Who does this tosser Charlie Brooker think he is? Navelgazing over some pop idol that smart people have the good sense to ignore. I’ve only just read this wanker’s column and, according to the hed, this guy’s “supposing.”
That’s what he says, bold as brass. “Supposing,” As if loathing Justin Timberlake was some noble call to journalistic duty. All the problems of the world and this bitchy little punkass has the temerity to lock his crosshairs into something as substantial as the decaying graymatter inside his own microcephalic skull. I wouldn’t even bang his mom. And he actually got paid for this drivel? Good Christ. The Guardian ought to be ashamed. Why doesn’t he just get a blog?
I mean Jesus Christ, Brooker: “supposing” is a word you reserve for contemplating Schroedinger’s cat or Fermat’s Theorem. Has your feeble little monkey ass even heard of these things? Have you even read a book in the past six months? In a equitable world, your ass would be on the dole with all the other sad hacks who thought that they could make a difference polluting column inches with speculations on Suri’s legitimacy. But no, this Brooker guy thought he could get away with a snarky column filled with all manner of feeble vitriol. It reads as if it was written by a retarded teenager who was just kicked three times in the crotch by an octogenarian suffering from Alzheimer’s.
He can’t even take the piss out of Timberlake properly, quibbling over how Justin says “motherfuckers” on his recording. Good Christ. What sensitive ears this Brooker kid has! What overbearing prattle wasted away on fluff! If I meet Charlie in a pub, I’d throw him to the dogs. I’d get him soused on crappy Budweiser and demand that he recite the first stanza of Thomas Gray’s Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. Lord knows if the wanker could get past “The curfew tolls.”
And wait, it gets worse. HE USES CAPITAL LETTERS AS IF HE IS SHOUTING! Right. Something for the illiterate MySpace crowd. Points with the kids. Because that’s what this is all about. A newspaper trying to hook its talons into a readership it scarcely understands. That Brooker is the posterboy for this flummery only serves to demonstrate that newsrooms are better staffed with marsupials randomly punching in keys.
I want Charlie Brooker’s skull on my dining room table. I want to have Charlie Brooker’s arm for dinner. I want to chop off his cock and compare it against Rasputin’s in that Russian Sex Museum. I’m sure it’s much shorter. I want to claim all sorts of crazy things because it might sell papers or boost my Technorati rating.
Charlie Brooker. Charlie Looking for a Hooker (Because He Can’t Land a Date), more like.