(pictured: This guy had a theme tune. So, why can’t we?)
I think every citizen should be issued with their own personal theme tune. This tune would sound out once the person awakes or enters a room for the first time. You could hear a few bars of someone’s theme tune when you passed them on the street. I think it would be very useful in that it would help us gauge the personality and characteristics of the person and help us decide if that person is worthy of our trust, time or effort.
For example, I’d imagine someone accompanied by THIS THEME (click the words ‘This Theme’, it’s a link you God forsaken eejit) would be best avoided and someone with THIS THEME might be good company. Serious types of people would have themes like news programmes. Superficial people would be accompanied by irritatingly catchy advertising jingles. Devout people would sound like the Angelus or the Islamic Call to Prayer.
Now, as we all know, lots of us go around putting on a front. You know the type of thing, skinheads who turn out to be really sentimental or hippy types who turn out to be extremely uptight. Personal theme tunes would not facilitate such deceit. Our theme tunes would ‘out’ us and reveal the inner core of our beings, making such http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.giffaçades impossible to maintain. Politicians would probably all end up sounding like THIS. The seemingly demure pensioner you let skip ahead of you in a supermarket queue could well end up sounding like THIS. Survival of the shrewdest would be become a thing of the past and we would be forced to live openly and honestly.
We might not be happy with it but we would learn to accept it and perhaps even change over time. As we mature and alter our ways our tunes might change also. Like when they change the theme to a TV show when it comes back for a new series. As it stands, I like to think my personal theme would be something like THIS but deep down I know it would actually be something like THIS. What about you? What would your theme tune be?
Excuse me, excuse me, can I just say that if we don’t let the bill through it won’t exist and, let me be clear on this, we oppose the bill but if it doesn’t exist how do we oppose it? Seriously now, just, just stop interrupting, stop interrupting me and listen, now, can I just say that there are things, things that must be done in order to give back the loan we need to borrow because of things that quite simply must be done and things and let me be clear on this because I didn’t just say that and you can roll the tape back if you want and stop interrupting me because I am a woman and can think for myself like a centrist social democrat and things that must be done and the bill stop interrupting me. Can I just say that the first thing Brian Lenihan has to realise is that things. Excuse me, stop interrupting! Fianna Fáil is now a minority government and the return of mass-emigration is a telling thing that tells of things and I used to live in Africa and I have seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I've watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain and it does not command sufficient support in the Dáil to dictate the order of business. Stop interrupting me! STOP INTERRUPTING ME! We’re not stalling. Can I just say that it is clear that the normal timetable ends at the end of March. I already brought it back to the beginning of March so the timetable is ending before it ends and where did I put my diving flippers? STOP! INTERRUPTING! ME! Can I just say that when I was a little boy I nursed a wounded seagull back to health like Trotsky or Mao wouldn’t but stop interrupting me because I am a woman and a budgetary crisis was brought on by the disastrous economic policy that followed so excuse me but do you want an answer to the question or do you just want to harangue me dear minister deputy mister minister MEPship thank you mister minister mister man mister maaaaan and I will not open the pod bay doors Dave so stop interrupting me, STOP INTERRUPTING ME! And can I just say that I did not just say that and you can say that I did say that and you can roll the tape back and even if I did say that can I just say that I didn’t because we are in the business of creating solutions to the people and solutions so wounded seagull diving flipper spice burger snack box Large Hadron Collider two onion rings and a can of Lilt to table nine please deputy. Deputy? Deputy? You used to be called Joe and STOP INTERRUPTING ME! And can I just say that I didn’t just say that. Please God, tell me I didn’t just say that!
I was told if this blog was more ‘normal’ people might look at it and then I’d get awards (which is what it’s all about). Help make Fugger viral! Here is Internet office humour fun. Email to pals and write ‘LOL’ after in case they are too stupid to know it is a joke (and put a laughing emoticon smiley face thing after too just in case they are fuckin paralysed in the brain) LOL!:
WORST EVER CHAT UP LINES! LOL!
FOR GUYS:
‘Are you the girl I followed home last night?’
‘I may not be much to look at but I can fart louder than most guys.’ ‘I’m emotionally distant and given to sudden outbursts of rage. How about you try and change me.’
‘I don’t like your dress. Take it off.’ ‘If I ask you out for a coffee do you promise not to emotionally dismember me and reduce to me a shadow of my former self like that last Nazi bitch?’
‘You have my father’s chin.’
FOR GALS:
‘I don’t normally go for men like you but you seem to have money.’
‘I set fire to my last boyfriend’s house but I just want to set fire to your heart.’
‘The problem with most guys is they resent being controlled but you seem passive and malleable. How about it?’
‘You remind me of my son now take off your pants.’
‘When I look at you I think of sex because your nose resembles a cock.’
Produce a dead cat from your bag and say: ‘Wanna stroke my pussy?’
OMG soooo LOL! Normal and LOL! That should get Fugger on the office humour viral map. In case it doesn’t though, here’s a funny clip involving a cat:
January 20th 2011 and it’s all gone mental. Cowen has donned a laurel crown and appointed his dishwasher as minister for defence. All other vacated portfolios have been awarded to Paul Gogarty which has enraged the dishwasher that is now said to be considering its position. That’s not all, Cowen has opened a large crate releasing tens of deranged lemur monkeys into Leinster House. The creatures are running amok, flinging around important paper work, stealing sandwiches from hungry TDs and shitting all over the place. A weeping Pat Carey is reported to be hopping about trying to wrestle a blazing waste paper basket from his right foot. There is the sound of wailing and screaming and a time vortex is spilling out Doctor Who monsters into the foyer.
The most incredible thing about all this is that the Irish public don’t seem to mind that much. ‘Ah sure, what do you expect from that shower’ says one onlooker. ‘They say we’re an international laughing stock but I couldn’t give a shite and neither could anyone I know’, says another.
STOP PRESS: A bizarre party seems to be in progress on the roof of Leinster House. Various members of the general public have joined with protestors, TDs from all parties, Doctor Who monsters and lemur monkeys in a mass display of nihilistic insanity. The building is on fire but no one is showing the remotest concern. Richard Boyd Barrett is bumping asses with Mary Harney as they perform the ‘Mashed Potato’ to this song:
People are joining the festivities nationwide. Children, adults and pensioners are dancing on the streets. Pubs are giving out free booze, even to the kids. Well, if you can’t beat them join them. Myself and The Pussycat Dolls are performing a dance routine on the roof of a garda van as I type. Come on, join in the fun why don’t cha? Can you do the Mashed Potato? I bet you can! Get to it! Go on, stand up now and let yourself go. Fuck what anyone else thinks! Fuck the rest of the world! Fuck ‘em all! We’re Ireland and WE DON’T FUCKIN CARE!!!
STOP PRESS AGAIN: Hey, Ashley from the Dolls has just invented a new dance. It's called the Reshuffle!. . .going forward.
I get it now. I suddenly see it. Falling isn’t the problem. It’s landing that’s the problem. When someone is falling, the trick is to make sure they never land, never hit the bottom. To prevent the faller hitting the bottom what you must do is make sure there is no bottom to hit. You do this by digging a deep hole on the location you expect the faller to land and you keep digging, faster than the person is falling, always staying ahead of the game so they never land SPLAT on the ground but instead continue to plummet into the hole, down . . .and down . . .and down.
The faller will of course complain about their never ending tumble through the dark abyss toward parts unknown but what alternative is there? Sure, some might consider that the faller could be caught in a net of some kind but this would probably result in an injury, a dislocated shoulder or something, so it’s best to keep the fall going and not have to worry about such outcomes.
In fact, it could be argued that the fall, if prolonged for long enough, could become the norm, a new status quo. The faller might become accustomed to the sensation and learn to live with it, perhaps even enjoying certain aspects of it. Instead of complaining about their predicament, the faller might just start to get on with life.
That’s not all. Imagine you are the faller, forever hurtling through the subterranean gloom. Imagine where you might end up. Imagine where the hole (that has been thoughtfully provided for you with great effort by the diggers) might take you. You could very well end up falling out the other side of the Earth, into a kind of Australia, where you will once again be the right way around and climbing out of the hole you originally fell into. Taking a look around, you will see a far better environment than the one you left behind and laugh when you remember how worried you were when you started falling. You might even be actually glad that you were pushed in the first place
So, do you get it now? Do you see it? They want to see us falling into a better place and that is why they pushed us. For the moment though, they must keep digging a deeper and deeper hole. The least we can do in return is quit the carping and get on with the plummeting. This is the approach they have taken to our nation’s current descent and this is the approach that will work. Going Downward!
In an attempt to shake up the literary establishment and garner the kudos I have long deserved, I have written an astonishing new novel that combines Joyce’s stream of consciousness with a sporadic rhyming prose reminiscent of Dr. Seuss. As if that wasn’t innovative enough, I have topped it all off with dollops of insight worthy of Joseph O’Conner.
My groundbreaking new novel is called Salty Seas, Salty Tears: a Cognitive Montage. As with all good books, it deals with memory and coming to terms with the past. Ah yeah, the past, the past, the past, and all that fuckin shite. Anyway, here’s an extract:
Knees knock. Teeth chatter. Babies cry and mothers natter. A discarded sausage covered in batter. Sandy sand and sea of blue. The blanket is red and my towel is too. Windbreaker flip flap snap. The twisting of a flask cap.
‘Oh Mammy. Oh Mammy. Can I have a sandwich Mammy?’
‘You eat that one now. The one I gave you.’
‘But Mammy, there’s sand in this one and I wanted jam not ham.’
And the sea melodiously farts and Mammy is angry. Mammy angry. Angry Mammy.
‘Don’t be dropping them. I told you. Here’s another.’
‘But Mammy, that’s ham and I wanted jam. I wanted jam Mam. Oh Mammy. Oh Mammy. Please make my sandwich jammy. Jammy Mammy! Mammy Jammy! Not hammy! Not hammy! Mammy Mammy Jammy Jammy!’
‘Whist now child, don’t make me chide, let me listen to the Angelus on the wireless.’
But whist I won’t as is my wont. I will have jam. I can. I can.
‘Mammy Jammy I will and canny. I insist Mammy, you give me jammy!’
A wasp floats around a dead can of Fanta and I am clouted as ‘No!’ is shouted. The clouds cover the sun and the tears fill my eyes. Please, please, give me the Man Booker prize.
End of extract.
Well if that doesn’t land me slap-bang between literary goliaths Colm Tobin and Amanda Brunker in a drunken post-literary festival three-way I don’t know what will.
There are few patterns to be found in human experience and there is no predestination. It’s fundamentally random. Nothing is meant to be and people are neither blessed nor doomed. However, humanity has an inbuilt ability to see patterns. We noticed the seasons and the tides and all the things that have routine in this world. This led to our mastery of cause and effect. We became fisher men, hunters, farmers, and inventors. To a certain extent, we began to control our destinies. BUT, not everything operates on the principle of cause and effect and not everything has a pattern. Seeing patterns where none exist is a common flaw in humanity. This flaw is called apophenia. Apophenia steps in at those frustrating and anxious moments when we realise we’re not in control of events. We panic and begin to construct patterns and causes where there are none to be found. This leads us up garden paths. It convinces us that our futures can be read in the movements of stars or that we can be saved by rituals. Sometimes, deep down, we might almost know what the future holds based upon past observation and sometimes when we have a problem we know what the solution is. Despite this knowledge, we often still seek refuge in apophenia. Instead of facing the future (which may be challenging) we seek succour in things like horoscopes. Likewise, addressing a problem sometimes requires great effort so instead we drop to our knees and say a novena because that’s easier. But remember, God only helps those who help themselves and Fugger is going to show you, my darling reader, how to help yourself by taking advantage of apophenia. And let me tell you, we are talking BIG CASH here.
What you need to do is start a cult. To do this you first need to construct a robust but entirely apophenic (is that a word? who cares, it is now) narrative. Then you go around acting as if you have exclusive insight and that you alone know the truth (a.k.a. your narrative). This narrative should tell people what they want to hear. That is key, you tell people what they want to hear, not what they need to hear. Psychologists do this all the time: ‘You can’t relate to your kids because your Dad laughed when you were seven and fell in a duck pond now give me €400 and get out of my office’. A decent narrative, no matter how irrelevant, will make people go ‘oh yeah’, particularly if it is one that gets them off the hook of taking responsibility for their own behaviour. It’s the same with horoscopes, ‘you’re a total no-hoper because Saturn was around when you were born but give me some cash and I’ll tell you how Jupiter is going to help you next June.’
OK, so to recap, what you need to do is create a narrative and link it to the cause and effect of people’s lives whilst making them believe that you are the oracle of said narrative and, therefore, indispensible to them. Got that? Good. Now let’s proceed. The next step is finding suckers. The Internet is great for this. You set up a site, leave posts everywhere and reel them in. Then you hold a conference (charge people in but not too much at first, you’re not in Deepak Chopra’s league yet). At this conference you will find yourself standing in front of a small selection of visibly desperate strangers, the type of people who sit next to you on the bus and stink of TCP. It’s not an ideal congregation but you have to start somewhere. Remember, if you get this part right, the Tom Cruises and Travoltas will come later. Anyway, to start things off, get the assembled up and dancing about. Liberate them of their inhibitions, release their endorphins and raise their goose-bumps with some good tunes (a bit like at a U2 gig, which is effectively an example of the kind of thing I’m talking about). Then, when they are feeling good about themselves, you lower the lighting, adopt a no nonsense demeanour, and introduce them to stage one of your narrative. The narrative should always come in stages so they have to keep coming back for more and buying the books, audios and DVDs that will be available from a stall in the lobby.
Before you know it, you’ll be attracting a better class of adherent and rolling in dough. Not to mention riding any member of the congregation that takes your fancy. ‘Come with me my dear and I will show you the enlightening art of the oven-ready position.’ It worked for David Koresh (or so they say but that might have just been a narrative the U.S. media constructed to justify burning the Branch Davidians to death, who knows, we’re all at it really when you think about it, it’s called lying or public relations).
Now, one other thing I should mention is to try and throw in a bit of shame. This is optional but shame really is great. If you can make people feel ashamed of themselves you’re on to a winner. People hate feeling ashamed so if you can incite shame in them you can set yourself up as the sole source of absolution from that shame. They’ll come to you on their hands and knees and beg forgiveness for the transgression of your choosing and you’ll be in a position to say ‘I forgive thee in exchange for sweet sweet cash, now go in peace jabroni’. Make sure that the shame they feel is caused by something unavoidable. Make the follower feel disproportionate shame for farting or something that they are bound to do occasionally. Make farting (or whatever you decide upon) seem like the very worst thing a person can do. ‘And lo’ he did fart and our lord Kangerok, Monarch of the Upper Realm, did weep and despair of mankind’. That kind of thing. Got it?
So, now you’re on the road. There are of course other incredibly important elements you will need to learn in order to put your cash-generating/cult-forming plans into action but to know about them you will need to purchase my audio-listenable CD and book sets from Daphne (a deliciously oven-ready 36-24-36) as you exit through the lobby. Thanks for listening and remember, you are the master of your own destiny . . .and the destiny of others.
(Below is a perfect example of how to start a cult conference)
‘A new decade is here and, boy, has it got a lot of cleaning up to do after the last one.’ At least, that’s what the C.I.A. told me over a few pints in town. ‘As if that ain’t bad enough, the whole house of credit default swap cards is going to come crashing down, we’re going to have water and oil shortages causing wars and there’s going to be refugees spilling out all over the place causing racial tension. We’re in the shit Mr. Fugger,’ they informed me.
‘So, what do you want me to do about it?’ I asked.
‘Well you like telling stories,’ replied the C.I.A., ‘and we need stories to keep people distracted while we maintain order. Maintaining order ain’t pretty. A lot of people are going to get hurt and we don’t want the bleeding hearts getting all moralistic about it. Order trumps morality Mr. Fugger. Morality is abstract subjective bull crap. Order is an objective and observable phenomenon.’
I didn’t like the sound of that. I downed my Guinness and nodded to the barman for another. The C.I.A. kept talking as they peered at me over their whiskeys. ‘We’re going to start shit in Bolivia Mr. Fugger. We need gas and they got it. We’re going to replace democratically elected President Morales with hardcore racist son of a Nazi Branko Marinkovic. It sucks but whachagonnado? We need your first rate story telling prowess to make people look the other way. We want you to come up with an event that will keep everyone talking while we do the old switcheroo.’
‘And what if I don’t?’ I said, playing hard-ball.
The C.I.A. fixed me with a chilling glare. ‘What’s the name of your cat Mr. Fugger?’ I was asked.
I was puzzled by the question but I answered it. ‘Rupert’, I said, inciting a round of sniggers and feeling my masculinity suddenly diminish.
‘You like Rupert don’t you Mr. Fugger?’
I saw where they were going with this so quickly changed the subject. ‘Right, a distraction is what you need. A news event to keep people talking. Let’s see. Let’s see now. How about . . .um . . .a racoon.’
The C.I.A. leaned forward in unison and stared expectantly as my mind darted from place to place, grabbing anything it could. ‘Yeah, a racoon, go on,’ they urged.
‘Right, a racoon,’ I continued, ‘and it gets on a TV show and what’s her name is on it too, you know, Katie Price, um, Jordan, and. . .’
‘Hold on,’ one of the C.I.A. interrupted. ‘What’s the racoon doing on a TV show?’
‘Well, maybe it’s a special racoon. Maybe it pulled a baby from a house fire or has been to space or something.’
‘We can’t arrange that Mr. Fugger. Not even we can send a racoon to space or train it rescue kids.’
‘Right well, could you teach it to cycle a little bike?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Right so, the racoon is cycling a little bike and Graham Norton is jumping around delighted when all of a sudden the racoon jumps up off the saddle and bites Jordan on the tits and. . . um . . .they explode.’
I wasn’t sure where the hell that came from and I was even less sure how it would be received. I found myself putting my hands up my face and looking at the C.I.A. through the gaps in my fingers. I need not have worried, they were grinning from ear to ear.
‘I like it,’ one said, ‘the broad’s bazoobahs go boom and at that very moment, in another continent, Morales takes a bullet to the brain as his cavalcade passes through Santa Cruz.’
‘Exactly,’ I confirmed.
The C.I.A. quickly scribbled a few notes, finished their whiskeys and stood to leave.
‘Nice doing business with you Mr. Fugger,’ one said, ‘oh, and give our best to, eh, what’s he called, yeah, give our best to Rupert.’
There was more laughter as they sauntered out the door. I downed my pint to calm my nerves.
Then someone cleared his throat behind me. I turned and saw Ajai Chopra of the I.M.F.
‘Any chance you could dream up a distraction for us? We need a product, a kind of craze for some gee-gaw everyone will want to get while we take everything else from them.’
The fact that I probably had no choice but to assist him did little to assuage the wave of self-loathing that overcame me.
‘What about a, um, let’s see, yeah, what about a board game for all the family. Like Hungry Hungry Hippos only with racoons instead of hippos and, um, instead of the marbles you could have tits?’ I offered.
Ajai smirked and made a note. He seemed happy enough.
Jesus, I’m scraping the barrel on this blog these days. O.K., enough of that. Click the link and find out how CRAP MAN HANDLED THE NEW YEAR!
