Just in case you were wondering...
... there are no questions 332 and 338 on the Monster Quiz.
It appears that I forgot those two numbers existed and decided to skip over them and head into the numerically larger future without their important and coherent contribution.
So all of you who were expecting a 501-question quiz may be very disappointed.
I apologise for the loss of my arithmetical skills, but then you do have the consolation of having a 499-question quiz, which is almost as good.
"Look! That's the twisted spire! Hmm, how interesting"
I'll always associate Chesterfield with a very homophobic 2 Live Crew song that I heard when I was 12-years-old. I don't think it's funny anymore (you see? A flash of maturity).
I just thought I would mention that.
Yep, went up to the Grand Prix, came fourth in the individuals and decided my time would be better spent playing buzzer quiz matches while England stamped, collapsed and missed their way to painful, agonising, gut wrenching defeat. Again, gorramit!
And somehow I am quite happy that I didn't spent two and a half hours in a crowded pub (no offence to today's pub attendees, it's more of a historical thing with me) with women screaming like they have been stabbed repeatedly. Blokes moaning in despair I can take most of the time, but the high-pitched squealing I cannot. That and the latent violence. When England lose, just afterwards you notice various men shaking uncontrollably and on the verge of crying or committing GBH on anyone. It's a tightrope, and I would rather not be in weeping or whomping range when it happens.
So I ignored it all, in the style of Bob Shankly closing his curtain on Everton playing in his backyard, and I didn't feel gutted having not watched the match. The mass depression only lightly flicked my side when I heard a man on the train talking to his wife on the phone and saying: "Portugal has won? Oh".
I am now only mildly disappointed and will wake up tomorrow and start laughing at Steve McClaren, as the whole nation MUST campaign to get him sacked before he does any damage (I mean as a manager, not as the assistant milquetoast melvin of coach). If we can do it in two months, we can get Big Phil, our nemesis, to manage this dissolute bunch of ragamuffins and perhaps send Rooney on a celebrity edition of Brat Camp.
You know what they say. You kill the thing you love. He's killed us three times and if that ain't love, I don't know what is (bloody FA morons so deep in moronicity they can't see that McClaren is going to be a disaster). It is destiny I tells ya.
Destiny.
Though he is not Mr Destiny. That would be Michael Caine (fraternal injoke there. ha. ha.)
It appears that I forgot those two numbers existed and decided to skip over them and head into the numerically larger future without their important and coherent contribution.
So all of you who were expecting a 501-question quiz may be very disappointed.
I apologise for the loss of my arithmetical skills, but then you do have the consolation of having a 499-question quiz, which is almost as good.
"Look! That's the twisted spire! Hmm, how interesting"
I'll always associate Chesterfield with a very homophobic 2 Live Crew song that I heard when I was 12-years-old. I don't think it's funny anymore (you see? A flash of maturity).
I just thought I would mention that.
Yep, went up to the Grand Prix, came fourth in the individuals and decided my time would be better spent playing buzzer quiz matches while England stamped, collapsed and missed their way to painful, agonising, gut wrenching defeat. Again, gorramit!
And somehow I am quite happy that I didn't spent two and a half hours in a crowded pub (no offence to today's pub attendees, it's more of a historical thing with me) with women screaming like they have been stabbed repeatedly. Blokes moaning in despair I can take most of the time, but the high-pitched squealing I cannot. That and the latent violence. When England lose, just afterwards you notice various men shaking uncontrollably and on the verge of crying or committing GBH on anyone. It's a tightrope, and I would rather not be in weeping or whomping range when it happens.
So I ignored it all, in the style of Bob Shankly closing his curtain on Everton playing in his backyard, and I didn't feel gutted having not watched the match. The mass depression only lightly flicked my side when I heard a man on the train talking to his wife on the phone and saying: "Portugal has won? Oh".
I am now only mildly disappointed and will wake up tomorrow and start laughing at Steve McClaren, as the whole nation MUST campaign to get him sacked before he does any damage (I mean as a manager, not as the assistant milquetoast melvin of coach). If we can do it in two months, we can get Big Phil, our nemesis, to manage this dissolute bunch of ragamuffins and perhaps send Rooney on a celebrity edition of Brat Camp.
You know what they say. You kill the thing you love. He's killed us three times and if that ain't love, I don't know what is (bloody FA morons so deep in moronicity they can't see that McClaren is going to be a disaster). It is destiny I tells ya.
Destiny.
Though he is not Mr Destiny. That would be Michael Caine (fraternal injoke there. ha. ha.)
posted by That Quiz Guy at 4:00 PM
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