Published by Dan on 17th October, 2007
in Blog.
Well fuck me, if it isn’t another sport-tastic weekend of tremendously fascinating sporting sport! Everyone loves sport and if you meet anyone who claims not to be permanently pumped full of sports-based, sporting info spheres then they’re guaranteed to be a sub-human cunt destined to forever lick the sporting boots of the superior athletic master race.
Everywhere I look there is sport just spurting through the nets of the big sports stadiums and into our sporting lives. Could life be any better if god himself was shitting world cups? There’s the biggest sports on the day of sports, bigger sporty sports following on straight after and more sporting sport based sport news about our universal heroes of sport than ever before. There has been so much sporting excitement the contents of my bowels have exploded outward in a simultaneous sporting detonation of epically sporting proportions, shooting a full load of sport all over the sports field, on which I live, sleep and dream of more sports. Can the very skin that binds our fair land’s skeletal communities and cultural organs survive this much sport at once, without breaking out in sports all over its national body? Chances are if this did happen did it would be amazingly great like all sport definitely is.
The question on every right thinking minded adults lips is; who will win the biggest of sporting sports and get to wear the big crown that says “I’m the best at sports you inferior cocksucking shits”? I predict that there will be one massive winner, and that winner is: sports. The very best thing about there being so much sports happening is that we can talk continuously about sports all the time to make sure that the sport has been correctly examined from every possible angle in case of any sporting oversights that we need to inform the national sports teams all about. At length, they are totally interested in hearing all about our completely brilliant sporting ideas.
Frankly if I don’t spend every moment of my life injecting gigantic syringes of sport enhancing drugs I had better spend it learning every last detail about our true sporting legends - every ache, pain and pensive look. It’s the only way to truly feel the sports running through your sporting veins. Thinking entirely in sports is the best way to play like a good sportsman at life, so be a sport and start sporting your national sport’s colours because the sports are here and they are the most important sports ever to have happened because we’re in them and the sport might never be this sporty ever again at least until the next sport load dumped into your sport receiver next sporting sport time.
Don’t forget: sports.
As if you fucking could.
Published by Dan on 16th October, 2007
in Blog.
Recently I had the pleasure of a genuine theatrical experience.
This is the kind of thing that we’re suprised that the kids today don’t see enough of. It had really alive people (or convincingly puppeted cadavers) talking words from their mouths, close enough that I could make out their general body shape, sexual preferences and distinct clamminess. You have probably heard that lots of theatres have intervals so the actors can have a break to dribble and complain about the lazy trousers in the dressing rooms. This theatre was no exception in that regard.
The seats were about the right height for rolling cheese off and there was noone sitting in front of me so I had clear and uninterrupted view the person two rows in front. Mostly the lights were kept down quite low so it wasn’t easy to check for Belgians in the audience but I think I managed to find at least four.
The stage itself had the sort of shape you might find if you cut a honeydew melon in half and compressed it into the 2D plane, largely this went unremarked even when I pointed it out to the stewards (deployed regularly from space lifts). A general attempt had been made to remove the fine film of greenish paste but I could still taste it on my tongue.
Carpetting was excellent, all the way into the corners for the most part and when it didn’t quite make it in the upper left I found a small apology note gaffer taped to the underside by the industrious craftsman. WELL DONE, that man WELL DONE. This level of dedication did not extend to the facilities. I found the test tube samples entirely wrong and the less said about the crap shaft the better.
As I turned to leave, pondering six or maybe a hairy monk I turned to see myself turning to leave by turning into the theatre and turning around until I’d turned completely. Resultant vectors were plotted neatly and will form the basis of further testing.
The play itself was celebration of cack resting on the sole premise that a man dressed as a woman is the single most hilarious situation that could ever be contrived; and for two or three such happen-stances to occur in a three hour period? Oh Heavens! A comedy panacea the like of which has never been hoped for! Truly we have known no better times.
I stayed to the end thirsting for it to claw its way back and justify my evening spent, but all the while knowing in my knowing-place that it could not ever be redeemed.
Overall: Imperial Mauve
Published by Dan on 15th October, 2007
in Blog.
Can a continued lack of articulation lead to a collapsing internal narrative gradually reducing one’s carefully constructed emotional epic of triumph over adversity, to an incoherent wail of vague expression? Nothing incestual about having less moral feeling then a slippery ended riposte to a five star slambaggerkust.
Tonight a hearse will certainly not disappear in your meat teapot.
The problem with a prolific output of voluminous elegance is that its construction nessecitates a certain dedication to the art and craft of the form. Such mastery takes time away from immersion in the fountainhead of pure experience and leads to a generalised tendancy towards increasingly self-referential and inwards looking meditations. Your big eyes are specially formulated for this exact purpose.
Seven holy cattle prods dart savagely and with a definite intent; the quick and necessary satisfaction of the consumer’s disambiguation of even the most profane.
The patterns of one’s fate by great fortune carry with them an illusion of control so delightful that in moments one feels as though the whole of existence alights on the arrowhead of a salicious, dangerous, monstrous thought. What in truth though, results from even the most extraordinairy existence? A series of patterns so steady and rhythmic they would likely coalesce into a particularly cheesy pop ballad. Perhaps a graph depicting a lusty bike; manufactured from the phattest of timbers. Mighty nice.
What makes it all ok? What makes it all ok? What makes it all ok? What makes it all ok?
Calculated momentary re-alignment establishes a triumphalist summit. Living for the holes, falling through the holes - but if you get enough stuff you’ll win! Free prizes! NO WIN! NO FUCKING WAY! Be a better speci-man and they’ll catalogue you with more excitement, you might even get a multiplier.
What’s better than a multiplier?
Moment 1: “Lemon and Lime”
“Lemon and lime!?” he asked, his face a plastic twat of incredulity.
“Lemon and lime!?”
“Lemon and lime.” I said.
“…Lemon and lime?”
“Lemon and lime”. I said. For the final time. And it was.
Moment 2: “It”
The four of them stood there, in front of It, awed by It, afraid of It. Kevin, Michael, Sandra, Pritesh - those were their names, you have to believe me. If you don’t believe me, I’ll fucking kill myself, don’t think I won’t.
Moment 3: “The Girl who Couldn’t”
She stood there, her hands all a-twitch, all a-twitter, stood there and shivered like a ropey dog in the Arctic. Could she? Did a thought pulse through her brain in that infinite moment? Did she hear, somewhere, a million miles away, the echo of her proud father’s voice, from beyond the grave, from beyond the edge of time: “You can!”. Did she feel his guiding hand in this, her lonely midnight, her exile, her reckoning to end all reckoning? No.
