u mad, doyley

Just wanted to clear something up at first: we here at ILB are thoroughly against rape, apart from when it’s in the songs of Big L or the life of Rufus Wainwright. Those are the occasions it’s acceptable.

Ich Luge Bullets 2009: Our year in lists Part #1

I’m as stunned as you are. Ich Luge Bullets, more out of blind luck and the fact that we can’t afford a PS3 to occupy our time than by design, has made it through to its second year. I’d like to say we couldn’t have done it without you, our loyal readers, but to be fair you haven’t really done anything for me. That talentless cunt that draws The Oatmeal probably gets hella Paypal payments winging their way into his Dorito-crumb encrusted pockets, and the most I’ve got from you is… zero? Depends whether that dude we ripped off for pizza has started self-googling yet.

Anyway, one of my favourite ever pieces of ILB writing was our 2008 review in which we counted down the 20 most read ILB posts of the previous year. And why fuck with the classics? We hereby present to you part 1 of the 20 pieces of Passantino script that had you kids on the internet going “lol” and blithely pressing “thumbs up” on Stumbleupon, to no visible effect on our hit rates.

Sady Masochism

 

If there’s one thing that ILB has long been a major proponent of, it’s the wonderful writing that’s emerging from the Guardian’s arts department these days thanks to the two types of people employed there: jaded sexually frustrated middle aged white boys who used to write for IPC publications in the early 90s, and the utterly hopeless-but-nubile Oxbridge graduated females in their 20s they’ve taken on hoping for a “driving the cheerleader home after she babysits your kid” style sexual experience. Ain’t nobody getting laid there, though, and ain’t nobody enjoying reading a single damn word of their work.

Comment Is Free, though, has straight-up shifted the game, widening the net to include “writers who the editors want to fuck but are too awful to contemplate letting into the magazine”, “writers who are so utterly wrong-headed that their insanity leads to 400 comment long clusterfucks that drive hit rates up” and “Max Gogarty”. Sady Doyle has hit us with the middle one, making us long for those halcyon days when Max, 19, hit the road.

If there’s one thing that ILB has long been a major proponent of, it’s the wonderful writing that’s emerging from the Guardian’s arts department these days thanks to the two types of people employed there: jaded sexually frustrated middle aged white boys who used to write for IPC publications in the early 90s, and the utterly hopeless-but-nubile Oxbridge graduated females in their 20s they’ve taken on hoping for a “driving the cheerleader home after she babysits your kid” style sexual experience. Ain’t nobody getting laid there, though, and ain’t nobody enjoying reading a single damn word of their work.