SQUEAK OF THE WEEK: Guest Blogger - EUROTRASH

Many of you, who have visited my fledgling Squeaking Noodle blog are from both sides of the pond and beyond, so, I thought you might enjoy this entry from this weekend's GUEST BLOGGER - EUROTRASH.
Not everything in life can be pink and fluffy - forget work, forget writing for a moment and enjoy this rant. I know I did!

Please email me if you would like to be the next SQUEAK OF THE WEEK. Entries must be in, no later than 12pm on Friday the 13th October. 500-words max. The chosen guest blogger will be informed by email that day. If any of you are of a sensitive disposition or from Finchley - look away now.


I'd like to teach the world to sing.
By Eurotrash

Bloody hell.
Why is everyone in Finchley so ugly? And why did I never notice that before?

Still, I suppose nylon tracksuits are a slight improvement on everyone wearing their jeans halfway down their arse.

I am genuinely relieved to be away from all that in-your-faceness of New York. The mad homeless people around here just sit about and drink and swear. They don't fucking sing.

Dear just about everyone in New York who thinks they can sing, should sing, and furthermore should sing in public:YOU CAN'T FUCKING SING SO SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I've been wanting to say that for years. And yes, that includes YOU at whatever edgy east village dive bar cabaret night where you think you'll trot out some Bette Midler medley to the appreciation of your equally talentless and deluded friends. You're shit, you CAN'T FUCKING SING, and you should crawl away into your chi-chi (= small and grotty) bedsit and weep for the pain you have inflicted on the world.

As should everyone who owns a guitar and thinks that the slavish adoration of their stoned emo pals on a Saturday afternoon in Union Square means they have talent. And those FUCKING SHITTY SKATEBOARDERS. FUCK OFF! BREAK YOUR NECK, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!

And for every employee of CVS, Shoprite and Duane Reed - you know, just do it. Kill yourself. You know you want to. I know you want to. You don't want to serve me, and I don't want you to serve me either, because living corpses aren't really the embodiment of customer service. So let's just get it over with. Ultimate peace lies in a bottle of paracetemol, people.

Regarding Gamestop in Herald Square, I have only this to say: get some more fucking staff to actually operate your checkout desks, instead of just standing near them, chatting and laughing while desperate nerds queue for half an hour to buy the PSP they ordered a year ago, while one brain-damaged goblin pokes random keys on a cash register hoping that eventually he'll hit the right combination to register a sale. Fuckers.

And to all the staff in the Union Square Coffee Shop - you're not nearly as good looking as you think you are.

Having said all that, hell, I miss the weather. It's rained every single bastard bloody day since I got back. Which does not improve either my mental health or the view of the ugly people of Finchley one bit.

(Thanks Eurotrash!)