Snack attack
Here at
Dante's Handcart we are
105% against doing a sex-
wee in the face of a
tiny child. So you can
imagine that, if there was such a
terrible thing, we would be at the
front of any ordered queue to
point a finger of deathly
blame in the faces of the men-
pervs and lady-beasts that might
do it. And then we'd go
back about our daily
lives, washing our cars, pre-
moistening the backs of stamps and
trundling idly through the
supermarket.
But wait.
Wait. WAIT. What if we told
you that the
supermarket, long a place for children to
dance and skip and
experiencing 20% rises in beer sales in both the
Czech Republic and Hungary, was in fact a growing
arena for pro-paedo
coddling of the young. What if we
blew the cover of a series of "it's
our little secret" names and
slogans lacing the products
facing our boys and girls over the breakfast
nook and in their packed
lunches.
Seen to the
right is a popular American youth-
snack, branded with a name
commonly assumed by
perverts of the male gender. Is
this the kind of "friendly face" you want your offspring to
oggle during their noonday
snack? The
jaundiced character on the packaging gestures
crudely to his crotch, casting a look of depraved
joy up to the blatant number
6 - a number which is
also used to describe the age of a six year old
child.
On the
left, in a photo also taken by
Dante's Handcart imagespies, is the
blurb on the back of a carton of
milk. Think about it, this blurb
could be facing your child's
eyes while he or she or it consumes an
otherwise healthy breakfast of sugared cereal
hoops. Pay particular,
horrified attention to the final line:
"But don't tell anyone!"
This is a well-
known cajole-
cum-threat of the pervert. Witness also the
shady appearance of the
cartoon character, sporting his identity-
concealing dark glasses and
hat and happily espousing the "
cool games" any child who
follows him can join in with.
Take
care of your children, ladies and
gentlemen. Watch them like
hawks, examine their food and
glossy magazines for signs of perversion or
tampering. Stroke their
hair and encourage them to be
violent toward
strangers. After all, it takes a whole
nine months to make a
replacement.
The law-lords at Dante's Handcart would like to make perfectly clear that no implication is intended that these or any product, supermarket or pervert might intend harm, sexual or otherwise, to a child or child-like animal. Assumptions otherwise are your own filthy imagination, and you should probably report yourself to the appropriate authorities before you molest someone or something.
Ride 'em, cowboy
We
know what you're thinking -
Dante's Handcart is unnaturally
obsessed with S&M, leather
fetishism and pseudo-sexual dominance
playtime. And you're
right. But the world keeps
pumping out the sexy toys and we
keep linking to them.
Amen, brother.
The latest BDSM-
crossover to get
linklove is the high-lariously named
Daddle, a
leather saddle for tender
children to
ride their father with. The
pony-play connotations of this one are almost
too easy, but we'll
ink those dots (NSFW) in for you
anyhow.
As
previously noted,
bondage has its own silky way of
traipsing into modern
culture. The
New York Times,
incidentally the titular paper of the city that
today's blog post comes from,
recently raided the
fantasy-play scene for an article on mainstream fashion's borrowing of
high-kink style. We like to think that
they only did it because
we did. Products like the Daddle just
grease that transition.
God Loves Choice
Having
hitched up the skeletal
horses,
Dante's Handcart has travelled to beautiful
Michigan and brings this latest entry from sunny
Kalamazoo. Peering through their RayBans, the
Zealot Spotters amongst us have been excited to see the sheer
quantity of churches in the area. These
buildings, often resembling call centres,
animal feed stores or the head-office of some
regional telecoms company, slop
happily in the landscape, with faux-
friendly signs proclaiming their
affiliation and, usually, some
gloried epithet.
While
consumers are generally happy with economical
competition and increased choice, worry-
warts at
Dante's Handcart are more than a little
concerned, like half-stoned college students
rewiring a toaster, that as each divisional ecclesiastical
slice scrambles for a
unique selling point some are going to be left holding a
jugfull of wank, as they say in
Sunday School. Old
favourites like "God
Hates Fags" and "Jesus Could Do
Better Than Your
Mom" have long been adopted by old(ish)-skool fundamentalists, leaving meagre pickings for Lord-fearing
upstarts.
Lest the US
courts face pandemoniumm as pastors turn on each other in
legal battles over copyright and
primacy, leaving little-to-no room for
fat people to sue fast food
pimps for their cholesterol, we suggest a
rolling hate
register of anti-minority protests.
Churches would be
allotted one theme for a 3 to 6
month period, after which time themes would
cycle. A pleasant lemon-
scented and individually wrapped for your
convenience side-product would be that
different religious communities would
learn about each other in the
spirit of open-minded
acceptance.
Do (sh)It Yourself
Shania Twain half-hammered down my front
door last night, stinking of
brandy and slurring like a
cheap pianist. In-between the potty-mouthed
cuss talk and the kind of sexual
filth you'd expect only of a
navvy, she managed to stutter
something about this year's top-selling Father's Day
gift being
DIY Songs. "Nonsense" I replied, being a
contrary bastard, but the harlot was
right.
Music
Mongols at
Dante's Handcart would like to heap a lavish
dollop of sage-scented praise onto the label
responsible for this monstrous belch of
shite,
EMI Virgin, and establish a candle-lit
vigil in anxious anticipation of what barrel-
dredging wank they conjure
next. If we were
cynical sorts then we might suggest
Rock Music: Music to Rock Back & Forth like a Romanian Orphan To,
Mopping the Floor Tunes and, my personal
stiffie-starter,
Number Ones for Number Twos, a collection of the best hits to accompany the
squeezing out of a great,
marshmallowy turd.
Buy it for your
Dad, I'm sure he'll
love it. Or,
alternatively, give him what he
really wants - a coffee
enema and a copy of
Razzle.
Unique Markings
Dribbling like so much inverted
corn syrup from the
palsied man-
pap of
TDavid comes today's
statbelch: apparently,
recent research shows that
24% of Americans between the ages of 18 and
50 have at
least one
tattoo. As the wholesome
dude himself scrawls:
"Assuming this study is accurate, odds are 1:4 of you [readers] are [tattooed]"Skip with
me like tinkling faeries over to that
bastion of pomp the
BBC and we also learn that, in their
recent poll, a mere 17% of the nigh-on-nine-
thousand questioned agreed that the UK should have
ID cards. Allowing ourselves a little
greasing of extrapolation in the trends of
inking on either side of the
Atlantic, dwellers of the
Dante's Handcart thinktank might dare to suggest that
Tony, the eminently
sexy John Reid (himself
spunking headlines like a
sick snake lately over his political
paedo-prison-pressure) and their cast of biometric
bigwigs should perhaps look not to laminated
cards but to developing tat-
map technology.
In our
experience the tattooed are even more keen on
showing off their markings than an MP with a new
riding crop; there should be
little trouble guiding them through a complicated rig of
cameras and thus immortalise their
unique patterning. Add in the studded
possibilities of piercings and there's another way to
differentiate the proletariat. Before you know it, rather than
queueing up to
punch Mr Reid you'll be seeing him on the
front of
Skin Deep.
Wrong side of the tracks
Amid the general
newsthrob and gossip
burble gushes word that the
French government and their state
railway have been fined a
landmark $80,000 for their role in
transporting Jews during the second World
War. SNCF, a militant
faction of the original cross-European train
network that still holds French commuters in a
death-grip, was found to be
complicit in "crimes against
humanity" in a case some believe
marred by lawyers'
incompetence:
"I'm amazed by the ruling. I can't understand it," a lawyer acting for SNCF said.Nonetheless, the trembling question of
reparations is once again
buffed into life, especially given Berlin's
controversial memorial proving to be, as the Combined
Jewish Philantropies warbled,
"a tourist magnet".
Suggest-meisters here at
Dante's Handcart are
stiff believers that, while pretty, simple fines
fail to satisfy the public lust for
comeuppance. Instead, we would like to see each
juicy SNCF train equipped with a memorial
carriage filled with
bronze Jews, to symbolise in a deeply
symbolic way the whole palaver. It'd be
nice to see indie rock
mongeese Silver Jews perform at an inaugural
ceremony, but perhaps that's just being greedy.
The Mane Event
Horse-
riders, young girls and
lesbians all over the world are waking today to the
frightening news that the Ministry of
Defense, the UK governments chief weapon in the fight against not having a
ministry that would deal with defense, is sending to the
skies a fleet of sky-horses. The
existence of the steeds, which are believed to number in the
hundreds, was
leaked in a
poorly written story by
Grampian TV:
"The Ministry of Defence and the British Horse Society may seem at first to be an unusual partnership, but it is a partnership which is borne out of a desire for safety"Silent,
sturdy, and low-maintanance in comparison to the current
fleet of spy-planes and
UAVs, sky-horses are believed to be the latest
two-fingered salute to "electronics
boffins" who, in this dull and over-egged
travesty of a report by
The Australian, are credited with
mindfucking Air Traffic Control systems using a
pottage of wires, transponders and less-than-Christian
attitudes.
Dick Smith,
notorious salesman, practical
joker and show-off pilot, released this
gusty quote from his
newsbuttocks:
"As we all know, criminals create viruses for computer networks which have cost the world hundreds of millions of dollars"It is difficult to
fathom which brain-cell collided with the
microphone in this case, and experts around the country are
attempting to ascertain just what the deep-fried
douchetramp Dicky is rambling on about. Smith himself was
unavailable for further comment.
When
challenged like a cheap
whore with doubts surrounding the effectiveness of
illuminated flying
ponies, Bill Semple, Chief Executive of Air Traffic
Control, is believed to have sucked his
thumb and looked distant. In a 1997,
unconnected interview he made this
statement:
"The minimum we got down to was two ... I think with the benefit of hindsight we might have done more earlier"It's difficult not to see
simpleton Semple as the bad-guy here, and to be
sodding honest I wouldn't
dissuade you. Not that you'd take much dissuading, you
slack-thighed numpty.
A first class gamble
It's got to be
tough being Adam Crozier,
glossy chief executive of the
Royal Mail. Since the 17th century Royal
dictate that every piece of
first class mail should "receive first class treatment", he
personally sorts through each of the
81 million items posted
daily. Rumour has it that Crozier had the
swarthy hands of a great ape surgically
transplanted on to his supple
wrists to better
palpate the letters, small packets and parcels, in an
illegal backroom operation in the
Russian hinterlands. Now, the fecking
Guardian takes the
long arcing piss of fresh
news in reporting that the
UK government is preparing to
crap up to £1.3bn into Crozier's
grubby purse, a
foetid effort to resurrect the leaking,
palsied dullard that is our postal service.
With the Post Office business
losing £111m a year and pension
deficits of £5bn, Crozier and his
cronies could do worse than to take a
butchers at high-gloss
tackshack Las Vegas. There,
architects like Paul Steelman have spent the past
20 years developing the ideal cash current to keep leisure-suit-wearing gamble
bunnies circulating and
spending. As the barf
trouts at Wired News are
warbling, carefully
dovetailed retail and casino zones have flipped the dollar spouts to
max:
"most new Vegas Strip resorts earn more than half of revenue from nongambling activities: shops, theatres, restaurants and trade shows""All well and
good", I hear you grumble like sodomised
toads, "but how does this make a
cock sot of
difference?" Oh ye of little faith. What we
foresight-mites at
Dante's Handcart envision is a Post Office Entertainment
multiplex. Picture your urine-stained
grandmother, wheeling her
hemorrhoids in to collect her
pension and then, excitingly, bused on a
travellator into a luncheon-lounge-
cum-bar-cum-bubble-wrap-
emporium. Slightly tipsy on
sherry she peruses racks of novelty
bargains and loss-leader spangletat, before being encouraged by
showgirls and a man wielding a
tiger to post said-items to
friends and family using, you guessed it, the Royal Mail's
own Parcel Force. It makes
perfect sense and, frankly, if they don't do it then they deserve a
punch in the
snatch.
Goo goo g' joob
Iconic rap-
putz Jay-Z left me an awfully
long voicemail this morning. In amongst the
wheedling, cajoling and general begging for me to
lapdance for him, I could make out some sort of crazed mumbling about
declining numbers of walrus. Now, here in my
World Watch Tower several
miles above the upper-
left corner of the globe, I can see he was
right to be worried.
Several news sources have
confirmed what my telescope tells me - that the
Atlantic walrus, famed for its sexually-
potent tusks and long the
mascot of Elle MacPherson, has diminished until
some worried bastards believe there
only to be
five left. Of that five, with a 40/60 gender
split, one female is known to be
infertile and at least one male believed
homosexual or at least bi-
curious.
Dr Andrew Trites,
bearded, made the following statement:
"We're concerned that the population is
low [but] global warming is
not the culprit"
Trites, previously
famous for sitting next to someone on a bus who had a moulded polypropylene
groin and offered to
show it to him for a dollar, has
not contacted us to make any useful comment, an act that can only count
against him at this time.
Sources
close to
Dante's Handcart have instead revealed,
exclusively, that celebrity walrus-human
symbiotes are being "called home" to replenish the dwindling
stud stock. These genetically engineered half-man, half-walrus
chimera were the result of an ill-fated 1950s
tryst between Russian
biologists and British
zoologists, and have in many cases reached
dizzying heights of
power due to their advanced mammalian brains. We suggest that avid
readers might keep their eyes open to
notable decision-makers taking a sudden
step backwards from their
responsibilities, and who also might bear uncanny
resemblance to our Arctic friends.