The Bible According to FTD

So we’ve got the Lolcat bible, the Mormon bible and I’m pretty sure Chuck Norris has his own version out there somewhere.  I mean what the fudge?  I figure, all these bibles out there, why should FTD have it’s own version?  Of course, this foray into the blasphemous nether-regions comes out of sheer boredom on my part.  But Goddamnit (or rather Jamesdammit in this case) it’s a way to pass a Saturday afternoon.  So come on, kids!  Let’s re-write the best-known piece of fiction ever created!

The FTD Bible

As written by the 4Chan Disciple J. “Infamy, They’ve All Got it Infamy” Cleverley

Book 1: SEGA GENESIS

1. In the beginning, J created the blog and the lulz.

2. And the blog looked crappy and was void of humour.  And the stale-ness was inherent in the CSS coding.  And so, the blog of J moved over to WordPress.

3. And J. said, Let there be an awesome wicked banner graphic, and there was an awesome wicked banner graphic.

4. And J. saw the wicked awesome banner graphic, and that it was indeed both wicked and awesome: and J. decided to keep it.

5. And J. called the banner graphic Header, and the content Lulz.  And the content and the humour became the first post.

6. And J. said, Let there be more Lulz, so that eventual readers may laugh themselves off of their fucking chairs.  And let it divide the strong-bladdered from the weak-bladdered.

7.And J. made the Lulz, and divided the strong-bladdered from the weak-bladdered, and it was so.

8. And J. called the Lulz Teh Funniez, and the Header and the Lulz were the second post.

[Segment lost due to lack of creativity on my part]

26. And J. said, Holy crap, this shit is getting a little stale.  I need a cheap gimmick to make people keep on reading this blog!  And let him have dominion over my conscience when the Lulz dry up, and over the content, and over the discours found herein.

27. And J. created Rhy in his own image, thus fooling people into thinking he was schizophrenic.

[Segment lost due to lack of creativity on my part]

THE SECOND BOOK OF SEGA GENESIS

2. And on the seventh day, J. was out getting drunk with his friends so there were no Lulz.

3. And J. blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it, because that in it he had had too much to drink the preceding evening and was hungover.

[...]

21. And the Lord J. caused a deep sleep to fall upon Rhy, and he slept.  And He split Rhy into two Rhys.

22. And the second Rhy, which J. had created, gave He a fruity French accent and presented him to Rhy.

23. And Rhy said, What the fuck?  Who’s this fruity French motherfucker?  He shall be called Napoleon, because that’s a typical French name, amirite?

[The Christian flamers thus broke down my door and crucified me in the name of their lord Jebus, claiming that I was an infidel. Thus ends the Bible according to FTD]

Jesus was a Communist,

J

And The Circus Leaves Town…

So here we are back in the glorious and luscious lands of Britain… Well, more like the Isle of Wight, which is neither glorious nor luscious.  I really could spend this entire post bitching about the IOW, but I’ve done that plenty of times before.  Still, the island holds a certain…je ne sais quoi.  Alright, the people are slightly oddball. There are virtually no ethnic minorities living here in Ryde and the weather is erratic.  But I feel more at home here than I do in France.  The air is gritty and I can smell several different vintages of urine on the streets… But goddamn it, it’s home!

Oh mon dieu!  Am ah late for ze sent-ee-mentality?  For ze derring-do?  For ze-

No, although I’m not sure why you’re here.  Aren’t you supposed to be in France with the rest of my split personalities?

We hid in your suitcase.  Fucking cold in the bowels of that airplane though.  And I only had this alibastair retard for company.

You poor, poor soul.  Anyway, I think we had best fill some space here.  Going through the list of the different statistics for FTD, you learn to appreciate just how fucked up some of the people who read this blog are.  Especially through the search criteria.  Here are a few of the ones that really stuck out.  Rhy, if you please.

Oh… Well, we have… lesse here…

Kids fuckin kids.

If the guy who typed this in was looking for child porn, I’m afraid he’s sorely mistaken by coming to this blog.  We have every other type of perversion, but that’s a no-no.  Of course, if he’s typing that in as if to say “oh, those fucking kids” we apologize wholeheartedly and will do anything to avoid a libel suit.  But if you were looking for child porn…. Dude, hand yourself into the fucking cops, man!  Napoleon, how’d you like to take this next one?

Mais bien sur, mon brave!  Ze second search crit-ee-ria ees:

Dostoyevsky on Abortion

But ‘ave you not heard?  Dostoyevsky was an eemposteur!  Ze Tom Cruise wrote all of his books and ‘ee was ze backyard abortionist!  Oh, sacre bleu!

And hold up!  One person wanted to know…

IS THAT A FUCKING SHAMWOW?!!

HOLY SHIT THAT SHIT IS SO INTENSE THE MOTHERFUCKER NEEDS A FUCKING HEADSET TO SELL THAT SHIT! FUCK! SHIT! Oh, and Vince the Shamwow guy was recently arrested for beating up a hooker.  D’oh.

Before we leave, I’ll leave you with this: Chimps Pay Meat for Sex

Bbl, off to feed some chimps <.<

J

Yez muzrfuggn buhsturdfuggrs… (AKA,the day after St. Patrick’s Day)

Contrary to popular belief, I didn’t actually drink as much as I intended to last night.  And I intended to get paralytic.  Don’t be surprised if photos of myself in coitus with a lamppost surface upon teh intarweb.  Although in my defence, the lamppost was begging for it.

>.>

<.<

I spent a rather surreal two hours in literature class yesterday.  The teacher started out by reading some passages from one of Sade’s “novels”.  Can’t say I was too pleased about that because I fucking hate Sade.  The guy was a nut and a dingus.  If I wanted to read about people shitting on each other, I’d read the local newspaper.  Then he went on a long tirade about how if things are banned, people are going to be all the more tempted to try them.  Rhy, could you narrate this for me?

Certainly.  ‘Twas ‘twixt the hours of four and six, and the noble pupils of TL2 were perched upon their wooden chairs in the cold classroom.  The chairs were actually quite comfortable if you could sit just right in that particular position that evenly distributed the weight of your post-

Get on with it.

Eh?  Oh.  Instructor Charbonnel perched on the desk in front of the class.  From time to time, he would leap up into the air like a crazed, coked-up macaque monkey.  He’d also sniff from time to time which suggested that in fact he was a coked up macaque monkey. Shit, we’d best look into that.  Anyway, with a cheeky glint in yonder eye, he spoke.  Ahem, Napoleon?

Mes chers enfants, when you ban somezeeng, you will tempt ze peasant folk to seek it elsewhere.  Zees was ze fateful story of mah beautiful town of Perpignan, corrupted and raped of eets few-tility bah ze accursed General Franco!

He paused for a moment, as if to recall fond memories.  Oh, those were the days!  The times!  The life he had once lived!  Oh, the memories!

You see, mah faithful apprentices, Franco had long oppressed ze people of Spain by banning ze porn film in Spain!  Oh!  Ze cru-el monstrosity de justice!  Wah was la democratie created?!  Oh, mon dieu! Parbleu!  Argh!  Oh-

He continued in this fashion for quite some time, flailing his arms about and creasing his brow, shrieking at the indignity of a country deprived of it’s hardcore pornography.  Finally, he crept into a corner and wept.  After some time he regained his composure.

Eet was ze summer of 1973.  Or was eet 1974? Ze Spanish had crossed ze border into mah belle ville de Perpignan.  Suddenly mah friends and ah noticed ze popping up of… Ze adult theatres.  All around ze city!  Popping up like… well… something zat pops up.  Oh, ze town coffers were built upon ze hardcore pornography zat tempted ze Spaniards so!  Ze dirty bastards!  Ze sex-keraaaaved infidels!  Ze streets were sticky with ze bodily fluids of Spaniards!

And sir, how did you know where all of these adult cinemas were?

Well… Ah… uh… Next question!

What’s the point of this goddamn story?

To show, dear chahld, zat ze human body just needs to… explode from tahm to tahm.  In the Spaniards case, zey needed to explode in a torrent of semen.

And this has something to do with Les Liaisons Dangereuses because…?

Mais sacre bleu!  ‘ave you not understood ze moral of ze story?!  Zat ees how ze libertinage was born!  Through ze interdictions of sexual freedom!  Parbleau!

Aye, Charbonnel was a strange and fascinating creature indeed.  The pupils did not fully understand why he had been sent upon this earth to instruct them in the ways of the world.  Was he a demon?  An angel in disguise?  Or was he simply a drug-addled schizophrenic who had escaped from the local loony-bin to somehow inflict pain and suffering on a group of young adults in the final throes of adolescence?  Only time could tell, but they felt connected to this man, somehow.

No, we don’t feel connected to him.  Intimidated, maybe.  But not connected.  If anything, I’d like to run in the opposite direction as fast as I can. The guy’s a nut.

Oh.  So he’s not like one of these zany, innovative teachers usually played by Robin Williams or Jack Black in the upcoming film adaptation?

No, he’s one of these teachers who makes you want to slit your wrists after spending two hours with him.  He truly is away with the fairies.

Good GOD!  That could be the title of his biopic!  Away with the Fairies: A Charbonnel Story, starring Robin Williams as Mr Charbonnel and Mel Gibson as the pesky administrative employee who can’t handly his zany take on teaching!  Fuck, we could make millions!

Wah cannot I play ze Meester Charbonnel?

Because you’re a figment of James’ imagination and you don’t really exist.

Oh… But ah… Well… Eef…

Sorry, Napoleon. But I don’t think the film is going to go ahead.  It’d just be a rip-off of Dead Poet’s Society.  Just with more swearing… And… yanno… tits.  And dark comedy. Oh, and booze, too.

Sounds like my sort of film.

Yeah, s’not very PC though, is it?

Fuck that.  If Mel Gibson can film three hours of a man resembling Jeebus being tortured to death, why can’t we have our film?  Throw a couple of artsy shots into the editing process and maybe a few subliminal messages about hope and being all that you can be and we’re set!

I’d start writing the script, but I really hve better things to do.

Like?

Goddamn you.  Well, we’d best rap this up.

‘Till next time,

J

My cup runneth over: how Rhy and Napoleon came to be.

Oh, I love these nostalgia visits so much.  For one it’s an excuse to burn up some not-so valuable  spare time.  Then again, I have that shit coming out of my ears.  I suppose I just need to give Rhy and Napoleon some breathing space.

That’s right.  It’s been too long, bitches.  Napoleon’s come out of retirement and I for one was sick of being kept in that duffel bag under your bed.  Metaphorically speaking, yanno.

Ah, ze fraiche ‘er ees good on mah skeen!

A lot of regular readers to this blog might be wondering just who the hell you guys are and how you came to become semi-regular contributors to FTD.

Ahh, ze nostalgia.  How zat tale of ah-camaraderie and schizophrenia brings a tingle to mah spine!

No, that’s just the Alzheimer’s setting in old chap.  Anyway, get on with the story so that it finishes quicker.

Alrighty then.  The year was 2008 and I had just reached the climax of my creative potential.

Meaning your limited creative spurts had just run out and you were getting desperate.

Erm.  Yes. Ah-HEM.  Anyway, I had recently written a piece on Tipper Gore which met to universal acclaim from my peers.  I was looking for something to fill the void.  And that’s when I hit my first recognized minor depressive episode.

And guess who stepped in to fill the void?

I wasn’t and am not schizophrenic.  But I’ve always had a habit of making up conversations for myself.  It’s helped me get the worst of my thoughts out there and properly develop my imagination.  It may sound immature or crazy… But it’s just what I’ve done to cope with the situation I’ve been in.

Vous avez forgot about me.

No, Nap.  I’m just getting to you.  See depressive episodes are difficult to cope with.  First of all, I’ve never been able to properly get through to my parents about this sort of thing.  Not even my mum who’s gone through this sort of thing when I was younger.  It’s always put down to “teenage angst” or shit like that.  But I know it’s not normal for me to feel like this.  I can’t really get into it without going on a long tirade and going completely off subject.  Anyway, Napoleon came about as a manifestation of my frustration with France.

Zat ees whah I am expressed through zees red-eeculous stereotahpe-uh! Sacré Bleu!

I just get annoyed with the country sometimes… My frustrations with many failed relationships, the social situation… I don’t know, it pisses me off sometimes.  So Napoleon and Rhy came along to fill the void.  All of a sudden I found myself becoming more creative and more optimistic about life.

We gave your creativity a kick in the ass!

Yes, you did.  You bastards, you.

And so what’s our future?

I don’t rightly know.  Due to recent and somewhat unfortunate circumstances concerning my personal life, I feel as if I may be slipping into yet another minor depressive episode.  Whether or not Napoleon and Rhy will help me through this is unknown.  I fear that my apathy might take hold once again and my creativity and spontaneous schizophrenic dialogues may dry up entirely.

So we’ll be put into that fucking duffel bag again?

Perhaps.

Motherfucker.

Fils de pute!  Ah weel not be treated lahk ze Man in ze Iron Mask!

Or in this case, the imaginary man in the Marché Plus plastic bag.

Do not turn mah words against me, Rhy!  Remember Napoleon’s campaign of Russia!  Remember Trafalgar!

What, where Napoleon got his ass kicked?

Sacré Bleu!  Nom de Dieu!  Sainte Marie!…

Oh, this may take a while folks.

Till next time,

J

Rhy DJs like a mad cunt

Well hey there stranger, it’s been a while.

Sure has.  Can’t say I’m particularly overjoyed to see you  myself, you neglectful bastard.  You left me out to dry, man!  You burned me!  I was left stumbling across the Saharan desert chased by a bunch of pissed off motherfuckers, and you left me to burn, man!

Wait, what?  What the fuck are you talking about?

Oh, sorry.  That was just me rehearsing for my audition later.  Got a bit-part in the new Bourne film playing Matt Damon’s conscience.

Oh.  But I thought Matt Damon could only repeat his own name.

Yeah, I know.  His conscience has more lines than he does.  That’s why I’ll get major frikkin’ kudos if I win this audition, man!  The plotline behind the film is that Jason Bourne has taken to working in his local Wal-Mart and has to fight corporate crime, all the while fighting against a mysterious band of price-fixing mercenaries led by Christian Bale and backed by the frickin’ government.

And you think that shit’ll sell?

Yeah, it’s poignant!  There’s even a subplot involving a black president!  It’s relevant to current events, dude!

Oh.  And how’s your rap career going?

What, you stagin’? This shit be bakin’! While yo’ daddy I be rapin’, you be escapin’ and I -

Oh good lord.  What have I let loose upon the world?

Yeah, motherfucka!  DJ Rhy is in da house fo’ all you pimps and laydeez!

Do you want to end up like this guy?  Do you?

Not pictured: anybody that has anything to do with this blog, least of all James or Rhy

Argh!  What the fuck is that?

I think it’s some sort of bizarre mating ritual.  Watch as the male tries his strange, yet capitvating display in order to seduce the female.  It’s nature in action!

It’s a crime against humanity is what it is.  I’ve seen epileptics who have more composure than that.  Jesus!

I think it’s a wonderful testament to just how fucked up modern culture is.  I mean jesus, can you imagine dancing like that?  Is it even dancing?  Discuss.

What is there to discuss?  The guy’s a dickhead, that’s it. Fuck, man!

Well, we must depart.  I have things to do and a fucking assignment to finish.  Welcome back, Rhy and I hope you get the film part.

We shall see.  In any case, I have a feeling that all of the dialect between Bourne and his conscience will just consist in monotonously chanting “Matt Damon” over and over again.

Till next time,

J