BlahTherapy

The Scout is a devious beastie and also a rather odious, third person beastie. So he could not resist the chance at having a go on BlahTherapy, the new hope of losers, rejects and suicides on the internet. Livejournal is over, wristslitters! BlahTherapy is here!

So, BlahTherapy works by pitting random strangers against each other in a battle of self pity versus self importance. You choose whether you're a 'listener' or a 'venter' (codeword for bedwetter) and then you either play the role of Messianic, godlike Christ figure or third rate Woody Allen impressionist whose face has been trodden into the dirt by the cruelty of all the world's high school girls. The two of you are thus free to whine or smugly comfort in the solace of your own anonymity.

So, how did you deal with this, Scout, I hear you cry? Were you one of these aforementioned bedwetters? Have no fear, I marched in there with my chest held high determined to give those naysayers a good 'Scout' heave-ho!

But... so quickly I was plunged into crushingly, uncomfortable sadness. One by one, I was assailed by the petty problems of the meek, the feebly, the lonely... long distance relationships gone wrong, best friends torn apart, sick and crippled animals on the verge of death - water torture via mundane miserablism.

BlahTherapy is the saddest thing I have ever had the misfortune to stumble onto on the internet, with the exclusion of that parrot porn and Peter Hitchens', mad, staring face on his Daily Mail Blog. Charles Dickens himself would have cried out at the sheer mind numbing sentimental self flagellation these people force upon themselves and upon me - the poor, self sacrificing listener.

I was forced to pedal platitudes to snivelling little people, huddled in the corners of the internet, who were so desperately lonely that my precious, insincere words were like goldust. "Thankyou," they cried, alongside every size colour and shape of emoticon. If only they were here now - because, as far as I am aware, there is no emoticon for the absolute disgust BlahTherapy has made me feel for the entire of humankind.

Rating: 4/10

(The fours are all for my contribution. It's really a zero)

ADDENDUM: MORONS ALSO FREQUENT THIS BLAHTHERAPY!

Mrs Gillian Duffy

Mrs. Gillian Duffy, pictured here being startled by an Eastern European, is the single most important person who has ever lived. Now, you might say, "Scout" - "you sure are pushing your words here," to which I say - firstly, "since when were you a character from to Kill a Mocking Bird," and secondly "do not suggest in any way that I have a trace of hyperbole, or I'll damn well just CUT MYSELF."

Mrs. Duffy is the woman who has brought down the most evil man who ever lived -a man who ruled over us for a decade giving us public sector investment and overall increases in our quality of life - whether we liked it or not.

Now some of us may say this "Hey, he did okay, but not good enough" or "Maybe we just need a change", but Mrs. Duffy, no. She knows that doesn't go far enough. She saw that this man wasn't a fiscally sound, grumpy man with little or no charisma whose grim face frightens foreign investors and children alike. No. She knows who he really is; King Borowitz of Eastern Europe, determined to bring his hordes of qualified skilled workers to fix her plumbing and build her houses - determined to bring Britain down through skilled manual labour and force it into a second, extremely well maintained, dark age.

Her magnificence, her stature, her ample - very, very ample - bosom are the only thing keeping me and the right wing press going. Without her, this election is lost - and our country is destroyed. Vanquished. Overrun... by the King and his Polish menace.

So to Mrs. Duffy, I say this. Well done, ma'am! The Scout salutes you and all you stand for! In this age without heroes, in this age without gods, in this age without integrity you have given us a hero, a god, a figure to unite behind. God speed, Mrs. Duffy! May we all suckle at the teats of your, milky, ever flowing brilliance.

Rating: 14/10

A Mug with a Dishcloth Nearby

Art, they say, comes in all shapes and sizes. Could this yellow dishcloth which happens to be next to a white mug simply be a symbol of everything wrong with modern society? Or perhaps it is a metaphor for Nick Clegg of the Liberal Democrats, the yellow, snarling cloth coming to clean out the dust from our white mug of political discourse?

This would be nice - beautiful, perhaps even uplifting. However, the dishcloth and mug juxtaposition fails on almost every level.

I mean, look at it. It's raggedy, it's old. It's worn. It's not Nick Clegg clambering up to change our modern politics - no, it's the ghost of the Lib Lab pact coming to give us four more years of the white mug. The white mug which once had some milk in (here the metaphor begins to break down although one could argue the white milk perhaps was Peter Mandleson or possibly, if you were a very poor satirist, "integrity").

Laboured political metaphors aside, what is the most disgusting thing about this whole sordid, desultory cloth/mug liason is the attitude behind the whole thing. Look how lazily the cloth leans over, flirting coquettishly with the white mug's rim. "I could clean you," it seems to be saying. "But that'd be what you want." The White mug couldn't ever be what the yellow cloth wants it to be. But it wants it anyway. They're dirty whores, the both of them. Dirty, filthy, sexy whores. And they want us to use them. To clean with them. To drink from them. Knowing where they've been and what they've done. And you know what? I'm having none of it.

Verdict: Initially I was impressed. Perhaps everything isn't as terrible as I had previously thought. However, the further I delved into the corrupt psyche behind these two titans of perversion, the more I realised that I could not even begin to give them even a whiff of my regard.

Rating: 1.5/10

First Post

Dear Internet,

I am The Scout. For those of you that do not know, The Scout has a double meaning - it can mean a chirpy, easily molested youngster or someone who pours scorn upon everything. Guess which I am. That's right. Both.

Now out of my teens, I have realised the world is a terrible place with generally bad build quality. I have decided to prove this by reviewing everything I can - whether unnatural, natural or - well, I guess supernatural. That's the only way the sentence could go - and hell, I went there.

I would ask you to have a nice day but I don't know who you are.

Lots of love,

The Scout