Now then, now then, ‘ows about that?
Shakespeare once uttered ‘Absence from those we love is self from self – a deadly punishment’. However, the Bard was a complete cunt. And as sure as I am that the harrowing ordeal of returning to this blog time after time in the last year and a half with no updates whatsoever has left my
thousands of few loyal readers (including my number one fan and butt-plug aficionado “Rob Redmond”) as consistently distraught as Madonna during her monthly visit to the STD clinic, I certainly don’t feel adoration towards any of you bastards and anyway, my absence from this site can be explained.
About a year ago I traveled back in time in a Delorean with a wild-eyed eccentric scientist (who may have been a pedophile, I’m not entirely sure) back to good ol’ 1955 and accidentally changed the timeline. I must have stepped on a butterfly or maybe it had something to do with the whore I slept with and consequently murdered, but whatever it was had a domino effect and when I returned to the present everything was fucked. Global economic recessions, employment figures in the toilet, senseless wars in the Middle East, Kim Kardashian, Dubstep – none of these things existed in my original timeline. So basically, half of the terrors of this world are my fault, and that put me in a slump for a while and I didn’t want to do any silly blogging. But I least a fucked a 1950’s old-timey hooker. I buried her near the clock tower in Hill Valley. That was pretty darn swell.
But none of that’s important. You can all breathe a heavy sigh of intoxicating relief because the prodigal son hath returneth. Thousands, nay hundreds, nay tens of devoted followers have pleaded relentlessly to yours truly for the return of this life-changing tome, from bruised eastern European hookers begging me to start blogging again before I buried their dead bodies underneath the floorboards (I’ve really got to kick that habit), to Holocaust survivors explaining to me that reading my musings is the only thing that can make them forget the atrocities of Auschwitz, albiet temporarily. So, like a tremendous sunbeam of divine glory, the gift is back. Bow before me, remove all of your clothing (yes, even the thong) and in all your naked splendor (if you’re a chick, preferably under 20 and Oriental but I’m not overly fussy), bask my child…baaaask.
Not since good ol’ J. Christ decided to give some Jews a quick scare during one of the more particularly memorable Easter holidays has such a reappearance sent shock-waves through the civilized world (plus Wales). Yes, internet nerds, diabetes sufferers and basement-dwelling virgins, The Flying Guillotine is back, like a metaphorical internet Jesus. But unlike everyone’s favorite party-trick peddling carpenter, this badboy ain’t here to forgive and (keeping it on a Christian theme, because who doesn’t enjoy copious Biblical references) unlike Moses, the only thing I’ll be turning into blood is the metaphorical faces of anyone I feel like. Or something like that.
One of the main reasons I’ve been otherwise engaged from enriching your mediocre lives with my words of wisdom (other than fucking the space-time continuum in the ear-cavity) is because I’ve been looking after three young women, or rather three ungrateful fucking whores, who obviously didn’t appreciate the freshly furnished basement abode I’d kept them in, nor the expensive cages, bondage whips and Scopolamine (all out of my own pocket, I’ll have you know!) that I regularly lavished them with. To quote Huey Lewis, I taught these girls the power of love (and the importance of not resisting forceful anal sex), and they repaid me with hurtful words and some downright questionable glances. Recently some ghetto crackhead illegally broke into my premises (and was he punished for this felonious indiscretion – NO! Work that one out, folks) and stole my three guests to the peculiar commendation of millions. Needless to say, I’ve had to lay low since then and finding decent wifi on the road has been a struggle. But at least I never have to go back to fucking Cleveland.
As well as time travel and sex slaves, I’ve also been deeply ingrained in a clandestine one-man crusade to clear the name of the alleged kiddy-fiddling DJ and presenter, the late Sir Jimmy Savile. These foul aspersions spewed out towards Savile simply aren’t true. When I was a very young boy in the late ’80’s I met him in a London hospital and he seemed like a perfectly convivial gentleman. Not a shred of indecency about him. Next people will probably be telling me he wasn’t medically qualified to perform my prostate examination that day. It was good news, in case you’re wondering – he gave me the thumbs up.
Since I last posted, the BBC has begun to resemble Coalinga State Pedophile Hospital. I believe it all to be a vast conspiracy, orchestrated by the shape-shifting alien lizard men (known to many as the Illuminati). These otherworldly bastards have even gone after Rolf Harris now! As if such a benevolent soul like Rolf would place a young unsuspecting girl’s trembling hand around his furry genitalia and ask in his genial Aussie tone, “Can you tell what it is yet?”. A pernicious conspiracy! They want to enslave us all! EYES IN PYRAMIDS!!!!11one
A lot’s happened since I was last round these here parts. The world, and particularly the UK, spiraled into a frenzy over some fucking athletics. What a colossal waste of time and money the Olympics were. Despite being considered a resounding success, I thought, like always, they sucked. And I’ve seen my deceased uncle hang himself. Naked. With a dildo lodged halfway up his bloodied, swollen hemorrhoid-laden asshole. The Olympics were a slightly worse experience to view.
Everyone in the UK seemed to be obsessed with the diving. I’m not a malicious person or anything, it’s just that whenever I see Tom Daley standing on top of a diving board I pray that someone forgot to fill up the swimming pool with water that day. And before you patriotic Brits think that would ruin his medal-winning chances, you’re forgetting he’d be a shoe-in for the gold at the next Paralympics. Probably be a more entertaining spectacle anyway, though finding somewhere to park might be a bit more difficult.
The tedious closing ceremony made me wish Al Qaeda had showed up halfway through. You could tell all the various African athletes had been parading around the stadium for a while because all their knuckles were scraped and all the guide dogs wouldn’t stop barking. In fact there were so many black people wandering around I thought Don King was handing out free turkeys again. Kudos to Usain Bolt though, who performed another electrifying display, despite earlier in the day having to deal with difficult parental issues when his young child asked him, “Dad, I have the biggest dick in third grade. Is it because I’m black?” Bolt replied, “No son, it’s because you’re eighteen.”
Lots of other shit happened too but now I’m melancholy again over the altered timeline and I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Maybe I’ll go kill another prostitute to cheer myself up. Gee, I sure hope this blog gets chosen for the WordPress freshly pressed page! I’d love my magnanimous musings to be highlighted amongst some romantic fan fiction written by an obese housewife or the daily blog of Skip McGee, who loves writing humorous cereal reviews as well taking pictures of his dinner! To be associated with such literary genius, why, I’d really feel like I belong! Oh, and fuck that cancerous boil on the anus of humanity Noel Edmonds. He never existed in the original timeline either. Neither did AIDS, but I know which of the two I’d rather get rid of.
Lawyers. Bankers. Politicians. Hipsters. Women that read vacuous gossip magazines. People that overuse the word “like” in sentences when like, they like, speak (especially like, Americans). People that use hashtags as if they’re actual things because of fucking Twitter (#Cunts). Scott Pilgrim fans. Hunters. People that watch David Lynch films. White guys with dreadlocks. People that say “Epic Win” and “Epic Fail”. Nerdy gamers that “boost” online to acquire trophies/achievements instead of getting them naturally by just playing the fucking game. Guys that wear skinny jeans that look like they’ve been painted on their skinny chicken legs. The Hollywood executives that cancelled Eureka and probably Community. These people are all cunts.
You see, the world is full of cunts. You might even say the planet earth is just one giant planetary cunt. And yet, the preceding paragraph didn’t even scratch the surface on the amount of cunts that inhabit this floating sphere, which is why it’s necessary to award those most magnificently cunty of cunts for their very cuntyness in what I’ve titled the ‘2011 Cunt of the Year awards’, or the Cunties for short. In this article I will award the cuntiest people and things the year had to offer. Each winner, be it a cunty person or a cunty thing, receives the following prestigious accolade acknowledging their incredible contribution to the overall cuntyness of 2011:
If you haven’t already read the precursor to this article where I look back at the year 2011, then read that HERE. Go on, I’ll wait.
Done? Good. Then without further adieu, here are the award winning cunts of 2011!
Cunty TV show of the year: Deal or No Deal (UK)
Facing stiff competition from the ever-cunty Two and a Half Men and Jersey Shore, the UK edition of Deal or No Deal fully deserves the opening award for being the most insufferable puddle of rhinoceros piss to ever contaminate television screens. Firstly, there’s the concept: someone chooses a box to open from a selection of boxes……and that’s it. Each box has randomly assigned amounts of money inside, of which the contestant loses the chance to win when opened. It’s completely random. And viewers lap this shit up like it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. People watch other people opening boxes, glued to the fucking screen. Every. Fucking. Day. CUNTS!
Secondly there’s the host Noel Edmonds. If ever I wanted to invent time travel for the solitary reason that I could covertly infiltrate a Nazi concentration camp and trick a soldier into letting me throw someone in the oven, Noel would be the reason. His cheesy voice and bland personality; his ridiculous lion’s mane haircut that looked lame back in the 1970’s, let alone now; his unfunny little asides to the “banker” as if he’s a comedy genius; his forced melodrama during the show. Every time I see him I hope that after the show he gets sodomised by Mr. Blobby in the dressing room. CUNT!
I even heard Edmonds on this Godforsaken show describe it as tactical. How the FUCK does this game involve anything remotely resembling tactics? You open a fucking box. Then you repeat that action until all boxes have been opened. It’s FUCKING RANDOM. Then they play the dramatic music over the studio speakers to further enhance the overall cuntyness. Oooh, such tension! And all the other contestants wish each other luck and are all emotionally invested in each other’s success. Why do they give a fuck? If it was me opening a box for them I’d say I hope it’s £250,000 inside and that they go home with a fucking fiver and then get mugged on the way home so they actually have less money with them than when they left the house to begin with. Plus the other contestants apologize or accept praise if their assigned box has a high or a small amount in it, despite the fact that they have no control over the amount inside their box! CUNTS!
I’d like to pop out one of the boxes one episode and kick Edmonds in the nuts. It’s the ultimate show that’s made by cunts, starring cunts, for cunts, and thusly, deserves the award more than any ever show.
Cunty movie of the year: Twilight: Breaking Dawn
Remember when the vampire genre used to be a staple of horror? Remember when vampires were portrayed as vicious, malevolent, treacherous and evil figures that seduced their prey before violently sinking razor sharp fangs into their necks and feeding on their life essence? Remember when vampires were legitimately frightening? Remember when they weren’t metrosexual emo pussies?
Yeah, those days are long fucking gone, thanks partially to the general emasculation of the male gender, and mostly because of these unendurably heinous displays of cinematic feces known as the Twilight movies. The latest installment in these foul abominations continues to feminize the vampire and the genre irreparably. No longer do vampires prowl the moonlit shadows striking fear into all and sundry, noooo. Now they want to have intimate hugs, discuss their feelings and cry during sunsets. Plus, if Edward Cullen is anything to go by, they all look like they’ve had their faces smashed in with a fucking tire iron. And is this Kristen Stewart bitch supposed to be considered attractive? I’d rather fuck a toaster.
The opposite of this award goes to Drive, one of the coolest movies I’ve ever seen and definitely the best film of the year. Breaking Dawn on the other hand is a film that appeals only to ugly overweight bitches, moronic tween girls and raving queers. And they’re all cunts. If you like this movie, you’re a cunt too.
Cunty musician of the year: Diddy/Puff Daddy/Whatever the fuck this douche bag calls himself now
P.Daddy, Poofy, Diddy Kong, whatever the hell he’s called now, fucking sucks. There are some terrible rappers out there, but none on the outstandingly cunty level of Mr. Sean Combs. Kanye West is equally as cunty, but not as bad a rapper. Not only is Diddy the worst rapper to ever rhyme over a beat on a professional level, but is a multi-millionaire for doing so. The conceited, egocentric and self-proclaimed “Bad Boy” not only produces awful music, but is involved in equally abominable clothing lines, a “man’s perfume” range and reality shows that cunts all over America, especially the “ghetto is cool” entertainment media and dumbass, easily-influenced suburban white kids lap up like the sheep they are. A king cunt, beloved by cunts. Only Lady Gaga and Rhianna come close in this category, the latter for the primary reason that her entire appeal is based around blatant, unrestrained sex. She might as well have a minge for a face, then oblivious parents might actually realize just exactly what their kids are listening to and why their 12 year old daughter has more sexual experience than they do.
What ever happened to good hip hop, you know, like that classic album Mr T released Mr. T’s Commandments?
That was actually better than Last Train to Paris. And it’s true, the Bible does indeed make it clear that you have Mr. T to fear. It’s in there, trust me.
Cunty sportsman of the year: John Terry
On the football field, the Chelsea and England football captain is a perpetual warrior with unwavering dedication, a proud leader of men and a tremendous defender. Off the field, he’s a monumental cunt. With the dead eyes of a seasoned insomniac, no one else in the sports world deserves this award more than everyone’s favorite football pikey, JT.
When not shagging other player’s wives behind their back or fueling a massive gambling addiction, Terry likes nothing more than racially abusing black players on the pitch, as he allegedly did recently with Anton Ferdinand. In Terry’s defense (see what I did there), technically what he said was true. He called Ferdinand a “black cunt”. Well, Anton is black. And despite not winning an award here, he’s also quite clearly a cunt. Hence, “black cunt”. And Terry’s a straight talking guy. He’s always called a spade a spade.
Some might say Terry’s simply had enough of defending crosses and now just wants to burn them. Though he didn’t do himself any favours in a recent training session when he misunderstood some instructions and dribbled the ball around Drogba, Ramires and Ashley Cole, which led to manager Villas-Boas shouting “No, John! I said dribble around the CONES!”
Racist or nay, Terry comes from a family of crass mongoloids, with his crack-dealing dad, kleptomaniac mother and brother Paul Terry that shares John’s knack for extramarital shenanigans. And with a family like that, it’s no wonder that someone like JT wins sports cunt of the year.
Public cunts of the year: Clipboard charity workers
This award goes out to every cunt that’s tried to accost me when I’m walking along the street with their fucking clipboard in hand, prepared to ask me redundant questions about whether I want to donate money to their useless fucking charities. No, I’m not interested in donating money to anorexic Ethiopians. They should just eat all the flies on their heads. BBQ ‘em, bit of salt, done. Plus the pound coin in my pocket’s getting me a delicious Smarties McFlurry. No, I have no desire to give money to your charity for midgets with ironically oversized heads that keep falling over when they walk due to their hilarious disproportion. Fuck off!
These people are like zombies in Dawn of the Dead. They keep spreading. When I see one of these fucks in the street I refuse to even acknowledge their existence, and I avoid them as if they’re Freddy Mercury with his AIDS-ridden cock in his hand. I should just carry a sign with me that reads “NOT INTERESTED YOU CUNT” and hold it up every time one of these fiends tries to make eye contact with me. Well done guys, you deserve this award.
Unfunniest cunt of the year: Kevin James in Zookeeper
Kevin James is about as funny as testicular cancer, yet this wasn’t always the case. He was reasonably humorous in his old sitcom King of Queens but then something happened, some kind of grotesque transformation from funny fat man to unfunny fat cunt. He also exudes an air of corpulent smugness, as if to say “I know this shit I’m making is terrible, and I’m being paid millions to do it so I can fill my bulging belly with donuts, you stupid gullible suckers”. Paul Blart Mall Cop, Chuck and Larry, and now this filmic torment.
I could watch a 12 hour marathon of hidden camera footage from the basement of Josef Fritzl as he abuses his children and still raise more smiles than sitting through Zookeeper. Runner up for this award is Margaret Cho, whose fanbase can only logically include heavily stoned lesbians and special needs children that’ll laugh at anything. She also looks like she died and was brought back to life three times. Good-looking Oriental chicks are the most attractive in the world, which makes this ugly bitch even worse.
Cunty moment of the year: The Royal Wedding
There was no cuntier moment all year long than the public wedding of William and Kate, and the mass hysteria that surrounded it. TV stations across the globe cancelled their originally scheduled programming to air this overblown, ostentatious puddle of wank, while in England, the country stopped in its tracks to embrace the equine prince and his bride to be as if it were actually an important event. CUNTS!
Cunty lifetime achievement award: Steven Seagal
Readers of my humble little blog will already know how I feel about Fat Stevie (https://theflyingguillotine.wordpress.com/2011/08/17/the-ridiculousness-of-steven-seagal-part-1/) and the bloated bigamist could easily win ‘Cunt of the year’ for 2011 on his recent foray into the world of MMA training and typically absurd post-UFC interviews (and those yellow shades), but this award is far more substantial than that. This is a lifetime achievement award, given to the rotund whale for a lifetime of being the worlds most hilarious and ricockulous cunt. Try thinking of one, just one human on this planet or even a human that has ever lived that’s more of a cunt than Seagal. You just can’t. Because it doesn’t exist.
A lifetime of grotesque narcissism, disregard for weight or personal appearance, misogyny, absurd “hair”, pathological lies, attempts at transforming into different ethnicities, atrocious acting and lack of effort in everything, awful music, incredible delusions, insecurity, bullying, cowardice and pseudo-mysticism all mean that no one deserves this award more than you, Sensei, you glorious, glorious cunt. Just try not to eat or rape your sex slaves with it.
Cunt of the year:
This is the big one, folks! An award for someone more annoying than the angry sun level in Super Mario Bros. 3, more insufferable than a room full of Jewish criminal defense lawyers, more cunty than a Madonna house party. The nominees are Donald Trump, Floyd Mayweather, Rupert Murdoch, Barack Obama, Lindsay Lohan, Kim Kardashian, The Pope, Danny Dyer, George Lucas, Sean Penn, Sarah Palin, Justin Beiber, James Corden, the entire cast of the Jersey Shore and Lady Gaga. And the winner is…DANNY DYER!
Despite perhaps being somewhat of an underdog in that list of remarkable cunts, there is no one more deserving of this distinguished award than England’s biggest, most notorious chav Neanderthal himself, Daniel John Dyer. The East London simpleton is human excrement, with all the sophistication and social grace of an anal wart, and all the intellectual capacity of a mentally-challenged cockroach. Renowned throughout the UK for being the thickest celebrity around and for making the most asinine and unintentionally hilarious movies in the world next to Steven Seagal, Dyer solidifies himself as cunt of the year by frequently attending D-level celebrity events and engaging in as much hooliganism as his schedule will allow. He’s always clad in the finest chav-du-jour Burberry and Ben Sherman and consistently exuding the lack of class and lowlife attitude that a propa ‘ard geeza should, walking as if he’s wading through jelly and talking like he’s just been the victim of a swift lobotomy.
Even though I’d literally rather have Susan Boyle sit on my face and suffocate me than watch a Danny Dyer “film”, there are some gems out there that you may wish to put yourself through if you’re a fan of bad cinema. The Football Factory and Dead Man Running rank as his most hilariously dreadful.
Not content with being the World’s Worst Actor tm, Dyer continues to embarrass himself with numerous gormless TV shows, such as Danny Dyer’s Real Football Factories, Danny Dyer’s Deadliest Men and probably the funniest of the lot, Danny Dyer: I believe in UFO’s where he eloquently refers to potential extraterrestrial life as “that mob up there”. Look them up on YouTube, folks!
Dyer is a right cockernee geeza, awight, and if ya disagree he’ll come round yer manor and open up yer fackin’ canista, ya MUG! Congratulations Danny, you’re the biggest cunt of 2011. And 2010. And 2009, actually. Hell, the whole decade.
So there you have it, a celebration of the finest cunts 2011 had to offer. As for next year, who knows? However I do predict this time next year we’ll all be marveling at the comeback of Mel Gibson and hopefully, finally the death of Lindsay Lohan. There’s no way that coke-addled whore is making it another 12 months. No fucking way. Maybe 2012 will bring us ever closer to the hoverboards and flying cars reality of Back to the Future Part 2 (only a few years to go, buttheads!). And without a shadow of a doubt, Steven Seagal will make a complete fool of himself, as always.
Oh, and the world will end too. I almost forgot about that.
Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire is so delightful…unless you happen to be a burn victim, in which case being even remotely close to an open flame will bring back traumatic memories of a vicious blaze devouring your flesh and burning your skin like unrecognizable melted wax. If that’s the case, you’d probably prefer to be outside in the freezing winter cold. But then you might contract hypothermia. So either way, you’re fucked. Not literally mind, because as a burn victim you probably don’t look human anymore and it’s highly doubtful you’ll ever get laid again. But, er, merry Christmas and stuff.
Around this time of year various groups celebrate in different ways. The Christians congregate in churches and commemorate the birth of a make-believe baby carpenter, singing joyful hymns at the top of their voices so as to drown out the droning whines of molested choirboys in the backrooms from any authorities that might be passing by. Jews throughout America refuse to acknowledge the validity of the Christian Messiah and instead celebrate Hanukkah as they tuck into greasy Chinese food while admiring the crispness of one another’s dollar bills and discussing how to further their nepotistic supremacy. Muslims and Atheists meanwhile continue to spend December attempting to change the name of ‘Christmas’ to something less Jesus-y. That’s fine, as long as the Islamic holiday ‘Eid’ is legally changed to ‘Batshit crazy raghead day’ and every time a smug, uber-liberal atheist exclaims “Oh my God!” they have to get their tongues superglued to the Pope’s anus during ‘Vatican Vindaloo Week’.
Meanwhile black Americans enjoy their Kwanzaa festivities, honoring their African heritage by performing traditional dances, refusing to work, inhaling large quantities of marijuana and presenting each other with glocks as gifts before shooting each other in the chest with them. I once asked a black friend if he wanted to join me on a cruise ship over the Xmas holiday and bring his retarded robes and Kwanzaa celebrations to the sea, but he declined and told me his people “aren’t going to fall for that again”. I still don’t know what he meant.
Since Christmas is a time of giving, I’ve decided to finally let little Madeleine McCann out of my basement. I only purchased her from that weird Portuguese fella because I thought she was a midget, anyway. By the time I found out she wasn’t, the media were already all over it. Maybe if I sneak into the original hotel and hide her under the bed everyone will think she’s just ridiculously adept at hide-and-seek. That’s if she’s still alive – I haven’t actually checked up on her in three years and I can’t remember how many boxes of Cornflakes I had stored down there. I guess if she’s alright it’ll be a real Christmas miracle. Thanks in advance, Santa!
After Christmas of course comes the new year, but before 2012 rapidly approaches, we should look back upon the year that was. There was an Arab Spring, a phone hacking scandal, more economic woes, Arnie got divorced after secretly fathering a lovechild with the ugliest maid in existence, and the Chuckle Brothers continued to work, despite being about 92. Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear.
2011 was also a year of high profile deaths. The fact that Gadaffi, Bin Laden and just recently Fearress Leader himself Kim Jong Il all died this year makes me wonder if Team America actually does exist. Then there was Amy Winehouse, Steve Jobs, Charlie Sheen…well, somehow the bi-winning warlock narrowly escaped existential expiration despite at times looking like a walking corpse, but there was plenty of bereavement elsewhere this past year. Much of which was caused by an unprecedented amount of geological and meteorological disasters such as earthquakes in Japan, New Zealand and Turkey, flooding in Australia and Thailand, and at the beginning of the year snow in London. Snow! In London! How did anyone cope?!
Still, since the Japanese tragedy the citizens there seem to have got back to their regular lives and some are even letting their hair down again. A Japanese friend of mine must have been out clubbing because he kept talking about “a big rave”. Good to see a few shakes can’t stop people from having a good time. Well, unless your name’s Michael J Fox. The Japanese economy seems have to have improved too. I saw a Japanese guy talking on the news and he had two boats in his backyard. If they can afford that then they’re doing just fine. I shouldn’t make jokes about Japan’s catastrophe though, the country is a mess. Hiroshima in particular, it looks like a bomb’s hit it.
The land down under was hit pretty badly too from the flooding. But at the very least, the Australian inundation has produced a profound gem to be passed down to generations to come:
Give a man a fish and he can eat for a day.
Give him a fishing rod and he can eat for a lifetime.
Give an Aussie a fishing rod and he can find his drowning kids.
No year would be complete without an awards ceremony, and as the upcoming months will deliver a litany of awards shows from the Oscars to the Golden Globes to the International Midget Awards, I feel they will all pale in comparison to the inaugural edition of my new concept, the new 2011 Cunt Awards, aka the Cunties. You see, unlike these tedious exercises in fawning sycophancy that bestow awards upon those that have achieved something positive, the Cunties are awarded to the biggest cunts and the cuntiest things of the year. And considering the year 2011 was one long cunty journey into the cunty centre of Cuntsville, there’s plenty of nominees.
If these undoubtedly prestigious awards were to become a live televised event, I’d want Karl Pilkington to host. Since Ricky Gervais is doing the Globes, I’d like his hilarious Manc twonk sidekick to do me the honour of hosting mine. Because as terrible and unenthusiastic as he’d be, he’d still do a better job than James Franco and Anne Hathaway.
In the next part of this 2-part article, I’ll list the cunts, I mean winners, of these wonderful awards. Don’t go anywhere.