Wasp Box Archive 2002

Monthly Rants 2002
january february march april may july august september october november december

December 2002 Disclaimer: The Wasp Box is aware that at the time of writing the firestrikes have been suspended and that, really, this tirade should have been ranted last month. However, the Wasp Box thinks that one rant per month is all that its purulent little readers deserve, and is perfectly happy to disrespect and patronise them with an outdated and poorly written piece of nonsense. Alternatively, the firestrikes may have started again, in which case: bow down to the majesty of the Wasp Box, you filthy, worthless peasant.
	The Wasp Box supports the Firefighters: Clearly, the Firefighters of this once great nation deserve their 40% pay rise. Day after day, risking their lives saving old ladies from chip pans, and securing the release of jug-eared kids from comedic railing-based accidents for 3 minutes a month, between snoozes, must surely be worth the 57 grand asking price? It was clear that during the last 8 day strike the fine young men and women of the
armed services could not cope with the sheer weight of pussy relocation projects that came their way. They could be seen across the country driving Lizzy Borden, the erstwhile axe-murdering, aerobics-obsessed, breakfast TV Green Goddess of the 80s, now more than a thousand years old, round the streets of our beautiful cities. Unable to find the 50-storey towering inferno in front of their depleted uranium-addled eyes. Struggling manfully to control their big hoses only to be unable to stop themselves violently shoving them where they were not wanted. The nation watched, bemused, as 14-year-old soldier-boys cheered and laughed as a fireworks factory in Manchester burned in a most amusing way while they aimlessly passed buckets of petrol to each other and shot dogs with hand-held rocket launchers. Meanwhile, across the road, union leader Andy Gilchrist stared into his picket’s brazier muttering something about bringing down the government, wilfully forgetting that the unions holding the last Labour administration to ransom resulted in 18 years of Tory government and no pay rises for anyone who does anything useful for almost a generation. Yes, the Wasp Box thinks the government should cough up the 40% and the firefighters should accept 11% and the modernisation of their working practices: or somedody will die on Christmas day.

November 2002 The Wasp Box reviews the Queen's speech. The Queen's speech was a long and interminably dull affair. There were few gags, no innuendo and no explicit references to Phillip's fat, grey cock. Throughout the speech the Queen refrained from making farting noises (of course she can't actually fart having had her royal anus cauterised shortly after birth) and she did not, at any point, flash her mucky old royal thrupenny bits. Although, it is possible that they are even saggier than the Wasp Box surmised and that they were peeking out below the monarchal ermine at around ankle level. Perhaps that explains the behaviour of the corgis -– some covert suckling was occurring beneath Her Majesty's train.
Which brings the Wasp Box neatly to the first important issue in the speech: nursing with dogs. Apparently it is commonplace for the rich and inbred folks of the countryside alliance to use dogs as wet nurses for their
close-eyed, chinless offspring. It seems this practice is to be outlawed because of the high risk of the dogs turning on the child-beast and cruelly, yet calmly, tearing it from limb to limb with their huge, saliva-dripping fangs and meat-encrusted molars. The Tory party claim this is more humane than letting them live and the Wasp Box is inclined to agree. It seems that Scotland barred this 'barbaric' practice some time ago, and now, of course, the Scottish Tory party is dead: the alternative of suckling their young on a double-barrelled shotgun has more or less wiped out the double-barrelled surname north of the border. Rising star of English rugby union Daniel Simpson-Daniel-Daniel registered his disapproval at this part of the speech, shouting "near side" repeatedly. The Wasp Box remembers when this once great nation was proud of it's backward, self-destructive country folk with their exhaust-plugged Rolls Royces spewing carbon monoxide into their consumptive lungs whilst their sheep chowed down on mashed sheep heads (see February 2001). But things had to change. The Queen then went on to fiddle with her hearing aid, whistling loudly and calling for her potty. At one point she fell onto her hands and knees in front of her throne and begged Black Rod to "really give one one". The Speaker assisted her back to her seat, whereupon she began to squeal in a high-pitched voice before squatting on the red carpet and releasing a long steaming, torrent of majestic wee-wee and a string of regal expletives. At several points she used her imperial finger to direct the noble spray at a particular member of her very own parliament. Upon consultation with a fellow journalist, the Wasp Box learned that this part of the speech had covered Labour policy on health, crime, education and transport. And it seems the piss thing was an explanation of how further fire strikes could be averted. The speech concluded with the long-awaited scrapping of pub closing times. At which point the Wasp Box fucked off to the bar. God bless the Monarchy.

October 2002
Yes, War for Oil.
Everyone knows it's nothing to do with the threat of world terrorism or overthrowing an oppressive or dangerous regime. It's about Georgie-boy carrying on Daddy's unfinished business and America securing enough cheap oil to really pound the ozone layer into fucking submission as soon as goddam possible. But the Wasp Box argues that war is a necessary evil. You only need to go down any small town high street on a Saturday night to witness man's overwhelming desire to beat the shit out of his fellow man. And anyway, there are too many nasty, ugly, hairy men in the world and not enough beautiful, smooth, lithe young ladies.

Send the grunts off to fight the ragheads and leave their lovely, sex-starved young wives behind to get a good seeing-to from us conscientious objectors, and all the other sickly, puny, bespectacled cowards who aren't man enough to take on the world's tyrannical, dictatorial axes of Arabia. The Wasp Box reckons we should annex the entire Arabian Peninsula, so that we have to send out more and more of our own pig-ignorant, knuckle-dragging men-folk just to maintain some sort of so-called stability. Perhaps we should send all the lovely, dusky Arab girls over here so that they'll be safe from our notoriously cock-happy, drunken army. That way, the Wasp Box can cruise the streets of Britain in its gigantic petrol-guzzling car, safe from random violence, whilst distributing much sought-after nylons to the increasing numbers of attention-deprived, fuck-hungry young vixens. Uniting all of the world's feuding religions in a frenzy of pounding flesh, sweet, sweet juices and oceans of bitter, white sting pus. Peace and physical, demanding, and downright painful love are the only way forward for humanity. Enough with the fighting already, let's just nuke the fuckers!

September 2002
Time for genocide?
Earlier this month the Wasp Box was assaulted by one of it’s own, only alive and not boxed up. Drunk and pissed up on September and wallowing in the misbelief that the Wasp Box was a piece of decomposing ham, this vicious and sorely misguided excuse for a vespulae attempted

to bite a chunk out of the Wasp Box’s box and when the Wasp Box tried to warn her off, lashed out with her sting, catching the Wasp Box right in the eye. Rest-assured little reader, this shameful act did not go unpunished, the Wasp Box’s ire was so raised that the results were catastrophic and practically indescribable, but fortunately a picture saves a thousand words, so cast your unstung eyes to the picture above and view for yourself the devastation wrought throughout that one foolish little bitch’s life by the Wasp Box's incredible wrath. This sordid and unsavoury incident caused a question to rise unbidden into the Wasp Box’s mind where it mouldered, decomposed and fermented before sprouting, growing and eventually flowering into a beautiful but foul-smelling bloom of conclusion. The question was this, how could nature allow one creature to attack its own and then the attackee to be so cruel in its retaliation? And more importantly, why is a 6-year-dead, incarcerated being susceptible to the stinking, venomous sting of one of its living and libertous brethren? The only conclusion could be this - the non-existence of God. As such, the Wasp Box would hereby like to withdraw all of its previous claims to be the second coming of Jesus Christ Almighty, the Great Redeemer, Son of Man and the one true Lord. However, the Wasp Box is also aware that this is most likely a mere crisis of faith and fully expects to regain a complete belief in its own omnipotence any day soon. And then every fucking wasp on this green earth will be annihilated once and for all.

August 2002
Summer?
As the rain pours across Europe and the water rises in the great cities of the old world, the Wasp Box bets you're wondering what the fuck has happened to the weather? Oh, the Wasp Box knows what you're thinking; global warming, the ozone layer, el nino, the melting ice caps cooling the gulf stream. But only the Wasp Box knows that the truth is much more sinister: Antipodean scheming. That's right, the Wasp Box has hard evidence that the

Machiavellian ANZACs are behind this whole summer washout. And it's just the latest in a long series of summer ruining plots designed to weaken the armies of the Northern hemisphere and allow the ill-equipped and poorly trained Australasian hordes to invade our sweet, green, culture-rich lands. Not content with their dominance in rugby, cricket, tennis, swimming and bungee jumping they want our homes and our wives. They want our overcrowded cities, our polluted waterways and filthy beaches, our broken transport and spoiled farmlands. They want our quality television and lacklustre cinema, our expensive cars and warm beer. Once here they'll turn off their weather control helmets and the fine old summers of our youths will return to Britain to make it Great again. Little do they realise the Wasp Box has a counter plan, to head down to Oceania in the New Year with a sting full of cane toad embryos and an abdomen stuffed with super-rabbit spores. That'll teach 'em.

July 2002
The reclassification of cannabis: So David Blunkett has finally had the courage to reclassify cannabis as a class C drug and the Wasp Box is all for it. Afterall, marijuana causes less crime than alcohol, except for the crimes associated with the drug itself, and it's less harmful – not couting the horrors of smoking-related disease. The Wasp Box likes nothing better than a quick toke after breakfast and has to continue tooting ganja throughout the day just to remain on an even keel. A well-rolled reefer, beautifully contoured and slightly conical reminds the Wasp box of a virile and youthful phallus, strong and... and... the Wasp Box has forgotten what it was talking about... what day is it? The Wasp Box

seems to have missed June altogether and suddenly has a hankering to try crack cocaine or angel dust. What's wrong with a generation of mellow and philosophical youths, staying at home and talking about the meaning of life, making sweet love and not doing anyone any harm – like the bunch of no good, long-haired hippy ne'er-do-wells sponging off the tax payer and never doing any work that they are. The Wasp Box can't find its chlorpromazine. The argument that dope leads to use of stronger drugs is just nonsense, the Wasp Box has never been one for experimentation beyond the pleasures of hashish and has just bought several pounds of veterinary-grade ketamine. It's clear that rather than reducing the punishments for cannabis use the government should bring back hanging and wipe out this menace to our children before it's too late. The Wasp Box would do something about it – if only it could be arsed to get off the sofa. This Wasp is stoned out of it's fucking Box.

May 2002 The golden jubilee: 50 glorious years. 50 years of Daz™, of Surf™, of Bold extra colour non-biological™ and of every other washing powder known to fucking man. Good Queen Betty should be known as Lizzie the Lathered. Clearly everyone must have stank in the first half of the last century, in their filthy, unwashed rags and stained smalls.
The Wasp Box wonders if that's why American soldiers got so much pussy over here during the war -– their uniforms didn't stink of blood and stale piss. The Wasp Box has heard it said that the odour of George IV's ermine stole could be detected from almost a mile away, due to being caked in dried vomit and purulent diarrhoea -– from the Queen Mum® cleaning up after herself after a night on the Tanquerry™ and woodbines. And the old stalwart herself was plagued by the stench of her reusable jamrags® that had had only the most cursory of rinses in the Thames, thanks to her feckless Lady's Maid. Nowadays of course, no one needs to clean up after her, she's been melted down for scrap. Her titanium hips and wooden teeth have been incorporated into a new battleship, her bakelite eyes are now a pair of gentleman's prosthetic testicles, her teflon throat, guts and vagina are coating a thousand non-stick pans and her polyethylene tits™ have been made into jubilee bunting for the, now, fully-washed and spring glade-scented masses. Who'd have thought it, an extra day off to celebrate 50 years of summer-fresh panties, the Wasp Box is beside itself at the thought of a legitimate excuse to sniff ladies knickers and reminisce about the good old days when no amount of scrubbing in the goldfish pond got the stench of a good, sweaty horseride out. What a shame it's all going to be tainted by Sweden continuing there 50 year unbeaten run against England. The jubilee won't be so golden then.

May Day 2002
The Wasp Box is looking forward to May Day: Aah yes, boys and girls dancing around a big, phallic, beribboned cock-pole, liberty-destroying globalisation, placing rowan branches on the doorstep to protect against mischevious faeries returning from

their Winter respite, the threat of multinational Capitalism, tarting up underage girls and revering them as Queens of impending Summer and enhanced fertility, beige children working for a beige penny a year in some beige far Eastern country making beige clothing for the Gap, trashing McDonalds with hankies and pigs' bladders on sticks and dogs on string. The Wasp Box has been mangeing up its dog for months and has spent the last fortnight fraying and filthifying some old rope (the Wasp Box hopes to get some money for this on May 2nd). The Wasp Box has its lawn mohican ready trimmed and is primed to celebrate the coming of World Trade by tunnelling under trees to prevent reforestation, by shoving dope seeds into a statue of churchill's very anus and by smashing up Oxfam with a lovely Nike hammer. Frankly, the Wasp Box can't be arsed – unless there's a shag in it.

Easter 2002
The Wasp Box's Easter message: Easter, the heart of Spring. Egg-laying bunnies, hot cross bonnets, chocolate-flavoured novelty breasts, nailing David Icke to a tree to expunge our sins, whilst thieves are given licence to steal our hearts and minds. Before the cock has crowed Wogan will have disowned him three times and Brian Clough will betray him. And our Pilot today, Captain Jimmy Hill, washes his hands -- in goat's piss. Three days later David rose from the grave to roam the Earth gorging on the blood of virgins and frightening old ladies with his space lizards and humongous, decomposing genitals. Is this what Easter means to you? To the Wasp Box it means four days off and the stench of rotting daffodils. A bearded messiah, son of man, preaching peace and love? The Wasp Box sees only war and wonderful sins of the flesh. The Wasp Box would have put him behind a bigger stone. And cut off his genitals so he can't breed. The Wasp Box has told you before, the Wasp Box is the second coming and it's polishing its sting in anticpiation of summer.

Click on image for a bigger version

February 2002
The futures bright, the futures Waspish: 2002: the Wasp Box thought it would be living in the future by now. Oh sure, computers are super fast, DVDs, digital TV and electric carving knives are all a reality. Yeah, monkeys have landed on Mars and discovered lice. OK, smallpox has been eradicated and reintroduced by Dr Who and the BBC, respectively.

Alright, the human genome has been mapped, trashed and completely rewritten in an ethical and non-national-socialistic-kind-of-a-way. Fair enough, hoovers no longer need bags, cars no longer need petrol and lesbians no longer need turkey basters. And yes, the Queen Mum is an automaton made of titanium and Teflon. But this is supposed to be the 21st century for Christ’s sake. It’s not enough that the Wasp Box has prozac to keep it calm, viagra to keep it hard, tiny mobile phones to try and arrange dates on by text message and cloned sheep to take it out on when it fails. Where are the skin-tight, zip-up, shiny silver suits and tinfoil mini skirts? Where are the hover cars? The holographic pornography? The laser weapons? The cures for cancer and baldness? Where are the hotels on the moon, the penal colonies on Titan, the contact with beautiful aliens? When can the Wasp Box start teleporting? Teleport Todd, teleport! The Wasp Box isn’t greedy, it doesn’t want to teleport far. Why haven’t giant wasps taken over the world, living on a diet of exploded brains? The Wasp Box wants to be bar-coded, to wear kevlar undergarments and neoprene helmets. The Wasp Box wants a whole blood transplant, to sleep in a pod that sucks the poisons from the Wasp Box’s brain over night. Goddammit, why hasn’t society broken down? No, the Wasp Box can’t wait for the future, when this piece of shit we call living would be a thing of the fucking past.

January 2002
The Wasp Box spends a Euro: The Wasp Box spent Hogmannay in Euroland and was delighted by the new-fangled monetary system of notes, coins and small stones

that are collectively know as the Eurodollar. The Wasp Box was as cynical as the next Vespulae on New Years Eve, but when the Wasp Box received its first tiny little 5 Euroguilder note on New Years day it was over the moon and a complete convert to the joys of the Eurofranc. No more than an inch square, that little Eurofiver was worth as much as nearly three and a half of your English Queen’s pounds and almost 4.7 Yankee dollars. And what’s more it could be freely spent in more than 11 countries, purchasing such diverse items as French cheese, German sausage, Belgium chocolates or Dutch scatological pornography. The Wasp Box went on a Eurospending frenzy until it was completely bankrupt. Which is why Wim Duisenberg’s Euromarks are a menace to society. The Wasp Box is hoarding its Europounds under the mattress. Spend wisely my little friends.

An even deeper, darker past
2001

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