Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Why being an atheist is not the same as being a devil worshipper, and making eye contact with me will not send you straight to hell.

With Easter now over I feel the need to write a post about religion. As we all know, Easter is the celebration of the day where rabbits can magically poop chocolate eggs and Zombie Jesus crawls out of his grave and eats them. At least that is what I have been led to believe.

This is a perfectly fine thing to believe if that floats your boat. I don’t mind what people believe in (well… except Scientologists… I mean, REALLY PEOPLE? Really??)

Personally I am an atheist. Recently it has come to my attention that some people are confused by the definition of the term atheist.

While I can understand how one would come to this conclusion*, I do not worship Satan.

In actuality, the very fact that I do not recognise a God also means that I do not recognise a devil or ‘Satan’ as you like to call him. This also means that you do not have to pray for me, attempt to ‘save' me or describe to me what I will miss out on in Heaven. I also don’t believe in that.

So to clarify, I do NOT believe in the following:

God (or any variation)
Satan (or any variation)

Despite this, making eye contact with me or any other athiests will not send you straight to hell

I believe that once you die you get buried in the ground and eaten by bugs, but I’m an optimist when it comes to things like that.

*Statement may be false. I do not actually understand the stupidity of 99.9% of the human race.

Monday, April 25, 2011

I will always feed the trolls.

Today somebody sent me an email to ask why I’m so crap at drawing.

Ummm… firstly thankyou. That was a very nice thing to ask me. I find it amusing that somebody would email me to ask me that when I only have one follower…

Secondly, I don’t think I actually am crap at drawing; I just enjoy effing around on MSPaint and ranting about things.

If you would like to see some of my ‘serious’ work, you may go here: www.zoppo.tumblr.com

But thanks for motivating me to update.

Oh and also...

Monday, February 21, 2011

Why America is just as deadly as Australia.

I recently spent a year living in Florida and these are some real life questions I was asked by United States citizens during my time there:

“What does it feel like to come to a country where people wear shoes?”

“Were you amazed when you came here and saw electricity for the first time?”

“Why are you at war with New Zealand? You guys should stop bombing them, that’s so mean, they are a peaceful country.”


The thing that the USA fails to realise is that they have JUST as many deadly animals as we do, maybe even more, they just aren't as cute. Let’s compare:

The main animal that they seemed to freak out so much about was crocodiles, and yet I was in Florida, where their football team is called the GATORS, because Florida has a lot of ALLIGATORS. Now I realise that crocodiles are generally considered more dangerous than alligators, but let’s be honest with ourselves, they are basically the same thing, and at least crocodiles don’t chill on the sides of the roads in major cities like alligators do in Florida.

Snakes and spiders were another one that got mentioned a lot, and I cannot deny that we have many many species of deadly snakes and spiders, but let’s think about this for a minute. The average human being is several times larger than any snake or spider that exists in Australia, however... America has bears.

Sharks are also a major concern to the average American tourist, yet you are 50 trillion times more likely to freeze to death in a blizzard or suffocate under a collapsed snowman in America than you are to be attacked by a shark in Australia*.

When we view the facts in a logical format such as this, it becomes obvious that when it comes to the country you are most likely to die a horrible painful death in, I think we’re pretty well tied.

So we’re all fucked and our best bet is probably to move to New Zealand, where there are no deadly animals, and all you have to worry about it the odd air raid by Australia.

*All blog statistics provided by the wonderful people at ’Convenient Statistics For You Weekly’.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Why I only bath once a year.

Once a year, usually always on Valentines Day, I decide to take a bath.

It always seems like the world’s greatest idea. I go out and buy bubble bath, I pick out a really good book I can’t wait to read. I lay out the biggest, fluffiest towels that I can find, and set the CD player up in a place I will be able to hear it from the bathroom. I get excited about it all day, imagining the amazing relaxing time I will have in my warm, bubbly bath.

Then the time comes, usually around 8pm that night, because 8pm seems like the best time to take baths, I start to prepare. I fill the tub with hot water, add the bubbles, turn on some music that will make me feel better about being single and taking a bubble bath ALONE on Valentines Night, something like Alanis Morissette or Insane Clown Posse, nice and relaxing. I slop on a face mask making me vaguely resemble Princess Fiona from Shrek... you know, AFTER she decides it’s worth being ugly for love.

Then the time comes to get in! I’m so excited, I cannot wait to start relaxing. My bath looks so appealing, the mirrors in the bathroom are already steaming up because of how hot the water is. I get in. Kind of. It’s not actually that simple, because I always run baths so hot that it takes me awhile to slowly ease myself in, and all the while I'm making noises similar to what I assume a woman giving birth makes. First getting my feet used to the temperature, then my calves, then my butt, then my stomach, finally I lay down and emerge the rest of my body, close my eyes, and begin to praise myself for thinking of such a great way to spend my night.

After a minute or two of lying there with my eyes closed I start to get bored. Luckily I prepared for this, that’s why I picked out the book. Unfortunately I always realise way too late that I shouldn't have gotten my hands wet, and I have always left the towels too far away for me to reach from my sitting position inside the tub, so I end up laying there with my hands sticking out of the water until they drip dry, feeling really stupid and being thankful that there is nobody around to see it. Finally my hands dry, I crack open my book, and start to read.

Between pages I think about how I should really make baths a weekly thing, perhaps Sunday nights will become my bath nights, I’ll start a collection of excellent smelling bath products and decadent accessories such as bath pillows and eye masks. It’s the best idea I’ve ever had so far in my life.

Then a big green glob falls into the bath, splashing sudsy water into my eyes and onto my page, and I realise I am melting. The steam is causing my face mask to sweat off instead of drying into a hard concrete like substance I would usually need a hammer and chisel to get off. Suddenly I realise how hot it is and instead of feeling cleaner, I feel sweaty. I am actually SWEATING underwater, and it’s gross. Then I start to think about how I am bathing in my own sweat, and by now all the dirt that was on my body is in the water, swirling around me, and I’m feeling hot and sweaty and unclean.

This is the point where I reach out with my foot and try to lower the temperature by turning on the cold tap with my toes, when my skin comes into contact with the metal of the faucet which is still approximately 15 thousand degrees from previously having boiling hot water pouring out of it. If anyone happened to be listening on the other side of the door they might think they have accidentally walked into Ozzy Osbourne’s house, on a night when he’s having a domestic with Sharron.

So I let the cold water pour out for awhile, but then it gets too cold, so I run the hot some more, then the cold, then the hot, and eventually the tub it threatening to overflow onto the bathroom floor, so I fish around with my feet and pull out the plug to empty some water out, but as anyone who has ever had a bath knows, while it’s easy to remove a plug with your feet, it’s almost impossible to put it back in the same way, and anyone who knows me will know that I am WAY too lazy to sit up and put it back in with my hands. So I just lay there staring at the ceiling in despair as the water disappears down the plughole, making a noise similar to what I imagine Satan would probably sound like if he stubbed his toe... or burned his leg on a super hot faucet.

I actually honestly believe the sound of the bath draining is the worst noise in the world. Worse than babies crying on a plane, nails on a chalkboard or Alanis Morissette singing.

Finally I just give up, I get out looking pinkish and pruney like a chicken before it’s been roasted. I get dressed into my pajamas, brush my hair and teeth, and crawl into bed, feeling a bit of an anti-climax, vowing to never waste my time with a bath again (at least until next year when I have forgotten about this whole ordeal) but consoling myself with the fact that at least I found a way to pass the time on the worst night of all nights.

Then I look at the clock and realise it’s only 8:30PM.

And that’s why I only bath once a year.