“Whatever” is a word that can be used to convey at best disinterest, and at worst, utter contempt for a person and what they have to say. It is used in the same sneering context as:

• “(Fuc)k’offf!”
• “P-fah”
• “Yeah right”

It wasn’t always this way; whatever can be defined as “any(a): one or some or every or all without specification” and it even used to be used in a positive context, for example in Status Quo’s Whatever you want. But since the mid 1990s and now in 2005 it has skyrocketted itself to the top of the pile as the favourite dismissive of queens, fag hags and ineloquent teen slags on both sides of the Atlantic.

“Yeah right, whatever.”

Those three words tell us so much about who says them, such as:

• Can’t be bothered to listen;
• Can’t be bothered to have a proper discussion about something;
• Can’t be bothered to be
• Can’t be bothered to take contraception;
• Face? Bovvered? Right, because I’m not even bovvered, so shut up.

“Talk to the hand, cos the face ain’t listening”
“Talk to da booty, cos da hand’s off dooty”

All mildly amusing the first time you hear them, but so tiresome after more than three or four times. Desperately sad when people, like my sister, take themselves seriously when they talk like that – accompanied by the RnB-esqe sideways movement of the head and raised hand, palm outward (what the fuck is all that about, sister?).

Nice looking lasses – Whatever!

But returning to “Whatever”. I hate this so much because of the attitude it conveys. It actually conveys “attitude”, whereby both you and your contribution are deemed worthless and yet those guilty of abusing this word rarely have anything to contribute to a debate.

It makes my blood boil to hear it, even worse if directed at me: little needles start to prick at my tummy; the heat rises through my breast and into my head; I go blind with rage; I could kill.

With the emergence of “whatever”, the beligerent and uneducated masses of the western world have been provided with the ideal tool to really get under the skin of others. With this “attitude in a word” they can put on a display that shrugs a “You might care about stuff, but I don’t give a fuck”, which is delightful.

Whatever? Don’t whatever me!

Entropy is described as being the measure of the degree of disorder, or “mess”, for want of a better term. Entropy is the default setting for the world, and indeed the universe. Left alone, things get messy and disordered, chaotic if you like.

People have a natural tendency to rebel against entropy to return order to their environments. Anybody who’s studied thermodynamics in chemistry or physics to any level will know that it’s pretty tiring fighting against this descent into chaos.

To counteract messiness, people tend to develop little “tidying” habits to help maintain order, or to prevent mess. Things, like DVDs, CDs and books are categorised; other stuff is organised into rooms according to appropriateness and relevance (bathroom, kitchen, bedroom etc); desks are organised so that different piles mean different things.

Piles of paper
These are the things that we create subconsciously before filing or binning. But the paper isn’t just “piled”, sheet upon sheet in any old fashion. We have a tendency to automatically neaten the pile of paper so that the edges match up as much as possible – it just seems like that right thing to do. In fact, it’s almost impossible not to. There are even guides in hole punches that centre the holes so that the edges of the pages are lined up neatly when the paper is filed in a ring binder.

Given some sheets of paper to staple, a recipient can’t usually stop themselves from straightening the pile prior to fastening it – the usual method is to lightly grasp the papers in portrait orientation and tap the bottom edges against a flat surface, then to repeat this while holding the papers in landscape orientation. With the edges aligned, the stapler is then used to fasten everything together at the top left corner.

So, what do we make of this then?

Is it just me? Surely it’s impossible to simply pick up a pile of papers and staple them without tidying them??? Surely you make sure you have all the relevant bits of paper in the pile before stapling it so that you don’t have to put a second staple through to append something else to it????

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Synchronicity
Synchronicity is one of my favourite songs from 80s rock superstars The Police.

It’s that thing that women who live and work together get when their menstrual cycles synchronise. Organisations have cottoned to that fact that, if you get a load of women who suffer from bad PMT working together, you can actually use their combined energy to power the photocopier for one week in each month. This can backfire and entire office blocks have had to have replacement windows after all the glass had blown out during an emotional outburst between two colleagues (something to do with wanting chives rather than pineapple in the low-fat cottage cheese).

I’ve noticed that there’s a bit of synchronicity going on in the ladies’ lavs at the Moonlighting Detective Agency. Every time I go in there, the same woman is there too. Trillion pointed out that I was seeing my reflection in the mirror, oh har har har. But seriously, it’s the same woman, I don’t know who she is and she always uses loads of toilet paper to clean herself up – as if she’s messed herself and got poo up her back or something.

Very odd.

Poo seems to be the topic of the day – Herge has given a wonderful description of the use of toilet cubicles already. Not long ago, my dad announced that he was “going for a sit” on the toilet. This is his way of saying that he was intending to spend 20 minutes passing a poo that would resemble a hedgehog in both shape and size. A poo that would be impossible to flush that would need vigorous liquidising with the toilet brush.

How delightful.

Tina’s eyebrows and even BIGGER specs, 1994

Fuck, what a complete minger.

Anyway, I’m not particularly bothered about hairy women, although I do often feel like attacking colleagues with tweezers. Then again, if was going to attack colleagues, I might as well do a proper job of it and attack them with a big, fuck-off knife and finish the useless twats off!

THE CHARGES

1. Laziness
2. Pornography
3. Pestilence
4. Cottaging
5. Thuggery

Against any man who habitually wears whiskers.

At a push, I can cope with this, simply because of its comedy value.

Actually, no I can’t cope with this. Beards are disgusting. They trap germs and they look horrible.

But I can sort of understand why men grow a full beard and moustache: basically because they’re lazy and can’t be arsed to shave. What I don’t get is why men shave a little bit, taking time to create a lovely shaped moustache, like this effort from the lovely George Michael:

Now, to get this groomed effect must take quite some effort, and a lot more time than just getting shut of it all. But I must admit that our George here does look better with a few well-placed whiskers than without. Other blokes just look like complete nobs who are trying to look like George Michael and trying to get some in the men’s lav.

Moving on to my absolute pet hate: cropped or shaved hair and a goatee beard.

This look is favoured by the majority of the adult over forty male population of Salford, particularly the minicab drivers. Wankers.

My twat next door neighbour models himself on the character Max here. The character Max here actually ridicules the men that so many of them model themselves on, but they’re too fucking stupid to realise it.

Do they not realise how fucking ridiculous this looks? Why don’t their wives, girlfriends or mothers tell them?

You just know that instant that you come across a bloke looking like this that he’s almost guaranteed to be an ignorant, lazy, aggressive, thick as pig-shit, thug who needs a good slapping. You can be pootling along in your car and then notice that there’s another vehicle right up your arse – from out of the blue. It’ll be one of these cocks driving a Rover or a Mondeo (minicab).

Judge cakesniffer’s verdict
We’ve encountered just a few scenarios in which the male of the species lets his testosterone do the talking and grows hair on his face. With modern grooming products, battery-powered razors, and shaving balms to smooth the skin, there’s probably no excuse for a man to have any facial hair. Because of this, facial hair on men is:

GUILTY AS CHARGED

Punishment
I’d like to sentence all men with facial hair to a punishment that fits the crime, and one that will act as a suitable deterrent against reoffending and one that will also encourage all others to shave regularly and properly. I sentence all the accused to have full body waxing – including the knackers, very slowly on the knackers – in full view of their mates. The punishment may seem draconian, but it should be fun to watch.

A postscript
When some men shave, why to they miss those little clusters of hairs that grow high on their cheekbones. What the fuck is hair growing there for in the first place???

And what the fuck is all this about?

Who on earth could possibly think they looked good with lamb (or mutton) chop whiskers?? They look RIDICULOUS!

Having thrilled Blogworld to within an inch of its life with a couple of previous “My day outs”, The Cakesniffing Snapper returns with more photos from a trip with Trillion to South Lakes Wild Animal Park, near Barrow.

Tina and Trillion hang out

This place is pretty smart in that it’s not really a zoo and it tries to educate folk about animal conservation and the projects that it heads up, particularly the Sumatran Tiger Trust and the Peruvian Spectacled Bear Conservation Project. Anyway, if you’re ever in that neck of the woods, check it out. If you’re never in that neck of the woods, check out the links and see about making a donation to their very worthwhile conservation projects (there are only 500 Sumatran tigers and 2000 Peruvian four-eyed bears left in the world). I’ve just adopted a bear.

Endangered and indecent
Wild animals have very few inhibitions. Not only do they poo and wee to their hearts’ content in front a shocked, and frankly, APPALLED viewing public, they also get their genitalia out at every opportunity.

Just look at these examples of indecent exposure:

Intrigued?

Here are the culprits:

1. Randy rhino
This feller was pretty useless when it came to making advances to his sweetheart.

2. Fruity feller
This fruit bat could keep a crowd entertained for hours. He seemed to enjoy the sensation of having his little todger nobbled by the fence as he climbed around.

3. Monkey magic
Fuck me! That’s totally unnecessary in front of small children and elderly people in weelchairs.

So, that’s animals for you. I’ll post some proper photos (of lions and tigers and bears) on my Webshots site (link should go direct to the zoo album).

Of course, one problem of being in somebody else’s house and falling asleep is they do cruel things to you…

Fuckers must’ve drugged the porridge.

Anybody who bought Kula Shaker’s album, K, will know of a song called 303. I’ve no idea what the song was about [It could be about the A303, a road that runs to the southwest of England?], but like the rest of the album, it was pretty enjoyable in a rocky hippy way. I actually REALLY enjoyed that album…

303 is also the number of this post. I started Cakesniffers as a sort of experiment, not having any direction and never knowing how far I’d take it. 303 posts later and I’m still churning out the same bile-inspired spiteful attacks as I was back in January. Just goes to show how fucking annoying life and people can be at times – in a funny way of course…. most of the time.

Today I am in Trillionland, where I’ll be staying until tomorrow evening.

I arrived to find the house deserted, so I’m helping myself to her internet access. And this brings me to a question:

If you could get into any of your friends’ houses (or perhaps a nemesis’s or famous person’s) while they were out, whose would you choose and what would you do while you were in there?

Personally I’m not one for rummaging after having numerous Christmases tainted by finding out what I was getting before the big day. I’ve learned my lesson there and I don’t do it in case I find something out that I don’t want to know. Others are more curious though, so come on, tell Auntie T and we’ll just keep it our little secret here.

Right, I’m off to steal her favourite flavour of yoghurt before she gets back!

ROUND 1
Actually, this is the end of round 1d, having already been provided with complimentary bread, antipasti and bruschetta, my real starter was a “starter-sized” bowl of spaghetti that would’ve been a main course at home.

ROUND 2
Pizza calzone. I think “calzone” is Italian for “sandbag”.

ROUND 3
Coppa caffe: fuckin’ delish ice cream with a shot of espresso poured over it. Fuckin’ delish pud.

ROUND 4
Complimentary fruit salad – WTF???? After all we’d just eaten?

ROUNDS 5 & 6
Espressi

All washed down with….

For them

And

For me.

My, that’s almost a shopping list!

Chinese whispers
It’s a fucking nightmare going to a restaurant with a group of people, half of whom are deaf (one of whom is deaf and Italian) where the background noise is so loud that you can’t hear yourself think. So they shout over each other, and the same thing gets shouted three or four times per intended recipient. Then somebody half hears and asks what was said, so the round of Chinese shouting starts again.

And then they don’t pay attention when the waiters bring the food or drinks, and so you end up shouting at them to tell them to take their fucking food. But they only half listen and say “That’s mine!” to everything that’s offered. A game of pass the really hot plate ensues so people can get what they ordered.

Then a complimentary bowl of fruit salad is brought to the table when we’re all stuffed to bursting. So Mother tries to forces us to have some, “But it’s such a shame to waste it”. WE DIDN’T FUCKING ASK FOR IT!!!!

So it’s quite stressful going for a meal with my family. I HATE having to repeat myself, I HATE hearing the same thing over and over again – I’ve just got back from 3 hours of that. But at least the food more than compensated for it.

Going out for a meal with my family is never much fun… for long. The food will be excellent, but I’ll end up very bored and very irritable after approximately an hour and a half (just before the main course arrives).

Yes, it really does take that long. A meal out at a nice restaurant can’t just be a meal out at a nice restaurant, it has to take all fucking night – four hours is the average – during which time I get more and more fed up with people getting pissed around me. But I have to wait because I’m inevitably the taxi. And I’m up for work in the morning.

Ho-ho-how happy we all are!

You can see the back of my head in this shot that was taken a few years ago. I’ll probably be sat in that very same chair at 11pm tonight – crying.

Why can’t we just go out, eat, have a coffee, come home?

Fuck knows.

Table is booked for 6.45pm. There’ll be an update once I finally get back.

“… So all you need is a large metal object and a worm hole and you can travel through time…”

You can send something Airmail to British Columbia and it’ll get there 8 hours after you send it. That’s if you had a tardis or something.

You can change the date and time settings on a blog post and it’ll actually appear while you’re in bed, being woken from your slumber by a bursting bladder and a mithering cat or two.

Or that’s the theory.

In the interests of forging better relationships with our friendly Canadian cousins, April pissoff (the woman with the longest blog url in the WORLD) and this Cakesniffer are entering into a cultural exchange. Not only are we investigating the nuances of our languages (expletives), but we’re having a virtual handshake across the sea. In exchange for a load of pickles, April will be receiving something very special and unique.

It’s not in the post yet, but Mrs Cakesniffer has instructions to take the package to the post office and send it first class TODAY (which should be Friday if this works – I’m getting myself confused now).

That’s a very big bag for posting just a piece of paper – what else is in there?

(Check out the lump where I’d been squeezing that spot)

EXCLUSIVE!

Cakesniffer issues retraction of bum blog!

“Whether intentional or not, it was wrong to show such disrespect for my fellow bloggers. I’m ashamed of what I did and I promise it’ll never happen again”, she said in a statement to Associated Press.

She continued, “I was in high spirits because Trillion was here. We thought it’d be a laugh and we didn’t do it to take the piss. We totally misread peoples’ feelings and we never thought it’d cause such distress.

“It wasn’t even my bum; it was my face – my bum was too big and it kept hitting the start key”.

This article was reproduced from Angry Chimp – always original, always the best!