German people, which explains why they are so blatantly eschewed by the majority of Europe. Cunt does not derive from the Saxon cunny as is popularly believed, but may come from the Latin word cunnus. Which translates literally to mean “German people.” German jokes aside, when first penned these words were considered extremely offensive – to the point where their mere utterance in the direction of a suitably fiery individual would result in a vicious fight to the death, probably involving a wide variety of particularly pointy implements. If someone called me a cunt right now, even if they were particularly vehement about it, even if they spat when they said it, I’d perhaps just give him/her a half-hearted backhand. What then has caused such marked social aloofness? Perhaps it is just conditioning, in the same way we have been desensitised to deplorable television violence. It is a sorry state of affairs to be a member of a culture in which we can no longer offend each other enough that we simply must smash the living piss out of each other. For this reason I must insist that you, the valued reader, attempt to become offended at the slightest insult. I expect to see at least 8 fights related to insults tomorrow. For if we cannot insult people, what future does this rag, or indeed humanity have? |
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| Jism and Blasphemy With Happy Ahmed “...Practising freelance gynaecology, where there’s a womb there’s a way – with you it’s for free. Slut. Whore. Cunt.” I view drunkenness as a Zen state. A spiritual ritual, the duration of which is spent shouting and slavering upon yourself and others. Inebriation promotes bonding and mateship (to use an odious term) it also reveals the rapacious sicko cunts that we all really are. Hurrah! If you’ve never done something frivolous and socially unacceptable whilst completely munted, endeavour to do so, as right now the bulk of the student body are cooler than you. Especially me. I got written permission to poo on someone’s face at Shads the other night. Beat that. The sheer randomness and irrationality of drunken people astounds me. We have the most bizarre notions of reality, and the most ridiculous ideas. Physical comedy was spawned from two guys quaffing fermented lizard piss in a desert and one decided it’d be fucking hilarious to jam an immense and pointy cactus up his arse and pretend to be George Bush. Hysterical. The “I love you man” syndrome raises its ugly head and smiles sheepishly like your friend caught masturbating over pictures of your mother. Emotional control relinquished, the drink leaves you poignantly naked and spreadeagled, whilst your friends delight in malicious and nefarious amateur cinematography. Sexual encounters can become awkward. It may seem like an amazingly funny idea at the time to dramatically and spectacularly come in her eye then slap her face with your moist and spent penis, but if you ever meet again, your red dragon antics will result in an atmosphere so thick even Dubya could get the better of it. Society, at least the type that makes the rules, frowns upon drunkenness. It is uncivilised, unsophisticated, and generally the folly of lesser citizens, and some farm animals. One should never lose control of oneself in company. The Joneses would bound into the lead. To these people I say: “fuck you”. Loudly. With a raised jug in one hand and an uncompromising slur in the other. The reason that we are discouraged from alcohol, and indeed from any other drug is nothing to do with our own safety. Nothing to do with our health. Nothing to do with danger to others. It’s about our predictability and control. When sober we are generally rational and sensible people. Add alcohol and that’s right out the window. The sober are easy to herd, they conform to authority, they believe the things Mummy Helen tells them (vast generalisation, sorry if you’re one of the few who can think for yourself, this column is for the stupid and ignorant masses). The state want you to believe that if you drink you will either die a horribly painful and gory death, or wake up in a bus shelter on K’Road being fondled by hobos (entirely fictional scenario). You are being lied to. I say fuck them. Drink. A lot. Take a running dive headlong into the festering and rancid toilet bowl of drunken chaos. Rob from your neighbours and kill your friends. Fondle people passed out in bus shelters. Lie, cheat, drink and drive, don’t vote, leave the seat up, spank your lecturers, sell your mother, invade an Arab country. Go to Shadows every day. See you there. Cunts. For declarations of undying love, hate mail, and accusations of blatantly misleading the stupid and ignorant masses, please e-mail me, Happy Ahmed, at tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com Your mother already has. |
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| Swiss Family Robocop With Happy Ahmed “We all smoked way too much. If you took the shit we smoked in just one year and rolled it into one big joint, it would be so much bigger than the biggest joint you have ever seen that you would need to smoke two really big joints just to deal with the concept of its incredible bigness.” He died with a falafel in his hand. He had been trying to start a new life in New Guinea. Until OMNI corporation had him wetly eviscerated whilst off his tits on fistfuls of fiendish stimulants. Alex Murphy awoke to discover himself. He was dangling from a surprisingly well equipped tree house whilst being enthusiastically beaten by a bamboo shaft with nails in it by some cackling, drooling old cunt named ED-209 who was wearing an eye patch and occasionally disappeared behind a thick black cloud of expletives. He appeared to be smoking an old oil filter, and was using a rolled up Herald as a peg leg. Alex Murphy had little choice but to protect the innocent, serve the public trust, and uphold the law. After dutifully bellowing his famed war cry; “De-troit reprazent!” he proceeded to expunge ED-209 into a rather untidy pile of gristle. Alex Murphy wakes up and has shit his pants. A particularly abhorrent transvestite with exposed pierced hairy nipples and cleft palate is stroking his hand and explaining the finer details of genital electric shock therapy whilst suspended in a leather body sling. This is your life, and it’s ending one minute at a time. This is irrefutable. Fight Club says so. Self inflicted synthesised lobotomy deftly infused into an overworked nervous system in order to heighten experiences which are intrinsically devoid of pleasure. That’s why public TV is only tolerable when you are immersed in chemical alternate reality. True bliss purchased by the point. Carly Binding being slow roasted in a broken light bulb. I am the way and the truth and the life. This is irrefutable. John 14:6 says so. Paranoiac delusions of grandeur / omnipotence / attrition / delinquency. Believing you are The Saviour and being frightened of yourself. Peering nervously out of the leg hole of your soiled y-fronted hovel camouflage, because you heard that Bodycount was in the house. Afterbirth milkshakes on a cold Sunday afternoon. Screaming “youse pigs scums” with bleeding throat effort, then poising delicately in order to hear “we fucking hate you” shrieked from the next room. Anything to do with believing you are a jellyfish. Living on the dark side of the spoon. If I were a horrible affliction I would be syphilis. This is irrefutable. www.rumandmonkey.com says so. Nonsensical ramblings in an awful attempt at coming up with an interesting column. Including too many references that no-one understands. Underestimating the stupidity of people and their self nihilistic capacity. Using stupid sentence structure. Badly. Having no underlying idea or theme. This is the end This is irrefutable. It’s too awful to continue. For criticism and more criticism for wasting 10 minutes of the lives of the drugged up student body, you probably won’t bother to email Happy Ahmed at tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com I’m not holding my breath, although your mother is. |
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Happy Ahmed Says: Single White Shemale “Really hand it to me / I've always loved you / love dumpling / your shit's like chocolate cake / and your ass smells like a rose / I really hate you / love dumpling / now my bowels ache“ I can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you. Die screaming with sharp things in your head. A common sentiment. Mistreated and frankly overused. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Piffle and poppycock. Hell hath no fury like a freshly circumcised sleep deprived adult grizzly bear on amphetamines with an essay due in 2 hours, being assaulted (aurally and otherwise) by Paul Holmes dressed as a clown and singing particularly vile covers of crap songs and wielding an electric cattle prod. Women are the scourge of the earth. Cause of numerous wars and ¾ of all car accidents. Tolerated only because they possess a dark moist bag where children live until they get tired of the smell. Had this not been the case, natural selection would have had his wicked way with them long ago. Romanticism? Fuck off. Check www.goatse.cx for proof. Timothy Leary once said “women who seek to be equal with men lack ambition.” He was so munted on Lysergic Acid Diethylamide, he also thought that clouds were a pretty neat idea. Equality is a myth. It’s like saying sheep and llamas can be the same. Sheep are tastier, but llamas are more useful. That’s just the way it is. This is irrefutable. Happy Ahmed says so. Suffering mass hypnosis of the unsuspecting and trusting male. Docile and unassuming, he is beguiled into idiotic behaviour and dancing like a muppet in the noble pursuit of a quiet place to whet his cock’n’balls. The she-spider, coy and cunning, the harlot mates. As the male is experiencing the epiphany of climax with a very silly expression, the arachnid wench bites his head off. Not content at merely killing her hapless mate, she proceeds to eat him, balls and all. Spiteful slut that she is. Alas, she can’t help it, blame nature. Mother nature. We suckle upon her dangling teat, yet at the same time try to set fire to it. Mother Nature is the unwieldy slut that spawned us all from painfully frothing primordial discharge. Omnipotent yet helpless, suffering yet beautiful, nurturing yet oh so delicious. Perhaps women are the essence of the newborn - dribbling, messy, and foul smelling, yet at the same time too cute and pathetic to put out of their misery with a good solid crack with a two by four. Though a succinct backhand works wonders. A frustratingly symbiotic relationship, boy and girl get on like mouse and trouser leg, like sputum and frenulum, like pork and pie. No retreat, no surrender, just soldier on at the whims and delights of the little general. Frenulum. Look that one up. Hilarious. Tune in next week for Happy Ahmed’s Wanking Special. Happy Ahmed hates everyone, except your mother. To remind him that he forgot to make fun of periods please email him at tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com. His dad says “if you don’t, you’re a homo.” |
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| Happy Ahmed Says: Frenulum “Every time I walk down the street - Erection / When I see a woman that I'd like to beat - Erection / When I think of blood I think of love - Erection / I get Erection Oh, I get Erection – Erection!” - Turbonegro Warning! The events and characters hereto forth referred to as ‘the-despicable-acts-of-debauchery-and-feculence’ and ‘the-patrons-of-this-festering-armpit-of-Auckland’, respectively, in this column are indeed non-fictional; they are based on you and your friends and what you do late at night. In the single greatest achievement in post-modern journalistic voyeurism, Happy Ahmed has unscrupulously infiltrated the darkest and cruddiest orifices of the student body. Posing shrewdly as Craccum’s newly appointed wanking correspondent, he pointedly and deliberately coerced drunken Shadows patrons to divulge their darkest and most vile self pleasuring secrets last Friday night. The quest was simple; to ask the hard questions, uncompromisingly, Hosking style. No retreat, no surrender. To unwaveringly pursue this righteous and holy information in order to better educate you, the perverse little fuckers, about the ways in which you abuse your bodies. Upon approaching the first unsuspecting group, Happy Ahmed launched headlong into his excruciatingly sincere introduction, fighting back his customary smirk. The group responded well and within minutes were talking in depth about masturbating. Success! The rest was easy. Gain their trust then completely and maliciously abuse it in a sordid fit of malevolent betrayal. Yay journalism! Happy Ahmed spake first unto one Nic of Mt Eden, who proclaimed that his favourite self flagellatory pastime was to engage in mutual masturbation with his flatmate, Al. They would lie blindfolded with loud music and enjoy one another’s company. Nic later, after imbibing a few more beers, proclaimed that he liked to cheat by removing his blindfold with his free hand. Al seemed displeased. This is not an uncommon practise amongst heterosexual men, and should probably be considered by more as a way to alleviate surliness and frustration. Alex of Westmere proclaimed that there was nothing better than removing the centre from a large tomato and warming it in the microwave. He did admit that this practise can become messy, and sometimes he got in trouble with his Mum. Happy Ahmed offered to get in some trouble with his Mum also, at which point Alex looked repulsed and took his leave. The fairer sex was more of a challenge. Female patrons were less forthcoming, and seemed unsure of Happy Ahmed’s moral fibre and good intentions. After being assured that he was in fact a picture of fluffiness and delight, some were more open. Girls however, are as boring as the proverbial Paul Holmes, when it comes to masturbation – at least as far as they are willing to admit. The most adventurous respondent, Jill of Grey Lynn, offered to take Happy Ahmed home and show him. Happy Ahmed asked if she had a mother. He was slapped for his trouble. Happy Ahmed’s adventures in the seedy underbelly of Shadows restored his faith in humanity, that they are indeed vile, and that most of them were vulgar enough to enjoy his column, or at least find the word frenulum funny. To send Happy Ahmed stories about your masturbation exploits or pictures of your mother, or stories about your mother’s masturbation exploits, e-mail him at tired_pseudonuym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com. If you do, Colin will give you a spectacular prize. |
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| Happy Ahmed Says: I might be a cunt but I’m not a fucking cunt. "Build a man a fire, and he’ll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life." This week Happy Ahmed scrutinises the moronic adoration of alleged celebrities and the imbeciles who lap up every pathetic detail of their dull, dysfunctional lives. He fails to comprehend how, because of their celebrity status, these people suddenly become vastly more interesting to the unreservedly insipid masses. A famous person is a mere face in a sea of billions. If one face is more recognisable, why suddenly do we care where they put their genetalia? Why does fucking Woman’s Day not do exposés on Ben from Kingsland drunkenly rooting his Mrs? Or kissing an innocent Happy Ahmed in Shadows, and behaving in a sexually inappropriate manner with a potato wedge? Because no-one gives a fuck! Lack of specious renown perhaps? Having a lot of people know your name entitles you to different treatment to the next bag of compost. Why do these shallow and disillusioned people care so much that they shriek and shit their pants at the mere sight of these spurious idols? Drawn like flies to shit, they crowd and shove for a glimpse, but why? There are countless incognito unknowns who have achieved far greater deeds, and are far more interesting people, yet they remain decidedly un-ambushed. You may argue that they have lots of money, that everyone knows them, that they are pretty people. They have nice cars and live in nice houses. They have nice things and fuck nice people. You look up to them. You idolise them. They are better than you. They are the people that you want to be, you sad, pathetic, misguided little fucks. This is a fistful of minced pygmy testicles slapped into a highball glass over ice with just a dash of Ron Rico and a slice of lime. They’re just as stupid as you, just as neurotic, just as perverted, and just as awkward. These people are embarrassments, not fucking worthy of worship. I blame the media. Not Craccum media, but the thick-as-pigshit, dumbed down so even the porch monkeys can understand, anti abortion and G.E, safe for nana to read, spreading-out-on-the-kitchen-floor-for-the-dog-to-shit-on-after-they-chew-on-small-children media. The shit that gets pedalled as news in the pages of these rags is repulsive. The whole ‘celebrities are better beings than you’ idiom is perpetuated in such media blatantly day after day, and frankly Happy Ahmed is sick of it, and of the banal flock who graze lazily upon their pages, mentally masticating each irksome detail. That said, you, the ignorant masses, have all proved your perverse voyeuristic streak by reading last weeks wanking special, and accordingly seem to thrive on vicariously living the lives and dubious activities of people who are cooler than you. Why else would you read this profane filth - aside from Happy Ahmed’s particularly well disguised, astute and insightful social commentary? Happy Ahmed is not a celebrity. He is not a real person. He is nameless. He is a programmed and vulgar figment of your collective imaginations, Matrix style. He is fascinated by your mother. This is officially ‘Kill a Celebrity’ week. The first person to bring Happy Ahmed the head of a well known celebrity will receive a fabulous prize. Alternatively, you could e-mail the head to him, or tell him just how much of an elitist cunt he really is, at tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com |
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| Happy Ahmed Says: Your Boyfriend sucks why don’t you go out with me? "It's not funny, my ass is on fire / Paraplegic, inhuman liar / Carve a smile / On your face / Everything's great / Suffocate” This week happy Ahmed takes a highly intelligent yet predictably belligerent and frankly just plain misinformed swipe at the shit music you listen to and why it will never die. Pop music eh? Mindless disposable anthems for a generation of brain-dead fuckwits and trendy socialite whores, lapping hungrily at the seeping vagina of the music industry. Pisswilly music for the masses, written to a precise chemical formula like aural novocaine. Distil equal parts commercialism and consumerism into a crap DJ’s mixer and just add naive impressionable youth. This is you. Do not deny it. Time to be educated. You’re a fluffy little pop happy slut motherfucker just like everyone else and you know it. This makes you a bad person. The U.S plays heavy metal to Iraqi captives to make the fuckers talk. It’s culturally offensive. If that’s not a reason to listen to it, I don’t know what is. There is something to be said for vocals that sound like a cat with its asshole on fire. If the music makes you want to kill yourself or someone else, it’s almost certainly good for society. Make sure you get your whole head in front of the shotgun. Listening to anything screamed about a Paralytic Scatological Blowjob is certainly going to make you exponentially cooler than some soppy lullaby whinging like a closet homo about undying love for that special-retarded-girl-with-a-limp-but-lovely-eyes. Happy Ahmed postulates that the only reason that this type of music is popular is that the vast majority of the population are indescribably stupid - something he would happily debate if any of you dribbling dunces could stop scratching your collective pestilent apathetic buttocks long enough to e-mail him. Pop music frolics gaily hand in hand with your insipid celebrity fascinations and dull masturbation habits – soon enough you’ll all be sipping Latte on Ponsonby road with your 1.5 children, mortgage, and migraine. Fuck the nuclear family. Welcome to nuclear society. You’re all clones. You behave predictably. The government have mathematicians who can write equations which accurately model your entire life. Go look in the Engineering Science department. How does it feel to be part of a machine? You’re born, consume, pay taxes, and die. You get horribly offended by alternative media. You look down your nose and giggle behind your macchiato at the guy in the scabby jersey and unkempt hair vigorously scratching his nuts outside the wanky cafes in The Chancery (cunts). You hate the word cunt. You live, breathe and shit popular culture. Your entire purpose is to lower the average intelligence quotient of society. Feel like a cunt. Feel dirty. Your mother does. Happy Ahmed feels sorry for you. You are a pathetic, apathetic little bastard. Go enjoy your exams happy in the knowledge that you blend perfectly into a perverse machinistic society. Happy Ahmed may be an elitist cunt, but at least he’s not you. E-mail him at tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com if your mother has been abnormally cheerful lately. |
| QUOTE (Happy Ahmed @ Sep 2 2005, 01:21 PM) |
| They slowly get less relevant and more cynical too. I love it. It got to the point where i'd have a few beers, masturbate for a couple of hours then knock out a prostitute, put my dick in the ass, then send him off without paying. Being an rapist is hard work, yo. |
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| Happy Ahmed Says: Smegma, the natural way to whiter teeth and healthy gums. "The animal kingdom would probably cease to exist without smegma." - Thomas J. Ritter, MD You there! You are a vulgar excrescence upon the ripe jiggling buttocks of society. As humanity bends forth to accommodate her regular buggery in Happy Ahmed’s sweaty embrace, you disrupt her smooth supple aesthetic, bringing into disrepute the tender hindquarters that it brings me such atonement to regularly thrust to the point of rawness. You rear up as a festering lesion from the darkest mephitic and hirsute crevasses of the people’s collective proverbial bootay, tainting Happy Ahmed’s customary romp and rollick at the expense of the people’s rectal integrity. This makes him a sad Ahmed. In fact, fuck you, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell. It’s you as a person who single-handedly detracts from the purity and beauty of society and frankly you’re not dragging your share of the corpse. Happy Ahmed will reach forth and pop you like an improperly duct taped gerbil. Your layabout-ball-scratching-lifestyle and mundane aspirations resign you to eternally voting national and watching holmes. If humanity is to avoid its gene pool being diluted by urinating dullards into drooling mediocrity, more individuals need to stand up, give mr holmes a swift kick in his warty dwarf-like nether regions, and become outstanding and champion-esque. The world needs more people like Happy Ahmed – Breakfast of Champions. A university degree may well be a solid first step. But are you really here to improve yourself, or because you can’t be fucked getting a job yet – where is your BA taking you? Is your degree in Moral and Practical Theology really going to help you make a difference? Is this going to aid you upon the seldom tread road to magnificence? Strive for nothing less – with role models like Happy Ahmed you have no excuses. Compared to Happy Ahmed, your lives are dull and meaningless. Whilst heavy drinking may be a noble pastime, it gains you little and improves you none. Leap forth and do something wicked, set fire to yourself on video, make a porn movie, create something beautiful, start a shoddy company and pedal low quality goods using a verbose and self-righteous column (“Happy Ahmed Fucked My Mother” T-shirts $29.95), set fire to yourself whilst making a porn video whilst wearing said low quality goods. Self promotional advertorial stunt porn. Creative. Walk the fine line between genius and insanity. You are in your absolute prime, physically and mentally yet you wallow and languish in the rotting fat mans legpit of your accepted humdrum life. Throw yourself to the limits of endurance and attainment. Discover what you are ultimately capable of, don’t settle for just pushing the envelope – screw it up, set it on fire and biff the cunt. Write your own rulebook – make yourself an exception. Fuck obedience, fuck prosaic expectations - do something with yourself. A life which never flourishes due to lack of ambition is far sadder than one which is cut short, removing the opportunity. Doubtless you will find something horribly objectionable and run sobbing like pathetic little bitches to your collective ugly mothers who will obligingly dangle their teats fastidiously for you to suckle upon for consolation. You all sicken me. Be as cool as Happy Ahmed and own your very own Happy Ahmed merchandise. First shipment sold out, but the second will be on sale shortly. For pre-orders and offer your stories of super-ordinary achievements email Happy Ahmed on tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com or I will stun you with my cudgel. |
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In fact, fuck you, and pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell. It’s you as a person who single-handedly detracts from the purity and beauty of society and frankly you’re not dragging your share of the corpse. Happy Ahmed will reach forth and pop you like an improperly duct taped gerbil. Your layabout-ball-scratching-lifestyle and mundane aspirations resign you to eternally voting national and watching holmes. If humanity is to avoid its gene pool being diluted by urinating dullards into drooling mediocrity, more individuals need to stand up, give mr holmes a swift kick in his warty dwarf-like nether regions, and become outstanding and champion-esque. The world needs more people like Happy Ahmed – Breakfast of Champions. |
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Happy Ahmed Says: I’m out of glue and just sniffing myself “I was sitting in my living room, naked, with a can of Budweiser and a three-inch steak watching the (gulf) war live on TV. I had a six-foot erection with a giant cheeseburger on the end of it” – Denis Leary Ever gaze longingly at the television, that incandescent shrine of indecency? Ever stare fixedly, fascinated, at various fauna copulating animatedly on Discovery Channel performing with the exacting fury of precision their best impressions of Happy Ahmed and your mother? Ever find yourself virtually overcome with lust at the on-screen big game bacchanalia that you cracked just the slightest mongrel? Rippling flanks. Lean. Tender. Delicious. Meat, ladies and gentlemen, the other breakfast of champions. Ever find yourself salivating uncontrollably, cradling your healthy carcass induced erection and imagine sinking into the virgin flesh of a succulent side of innocent lemur or cute baby seal? Moose and cheese pies? Beagle McNuggets? Utterly delicious. Ever mildly froth at the mouth, grinning stupidly, still sporting a self righteous meat induced erection, spy an acquaintance and realise that they look tasty? Damn tasty? Ever stare, drooling slightly and visually revel in the splendidly tantalising fleshy goodness of the aforementioned acquaintance? Ever at this point in time be overcome with desire and decide you didn’t like that person much anyway and what did they ever do for you and set about eviscerating that person hungrily in a lustful fervent cloud of gore? But it doesn’t stop there. Does it? Have you ever beguiled your friends into joining you in your filthsome rapacious deeds? Sitting in a circle greedily tearing off your own pound of flesh? Ever laughed and consumed merrily without regard for your prey having rolled over and died of its own accord? Ever continue to feed off a rotting carcass while all of your friends get up and leave in disgust? Have you ever killed and eaten another human just because you were hungry? Or because you felt threatened? Or because they were bit scabby looking and you thought it was for their own good? Have you ever committed violence of the murderous variety towards another because they thought or acted differently to you? Have you ever tried to legitimise such nefarious actions in your own mind as being obligatory in order to maintain your own safety and/or way of life? Have you ever, not content with merely eating a person and picking their bones bare in order to sustain your own agenda, then set fire to their mother, raped their sister, then proceeded to shit bits of them out upon their chosen religious tome? Have you ever been accused of just being too overwhelmingly fucking stupid, ignorant, self involved and clueless to exist? Did you ever get the feeling everyone thought you were a complete and utter cunt? The US have. If any of you would be so kind as to take a little time out of your busy little schedules to email Happy Ahmed on tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com it would be wonderful. He realises that your B.A. is terribly strenuous and time-consuming, but he really would appreciate a little feedback. It’s not too late to order your “Happy Ahmed Fucked My Mother” T-shirts for just $29.95. Get in quick to buy a way to be as cool as everyone else, these are bound to sell out again. Join Happy Ahmed next week as he explains why racism is excellent. Cunts. |
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| Happy Ahmed Says: Niggers, Honkies, Gooks, Homos, Spastics, and Dogma. “The modern definition of 'racist' is someone who is winning an argument with a liberal.” - Peter Brimelow I am a Isajeep. Part of the social flotsam that jettisons from the redundant viscera of a Eurocentric world order. A vulgar by-product of belligerent reactionary colonisation. The choking slick of modern industry on the surface of our ocean. The bloated buoyant excreta in Ethiopian drinking water. The Kurds in Turkey’s way. And I don’t like you. In fact I hate you. Every aspect of your existence makes me want to delicately disembowel you with a shovel then heartily ram a pickaxe through your spinal column leaving you bleeding profusely in a ditch. You are apathetic, lazy and stupid. Does this make Happy Ahmed a racist? Or just a violent and surly cunt? It seems the unimaginative are all too eager to play the accusatory racist trump. The proclamation of a healthy hatred of a particular group by no means constitutes racism. Bigotry, intolerance, and petulance maybe, but not necessarily racism. Happy Ahmed might vehemently express his dislike for you and people like you or their actions, characterising you by your most distinguishing feature. You may be described as a honky. Or a whitey. That doesn’t mean I hate you because you are white. I hate you because you are thick / irritating / retarded / female / a cunt. The abject tyranny of political correctness murderously asphyxiates us with sugary pleasantries and tedious nomenclature. We are suffocating under an increasingly voluminous mountain of protocol. Contemporary society is defined by our extreme trepidation for inflicting offence. Upon anyone. Likewise, the pretence of offence is a manipulative social and political tool. We should just revert to big lumps of wood with nails in them. Racism is a modern development, a symptom of an increasingly diverse and sophisticated world, one which natural dullards and the dunces-by-choice find threatening and terrifying. It’s an irrational fear of change and difference. Take immigration – people are shitting their pants over the ‘Asian invasion’ and express their hatred of Asian immigrants. Of these people, misguided as they may be, few are actual racists. Given that we as people are prone to group together and form “us and them” sub-societies it is natural to distrust and dislike other similar groups. Think rugby. Perhaps it is primal. Perhaps we just pay too much heed to scaremongering media like Holmes and the Herald. Collective fear stimulates herd instinct, which tends to produce ferocity toward those who are not regarded as members of the herd. Hence the victimisation of immigrants. All problems eventually filter down to human stupidity. You can quote me on that. This pseudo-racism only exists because people are too stupid to make the distinction between a subset and a population. Real racism, and I’m talking holocausts, segregation, and spermlike white outfits, is comparatively extremely rare – and it’s all caused by fear and idiocy. To counter this newly identified threat, Happy Ahmed will adapt American foreign policy to a larger scale. He proposes a new system of globally enforced evolution based on principles of natural selection whereby those deemed too stupid to live will henceforth be fed into furnaces and used to power cities and create various fine and pretty crafts with pink frilly bits. This will not only have the effect of abolishing political correctness and racism-proper, but will joyously endanger the entire American population. There is no racism involved, although various thickies and other vile liberals will undoubtedly label this policy as one of the other passé ism’s that political correctness regularly shafts me with (genocidalism?). Fuck them. I will label it “operation enduring comprehension” and try and get it passed as law in Texas. Happy Ahmed hears they’ll pass any old rubbish there. The effect will be societal buoyancy unheard of in modern times. And Happy Ahmed will be there grinning down upon the carcasses of the unworthy and stoking the roaring fires. Get your “Happy Ahmed Fucked My Mother” T-Shirts fast. Second shipment is running low. Be fast. Doubtless you will have seen them around campus by now. They are distressed and everything. Incredibly fashionable doncha know. Doubtless you will prove that you deserve to be first cunt cast into the cleansing fires by sending me the obligatory emails accusing me of racism / bigotry / having no understanding of a delicate concept which mars the goodness of society and might be a teeny bit caustic and controversial in today’s piss-weak-tiptoe-around-minorities society / impregnating your mother. Well fuck you. Do something about it. Don’t whinge to Garland about it, he doesn’t read this rubbish. Email me on tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com and I guarantee a merciless reply. Make sure your English is up to standard. Fuck I’m hilarious. |
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| Happy Ahmed says: The day Ted Nugent killed all the animals “Every great sin ought to rouse a great anger. Mob law is better than no law at all. A community which rises in its wrath to punish with misdirected anger a great wrong is in a healthier moral condition than a community which looks upon its perpetration with apathy and unconcern.” - Lyman Abbott So it has come to this. Happy Ahmed, the undisputed breakfast of champions, is forced to single-handedly apply jumper leads to both the reeking genetalia and the scabby leftmost nostril of the greater student body in order to kick-start this dilapidated pigdog of an institution into action after years of inactivity and indolence. Foul stagnating smegma and filth has accrued beyond normal tolerable limits, thickies and fuckwits roam freely and unchallenged, disarray reigns, social lepers pillage table scraps from a remnant society festooned with decay. We bend over forwards to obtain some communicable qualification and The Man laughs, lays down a fat donkey punch and sprays forth his seed all over our prone quivering buttocks, and then has the audacity to expect us to increase our already overwhelming student loans in exchange for the pleasure. Thanks Labour. And so precious few of you nasty little bastards have hairy enough balls to stand up and say so. As recently as the early days of Happy Ahmed’s university career there were protests, occupations, the student body had a voice. And it was telling The Man to shove that bedraggled-donkey-offal extra fees shit straight back up his cold corporate-whore arse. Full fees? Fuck off! Where has this affirmative action gone? Are you all too stoned to be fucked to get up and complain today? Where is your voice? Where are your champions? It’s laughable how today’s students endure such violation at the hands of the powers that be. Fee Maxima? Barely a whisper. Six billion fucking cold hard dollars of student debt? Someone almost got up to say that it was a bit shit, then thought better of it and went home to play Xbox. What is wrong with you people? You can’t blame this mass layabout agenda on voluntary student membership. You don’t need AUSA funding to be vocally obtuse and seethingly angry and scamper about campus brandishing placards and shouting a lot. You don’t need corporate backing to raid some provocatively prominent university student commons building, steal all the Red Bull, shit on the stairs, and set fire to a bunch of nameless first years in protest at exorbitant fees, rapidly escalating student debt, or shitty class conditions. You can try blaming it on a lack of leadership and organisation. What a flagrant fallacy, a manifestation of the level of university awareness and general student readiness for life out there in the big scary world. Your mothers won’t always be there, breasts dangling at the ready, prepared to placate and pacify you and shield you from danger, although Happy Ahmed finds them to be quite forthcoming in this department. You need to take responsibility for your own existence. Stand up. Stop being such vile snivelling little cunts and make yourselves heard. Start small. Write to people, email, protest, hell, bomb some hapless cunt if that’s what it takes. Maybe today’s highly desensitised sterile generation just don’t find anything outrageous anymore. God knows I’ve tried to provoke you people. To make you think about your surroundings. To consider yourselves and who you are and what you are ultimately capable of. Maybe you are all just too damn stupid and complacent. Email Happy Ahmed and tell him what would offend you most as a column topic. Getting a high enough percentage of students aroused about anything to make a difference is near impossible at the best of times. Like pushing shit uphill. Especially if you suffer from scatophagy and can’t stop playing with the stuff long enough to remember to push. You need some form of haptic consortium to which you may belong and to be motivated by. Get in to own the last ever ‘Happy Ahmed Fucked My Mother’ T-shirts. They’ve almost gone and will never be re-printed. I am introducing a new line of Tees sporting the swanky phrase ‘I Love Your Smegma’. Hysterical. Be fast, these won’t last long. Join the fucking revolution. Stop being such a docile whimpering little pussy. Happy Ahmed has started a militant student society to angrily gnaw at the crotch of the system. No joining fee, no political agenda, just old fashioned extreme vulgarity and violence. The only antagonised organisation on campus with no official university ties, no bureaucratic appeasements, just all out carnage, anarchy, and war. We are Al Qaeda to the University’s multitude of abhorrent American icons of commercial success and freedom. We are the English language to George Bush. We are suicide bombers to John Hood’s Israel. You’ve got to be in to win folks and this is a beautiful opportunity on a plate. If you’re already frothing at the mouth, shaking all over, wielding a stick with a nail in it, and screaming ‘FREEDOM!’ you’re already half way there. E-mail Happy Ahmed on tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com for salvation. |
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| Happy Allah says: “and if they desist not from what they say, a painful chastisement shall befall those among them who disbelieve." (Koran, Sura 5:73, food) "If I hammered a three-way plug adapter into my skull and plugged my head into a wall-socket I'd certainly be getting a lot more intellectual stimulation than I'm getting now." - Kara Bunting It’s on motherfuckers. After several weeks of languishing face down in a number of insightful and reflective spurts of mildly abrasive social and political repartee, Happy Ahmed has reverted to his earlier lovable, light hearted, self-masturbatory demeanour. After tiring of the notoriously heady deepness required to create such informative and well-researched scripts to you, the incurably turgid masses, Happy Ahmed will hereto-forth compose these little slices of genius in the manner alluded to by his tediously obtuse moniker. Yeah I mean happily, you thick cunt. This column is no longer to be a narrative. It will be an ongoing dialogue between you, my adoring readers, and I, the breakfast of champions. You, the aforementioned scurvy underlings, will e-mail me at the appropriate times with insightful feedback and proclamations of a love unequalled in contemporary folklore. I accordingly will provide you with varied and astoundingly beautiful usages of the English language for you to masturbate over whilst visualising Happy Ahmed improperly assaulting Shakespeare, the freshly ousted literary king, with a single Vaseline coated turnip. You will henceforth refer to Happy Ahmed as either the ‘People’s Poet’, or ‘The Breakfast of Champions’ and ordain all your acquaintances into the new Veritable Church of Ahmed. The good Reverend Happy Ahmed is your very own resident wordy misogynistic cunt with nothing much to prove – your own personal Marshall Mathers minus the chauvinistic homophobic bravado. You, the lowliest scumdogs in the known universe, will accordingly marvel at the astounding literary aptitude of my latest oeuvre and be suitably impressed should you chance upon me at any of our fine university facilities which I may or may not be plotting to destroy. Email Happy Ahmed for the latest information on covert sabotage and nihilistic anarchist operations on campus. Likewise e-mail Happy Ahmed if you can think of a spectacular name for a group which may or may not be plotting to overthrow the vice-chancellor and declaring school out for summer before getting drunk and setting fire to our collective beards in a gesture rivalling the feminists burning brassieres to contravene the oppression of perky breasts. You, society’s upper echelon dunces and fuckwits, will write letters to Craccum and everywhere proclaiming my everlasting value to the magazine and society as a whole. Ana Samways will hear all about the bizarre and ribald pretensions of Happy Ahmed and be accordingly smitten by his charming vulgarity and alluringly yielding beard. She will then mysteriously suffer a particularly nasty combine harvester accident. You, the unashamedly insipid accumulation of wasted potential, are to write “Happy Ahmed was here” on every surface you can find. Desks, toilet walls, public conveyances, the Coopers and Lybrand building, everything. Even on places I probably haven’t even been to. Like the arts building. I will become the next ridiculously short lived pop culture icon. Children will snivel and scream to irritate the shit out of their parents until they get my action figures. Happy Ahmed figurines - Tug his disproportionately large balls and he screams a number of particularly vulgar and belligerent phrases, such as “Lick my smegma!”, “You complete and utter cunt!” and “Go to the cupboard, get the 45, kill your mother, rape your dog, write a note saying ‘fuck youse’ scrawled crudely then shoot yourself in the head in a dark room while listening to Eminem!” Every child on earth will want one. Even starving black babies and probably Germans too. After astounding popularity for about a month, I will fade into obscurity, disgustingly rich, and retire to Latvia with your mother. You, the on-piste maelstrom of stupid, shall unreservedly concur with the terms of the new Veritable Church of Ahmed before further joyous wee nuggets of wisdom may be imparted. Accordingly, you will forthwith bestow regular charitable donations upon the aforementioned institution to facilitate continuation of such misguided revolutionary activities as getting very drunk to increase the flux of paranoiac delusions of grandeur and subsequently the engineering of large random explosions. Should you not find the above satisfactory you are quite welcome to heartily lick my bonch. Or guch if you follow Jackass terminology. The Reverend Happy Ahmed reserves the right to passionately and mercilessly continue to abuse the student body should his demands not be met. By actually enduring the pain of reading this column all the way through, you have unsuspectingly agreed to its terms and yourself gained membership to the Veritable Church of Ahmed. Pretty stupid aren’t you? The Reverend Happy Ahmed is almost certainly the vile scoundrel he makes himself out to be, obtusely in third person. This column has been a lame fuck around. A waste of time. There is no point in looking back. Fuck no, not today thank you kindly. Henceforth I shall expect a stream of complimentary correspondence to tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com. Or I’ll eat you when the sun comes up in the morning with peanut butter. |
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| The Good Reverend Ahmed Says: Pretentious with it. “flesh into gear / myself appears dissected and pretentious / a simple sound a heavy sigh / you'll win the whole world over / you live in fear of being someone that you didn't want to / I realize your insecurities will get the best of you” - cKy I was just kidding about the whole happy columns thing. The cacophony of ten thousand horny baboons with lard anointed genitalia making coxed mating calls through ten thousand loudhailers pales in comparison to the shrieking fury of Happy Ahmed’s internal frustration. Paradoxical perhaps, but the sentiment is clear. This time it’s not your fault. Maybe. Seldom in life may you realise the existence of some unequivocal manifestation so potent in its lucidity that your entire life perspective is forever altered to its perversely extreme detriment. I am that manifestation. Feel my potency. A furiously drunken excursion one moist evening to a painfully suburban house party in Ponsonby resulted in one beautifully explicit proverbial moment of clarity. For a split second of omnipotent splendour, Happy Ahmed was a glorious beacon of phosphorescent enlightenment in a multitude of vacuous emptynesses. Everything and nothing occurred concurrently. This joyous instant yielded the stark epiphany that I absolutely and without exception despised every person in the room. Call them human jewellery. Their sole function is to be seen, and to look cool doing it. Contemptible pin-ups for contemporary mainstream society. An irrational symptom of a superficial micro-culture with self-important egocentric delusions of actually making a worthwhile contribution to anything. To charmingly leech from Happy Ahmed the last miniscule shreds of respect he had for humanity. They brim with pre-rehearsed narratives without any consideration for what is actually being said. Several unrelated monologues combine to form some grotesque amalgam of arguments which by no means constitutes conversation. The interludes between spouting interpersonal public relations bulletins is spent remembering the next line rather than listening. Sporting an infuriating lack of any understanding of anything outside the sterile bubble of the limited experiences of their pampered little lives. They were everywhere. Plastic people with plastic smiles and plastic personalities trying like plastic fuck to be seen to be doing intrinsically meaningless plastic things and preaching trivial plastic personal values that are perceived as ‘cool’ by other plastic people that they don’t know in order to be accepted into an exclusive plastic society that doesn’t give a fuck about them because it in itself is too conceited and desperately attempting to maintain its exclusive position at the cutting edge of pretension. And plastic. The room imploded. Like an eviscerated suicide bomber on slow motion rewind – and I was at the crux of this dangerously volatile system. Fuck this, escape was paramount. Happy Ahmed burst forth from this fashionable bungalow flailing his arms screaming the enraged and manic scream of a man languishing on the edge of the deepest pit of frustration and despair and has just dropped his last beer in it. Panic set in. Sweating, hyperventilation, the fear that everything that you knew to be true and right has evaporated right in front of you and replaced by something truly repugnant. Like finding a shrivelled and hairy severed big toe in your curry. Happy Ahmed eventually regained his composure after cowering behind a pretentiously parked plastic car, and forced himself to take a peek under the skirt of reason. At about this time, Happy Ahmed decided to venture home, directing unparalleled contempt upon every further ostentatious walking stereotype he came across. Happy Ahmed is certainly an outspoken and violent activist against the rank oppressions of mainstream culture and the way that people feel compelled to conform to some arbitrary ideal. He despises the fact that today’s society has such a mindless herd mentality when it comes to such decision making. Science has proven that a large group of people is qualitatively far more stupid than an individual. Why then does the individual allow himself to be governed by the trends of the flock? Are you that desperate for acceptance that you crave it from such an immense conglomeration of abject stupidity? Call me an elitist, a cunt, whatever, but I’m not the one who’s frantic to satisfy the approval conditions of a vile flock of crotch sniffing trend whores. Get the last of Happy Ahmed’s “I Love Your Smegma” T-shirts. Just $29.95. Be alternative. Be vulgar. Just Be. See what happens when you don’t email Happy Ahmed with good topics for columns? It’s your own fault. Get proactive you scurvy little bastards. You probably won’t vote in the referendum either. Cunts. Email Happy Ahmed on tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com to complain. If I get 5 emails about anything I’ll write a light, happy, thoughtful, and funny column next week, otherwise youse are in for a rough time. In the tedious style of the Fashion Mistress, lecchi le mie sfere pelose grandi, cunts. |
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| Happy Ahmed Says: The End of an Era “Idealism and nihilism battle daily in the casual decisions that are formative on how I choose to live my life. In this way, my awareness of the apocalyptic demise that this planet is heading towards affects me… My own actions are inconsequential due to universal apathy disguised as both hedonism and democracy.” So, we meet again. You’re not paying attention in your lecture and in the quad and walking around campus and at home and sitting and stewing furtively in your own rank mediocrity. Drink your coffee. Cunt. You’re making the world a dirty place and making babies in other people’s countries and molding a world around yourself instead of adapting and you personify a filthy movement towards consumerism and globalisation and other naughty corporate things. You are oblivious to the tumultuous situation in Uganda, and epidemics of hatred and murderous agendas of dictatorial self benefit and narcolepsy and famines and the herpes. It really is quite disturbing that as we mature, every aspect of our development is policed by aspects of society that wants us to turn out ‘right’. Imagine yourself squirted through enormous meat curtains onto a conveyer belt conveying you forth upon the assembly line of your life. At certain stages these authoritative robotic arms move menacingly and weld shit to you in a shower of sparks like the desire to achieve and to be nice to people and to like kittens and to not hate the darkies and be good to your aunty. At the end your parent/s or guardian/s are presented with this precious little parcel of discordant morality in which they have invested so much and are secure in the knowledge that you will merge nicely into the society that created you. You spent your formative years adopting other people’s ideals, values, and knowledge through public and/or private schooling, church, sports, and various moderate family media - society influences every aspect of your development. Only now do you really get a chance to expand yourself and discover what really drives you and the things that you love and you choose to spend that time reading puerile rubbish like this which completely undoes all that hard work. Won’t your parents be disappointed? Happy Ahmed is going to steal a lot of Ritalin and run away to become some filthy hermit, discarding the ideals that society heaps upon him in an act of truth to self and an experiment in exclusive morality. I shall look at kiddie porn and scratch myself in public and covet your mother and pick and steam myself a sizeable penis gourd and build a nice hut in a forest and sit and contemplate the nature of things and shout obscenities at people that aren’t there. All the while remaining deeply philosophical and considering the consequences of my varied and seemingly random actions and whether or not there is some other formula for successful society than that which is only too familiar. Ever consider that maybe some aspects of life were just too universally awesome to ever go away? Like the lost art of fist shaking, urban duck, and the word scoundrel? Just a thought. Shake your fist at someone and call them a scoundrel and feel waves of relief and serenity wash over your body like extreme team watersports. Alvin Toffler once said you can use all the quantitative data you can get, but you still have to distrust it and use your own intelligence and judgment. Maybe this rings true here. He was a pretty clever cunt. Maybe one day you’ll all grow enough awareness of yourselves and the systems that influence you to be able to think independently, but until then you’ll need despicable cunts like Happy Ahmed to point at you and laugh – Like a dirty drunken Mexican with a handlebar moustache and near-empty tequila bottle biffing rocks at rally cars who has just hit Colin McRae’s windscreen. Happy Ahmed is too busy sniffing satan’s soiled underpants to care. Maybe I’m the new rock’n’roll. I have a voice and I choose to use it to direct vague accusations against almost everyone. Maybe you should actually pay some attention. Sometimes I even have some semblance of a valid message. Not today. Celebrity status certainly is tiresome. Not only does it make me despise myself for being so popular and idolised by all my peers who have taken to emailing me relentlessly, but I don’t get any of the fly perks to which I should be entitled. Frankly this self awareness shit is getting tired. You’re obviously not paying attention. I get déjà vu every time I write. Look out next week for a completely new tack. Send in your questions for Happy Ahmed’s all new and exciting question and answer series now. If there’s anything you’d like to know about anything you can guarantee Happy Ahmed in his righteous omnipotence will know the answer. Try emailing Happy Ahmed at tired_pseudonym:_USE_THE_AT_EMOTICON_:hotmail.com but I only get so many hours a week to wade through my fan mail. I’ll get back to you eventually. |