Wednesday, June 28, 2006

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.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

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.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

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.

Demonstrating God's hatred for glossy magazinesWhile 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.

Friday, June 16, 2006

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.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

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.

Thursday, June 08, 2006

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.

Monday, June 05, 2006

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.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

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.

Friday, June 02, 2006

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.