POST MODERN SECRET: postcards of idiocy

Do you have a secret that's eating you up inside but you can't tell anyone?

Why not send it to us on one side of a homemade (virtual) postcard and we'll expose your dank, hidden wrong-doings to the world under the guise of some kind of ongoing community art project?

It's an idea we've been working on for some time here at the register and is completely and utterly our own idea.

Answers (on a postcard) to the normal address (we've included a link on the right).

Here's a start:

THE SPICE GIRLS: the badly conceived return of idiocy

can anyone think of anything more hilarious than five middle-aged women singing "i wanna huh, i wanna huh, i wanna really really really wanna zig-a-zag, ah."

?

it's hard to believe a group of adult women, a couple of which have already committed their lives to embarrassing themselves and their loved ones, could make the decision to propell themselves & each other to further ridicule... but...

PEER PRESSURE: ottoman shagging posers of idiocy

I’ve held back from writing about these cats for a while because to be honest it felt a bit like playing slapsies with a quadriplegic: mean, pointless and less than challenging. After about 10 minutes you’re just beating a guy up, you know what I mean?

But I can’t hold my tongue any longer because when you really get down to it, that’s five guys fucking an ottoman. On the internet. For everyone to see. And it isn’t a joke.

No, it really isn’t. It may be tempting to think that Relentless, X2C, Pipelaya and the rest of the gang are in fact a visionary performance art troupe dedicated to exposing the rampant consumerism and preening narcissism endemic in hip hop culture but you’d be wrong. They’re just a bunch of rampant, preening narcissists with the intellectual facilities of pocket lint.

So what enrages me the most about this video? What aspect has me moistening my keyboard with hot, salty tears of despair as I weep for humanity’s desecrated soul? Is it the fact that the first moron wanders on with a dumbbell as if he just happens to have been pumping iron off camera before sauntering on to ravish the soft furnishings? Or is it the way that each idiot has an equally brain dead ‘street’ moniker, a practice they’ve evidently copied from their favourite MCs and applied with all the finesse of Leatherface at an ice sculpting festival. Pipelaya? You sound like a plumber, mate. Or someone who poos a lot.

Never mind the fact that the whole enterprise has the distinct whiff of being one repressed, desperate hair’s breadth away from descending into a hard-rutting, any-holes-a-goal, five-way, sweaty-teenage cum fiesta with the Peer Pressure boys joyously thrusting their tiny members between cushions, against soft fabric and into each other. There’s nothing wrong with being gay and it’s actually kind of sweet the activities they’ve concocted to distract themselves from their obvious mutual attraction.

‘Why Satisfaktion, have you noticed how firm yet yielding this leather cushion is? Let’s go and show Pre$$ure … with our tops off.’

Yes, there’s nothing wrong with being gay. It’s a legitimate, healthy lifestyle choice. What isn’t healthy is being so wrapped up in your own greasy, arrogant world-view that you believe uploading this kind of unintentionally hilarious masturbatory sofa-porn is going to make you look good in any way.

It doesn’t. You pointless bunch of egotistical poser-fucks.

VICTORIA BECKHAM: the wretched vacuum of idiocy

SUPERMARKET EMPLOYEES: the iconic silver screen monsters of idiocy

So I'm in my local branch of Tescos loading my basket with Wagon Wheels, Discos, Space Raiders, Pez Dispensers, Hula Hoops, Sherbet Dip Daps, Iced Party Rings and enough ingredients to make some seriously good toasties (ham, egg, cheese, marmite ...). But as I walk up to the till I sense that something has gone seriously wrong.

It appears Tescos have hired The Creature From The Black Lagoon to do the night shift.

And its name is 'Sharon'.

The creature regards me for a long moment. Something very close to intelligence flickering behind its dead eyes. Slowly and with great effort it begins to speak, opening its thick lips in a hideously strangled attempt at communication.

'D'you need help with packing?'

'No thank you' I say, giving it what I hope is a placating smile 'I'm sure I can marshal my faculties sufficiently to take on the enormous task of putting groceries into plastic bags. After all, I didn't educate myself to degree standard in order to go about balancing produce on my head or pathetically resorting to sellotaping it to my upper body and torso after failing to unlock the mysteries of your carrier bag system.'

This does not go down well with the creature. My botched attempt at levity seems to anger it still further and it flares its nostrils in a way that makes me afeared for the safety of nearby womenfolk. I decide to change the subject.

'Buy one, get one free on the Iced Party Rings, I notice'

The creature ignores me, the full weight of its bestial cognitive capacity employed in the task of dragging various items over the barcode scanner. But somewhere deep down inside its powerful body a growl has begun that is so low frequency I can feel it vibrating my internal organs. I decide now would be a good time to concentrate intently on a display of 25% off electric toothbrushes.

The rest of the transaction passes without incident except for the fact that I can't get everything into the bags and end up holding some of it in my teeth. The creature takes my money, presses some buttons at random as if to see what they might do and then gives me an approximation of the correct change.

'Fhank choo' I manage through teeth clenched around a variety pack of Monster Munch, before turning smartly on my heel and running for my life.

One can only wonder at the wisdom of hiring iconic silver screen monsters to tend to late night shoppers but I guess we have to presume that it makes some sort of sound financial sense. Thinking about it I'm sure I saw a Triffid behind the deli counter and Mecha-Godzilla having a fag by the delivery entrance.

Strange times.