Okay, look. I’m busy as all get-out and when I have a few minutes free I’d really prefer to spend them masturbating, not enlightening idiots who think their pathetic excuse for a cuntry is the centre of anything. It isn’t even the centre of the toilet, because it’s already on the far side of the U-bend and still accelerating. So having to waste my valuable time on this is, well, quite frankly a waste of my valuable time.
But okay, for the record, officially, take note: It Isn’t Happy New Year.
Clear? Capisce? The year is determined by how long it takes for the Earth to orbit the Sun, not how long it takes for the Moon to orbit Peking. Fuck, in this day and age even kindergarten kids know that. And it’s why we have a thing called A Year. Ah, what the hell, just look at when us foreign chaps do our celebrating, and copy that. You seem to copy every damn thing else we apparently invent, like trousers and shoes and windows and streets and not living in caves, so follow the line on this one, right?
I really don’t give a numpties nonce if it is ‘traditional’ – that just means you haven’t the wit to live in the modern world. Cutting out people’s hearts was also traditional in some places, until us interfering white folks put a stop to it. See here for more information. Being traditional is only of use until such time as those traditions get in the way of what we like to refer to as ‘reality’. Like, for example, thinking that a Chinese baby that is newly hatched is actually a year old, or that you are another year older after so-called Chinese New Year. So that you end up with a fucking ten year old who is seven at best, and probably a thirty year old who is ten. Christ, you have no idea how much that pisses me off. Though it does explain the fucking childish levels of emotional maturity I see around me on a daily fucking basis. This is why I have a mortar set up on the roof and claymores embedded in the garden path. But, I digress.
As if celebrating the end of the year on a totally different date every year, as determined by the Emperor’s qi and the motion of the moon (which you cunt’s still haven’t been to) around Peking, wasn’t bad enough, you also then celebrate the Money God. Yeah, the God that makes you rich by getting you to spend all your money on fireworks that make a noise and smoke and that’s it, no pretty displays or anything, Christ you people are fucking hopeless, you can’t even get fucking fireworks right, despite having lied about inventing them along with mountains, oxygen, and grass, dammit. Yeah, the smart Chinese businessman. Myth: Busted.
But hey, go on polluting the entire planet and eating anything that moves because of your disgusting famine-based cuisine, go on celebrating things that make as much sense as your fucking ping-pong-wing-wong language, keep on naming your kids after the sound of a tin bucket being thrown down a flight of stairs, keep on pretending that your cuntry is Very Mordern And Development, go on making ridiculous claims to ownership of things that are clearly owned by other, more civilised, people.
Just don’t do it around me.
I am now going to fire ten employees to celebrate New Year With Chinese Characteristics.
Wait, Year of the Horse, right? I’ll fire twenty.