Professional Moron

We provide lessons in life, culture, philosophy, mind, matter, cake, jam, haggis, and general oddness.

The Psychology of Mario Kart 8.

Mario Kart 8!

Mario Kart 8!

Mario Kart 8 was released a few months ago for Nintendo’s excellent Wii U, and Mr. Wapojif has been swearing his head off ever since. This game promotes more vitriolic abuse and foul obscenities than any other! The series began back in 1992 with Super Mario Kart on the SNES. Mr. Wapojif played this game to smithereens, and can remember proudly boasting to his parents (The Wapojif family having a long lineage) of his first ever 3rd position circa ’92 – aged 8 or something. His sister, however, would thump him if he ever hit her with a red shell. Which is, you know, missing the point of the game. Anyway, the N64 version followed and there have been several incarnations since. It’s a game anyone can play, and it’s one which highlights the mind crushing infuriation of every day life. It does this with the manic thrill of fun and escapism in standard Nintendo still – unmatched genius. Mario Kart 8 is arguably the best yet in the series, and this is no mean feat. It’s an acclaimed series and Mr. Wapojif so dearly loves the SNES version (which you can handily download to the Wii U from the eShop – bonus! Nostalgia mayhem!).

Mr. Wapojif has, however, been wondering about the psychology of players in the online mode. You can play against up to 12 people at once, and races are as chaotic and berserk as is humanly imaginable. It’s utter insanity. However, such is the infuriating nature of the game many players become bitter. There’s one trick Professional Moron picked up on in particular. As players race to the finish line on the final lap, they often fire a shell backwards into the oncoming racers. Many a time Mr. Wapojif has punched himself in the face in sheer fury after being hit by one of these. He himself quickly picked up the practice, utterly ruining other people’s races, and this tactic has spread like wildfire amongst Mario Kart 8ers. There’s no point to it – the race is run. The only thing it promotes is malice and spite. “Everyone else does it. I’m going to, too!”. The game knows no mercy. At all. It drives players to the brink of psychosis, and then rewards them with a win, reminding them life can be brilliant. Nintendo – you canny lovelies!

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Exclusive Invention: The Broat!

Inspired genius of rampant insanity?

Artist’s impression of the Broat. Inspired genius or unhinged madness?

Last time in our inventions column we brought to you the Faxe. Much like a spork, but with an axe and fork welded together. It revolutionised the lumberjack community, and our latest invention is set to ignite the maritime world. The Broat is a staggering achievement of intellectual thought – a merger of genius with a crass disregard for the laws of physics and general sanity. The premise is this: bridges are evil necessities the world over. They’re attractive things, but they are inherently evil. Why? Just look at them! Stretching out into the distance making you wonder if they even give a damn. They make our blood boil! Anyway, boats are also an evil necessity. However, no one has ever been insane enough to weld the two together… until now! Ladies and gentlemen, we give to you The Broat! Part bridge, part boat!

Right, so you’ve already seen the somewhat amateurish artist’s impression. Do take into consideration the overall scale of the project. Bridges tend to be on the large side of things, so we had to think long and hard about how gargantuan the boat was going to have to be in order to support the gargantuan weight of a massive bridge. We figured the boat would have to be roughly the size of 1,000 Titanics, which we think is a reasonable task in this day and age. The idea is to weld the bridge onto the boat to create a Super Structure, an unholy-ly enormous contraption the likes of which no human has ever set eyes on. It will be so enormous it will require a staff of 100,000 to operate. However, never again will there be a gap of land in need of a bridge. The Broat will be there to swim to the rescue, positioning its Broatiness into voids where no void has previously had a bridge. We await out Nobel Prize.

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In Contempt Of Pineapple and Ham Pizza.

Apparently this is a Pineapple, Ham, Banana, and Curry pizza. Words... there are no words...

Apparently this is a Pineapple, Ham, Banana, and Curry pizza. Words… there are no words…

Some sick SOB invented this thing. The Hawaiian Pizza consists of a standard dough pizza base (nice, although a wholemeal one is tastier), cheese (awesome!), ham (passable), tomato (hell yeah!), and pineapple. Pineapple. Pine-apple. We’d like to state right now this isn’t pineapple’s fault. Pineapple is a wonderful fruit – a marvellous thing with unholy delights within its shell casing thing. What you don’t do, like some demented halfwit evil chef, is add it to pizza. Who in their right mind thought it could be a good combination? It absolutely isn’t. It’s a foul concoction of badly judged ingredients – it tastes bad, and only a bizarre palate could enjoy this. One restricted to Pot Noodles and fast food (yes, we’re being snobbish and having a go). It’s effectively half a main course, half a dessert: a fruit salad trapped within the melted cheese confines of an experimental pizza gone mortifyingly wrong. The oddness continues, as it wasn’t made in Hawaii. A brief bit of research for this piece found numerous sources pointing a shaky finger accusingly at Ontario, Canada. Sam Panopoulos physically came forward to the press to demand credit for the creation of this disaster in 1962. Was he mad!?

We love pizza, although restrict its intake (so as not to become morbidly obese), and we’ve stated before we’re not fussy eaters. Frog’s legs, snails, sashimi – totally love it. We’d even happily try Fugu (pufferfish), which has to be prepared carefully so as not to provide a lethal dose of poison. Chefs go through rigorous training to qualify for a license in Japan, and restaurants preparing it are strictly monitored by the government. Bring it on! However, a pizza with pineapple? Get stuffed, you reprobates!!

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In Praise of The Grand Budapest Hotel

Grand Budapest Hotel

The Grand Budapest Hotel!

Right, one of the best films of 2014 is The Grand Budapest Hotel. This is a fact. Can’t deal with it? Go and watch the latest Transformers, you goddamn Commie!!! If you’re intrigued then read on, Macduff!

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A Brief History of the Sock.

Socks from ancient times, when humans had weird feet.

Socks from ancient times, when humans had weird feet.

We did a stupid piece on socks last year, now we’re back to tell the truth for a change as we wow you all this merry Friday. It’s the end of the week – why wouldn’t you want to know a little more about those woolly appendages you strap around your tootsies? NOW! If you turn your eyeballs to stare at the image on the right, you will be able to observe an ancient sock. Excavated from the river Nile in Egypt (it’s near-ish to Norway) they were carbohydrated to circa 500 AD. As you can behold, back in olden days humans only had two big toes. Not only this, they were bloody massive.

Since those days of unimaginative sock making barbarism, the world has moved on. Over the ages the knitting machine (invented in 1589 by Mr. and Mrs. Knittingmachine) boosted sock production not one times over. Nor two times. No, SIX effing times! Apparently, after the first day of production, numerous sock factories burst at the seams, and a tidal wave of freshly made socks flooded the streets of many cities across the world (known to history as The Great Sock Carnage of 1589 – Google it). In contemporary times, the big revolution in sock manufacturing came in 1938 when nylon was introduced. Nylon, as we all know, grows in the river Nile, thusly allowing history to complete some perverted cyclical sock history from 500 AD up to the now. Startling, eh? Quite what the future holds for socks we don’t know. Maybe one day they’ll be made out of cheese, thusly allowing a generation of men to blame their stupid man feet on the ridiculous choice of material. We can only dream.

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Here Is The Most Horrifying Moral Conflict Of Public Transport!

The Manchester - Southport train. Not the exact one Mr. Wapojif was on, but the exact type of train. Journey Duration: 1 hour. Free tea and sandwiches? No.

The Manchester – Southport train. Not the exact one Mr. Wapojif was on, but the exact type of train. Journey Duration: 1 hour. Free tea and sandwiches? No.

We’ve all been there (apart from dumbass rich people whooommm have always owned cars) – sitting on public transport. Many of us have made a career out of it. Mr. Wapojif has spent at least 1/10th of his life on a bus. Having to be in such close contact with scumbag proletariats is bad enough, but it throws up moral dilemmas for which there are few answers. Mr. Wapojif experienced such a case yesterday on a busy train. During an hour long journey, the extremely busy compartment became increasingly sparse the further away from populated areas we journeyed. Normally, this is bliss. A quiet train. Thyme 2 reed. Sadly not. No. “OMG, what happened!?” you opine. Read on to find out more, Macduff.

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Postulations on Food: What is it with Bisque?

Delicious bisque! But what the hell is it!?!?!?

Delicious bisque! But what the hell is its problem!?!?!?

Let us not forget the Professional Moron staff loves French cuisine, seafood, shellfish, and cheese. We are NOT fussy eaters and enjoy a great diversity of food stuffs. This isn’t to say we can’t get miffed about bisque – a soup we very much enjoy, but can only hazard erratic ruminations on its existence.

First off, optimistic dawdling: great name. Love it. Bisque – you begin the word as if you’re about to head off towards a heavy bout of prolixity regarding biscuits. This isn’t the case, as your biscuit based desires are immediately ruined by the second syllable – que. Now in Spanish this means “What?”, which is pretty apt for this food product, but in this brainstorming of possibility it could, perhaps, refer to queues. This, arguably, refers to the need to queue in line to purchase a lobster in a fish market. However, it’s not as if lobster is gourmet in contemporary life. You can buys tins of bisque soup for £1.60 in the local store. Plus, frozen lobsters are propped up in the “posh” sections of supermarkets. What we’re getting at is this – bisque is a narcissist. It believes itself to be of a superior status to what it is. This posturing is, we’ve gathered, of particular offence to the food world. We hear prawn cocktails refuse to acknowledge bisque at parties, likewise with smoked salmon hors d’oeuvres, and seafood platters have become entirely estranged from their erstwhile colleague. We would like to state this is a shame, but bisque brought it on itself.

With our learned discipline we can thusly state to bisque: drop the pretentions, idiot, and acknowledge your place on the popular market. You are mildly gourmet, delicious, and high in salt, but don’t go thinking you’re any better than beans on toast! You hear!?!?

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