Down with the sickness
In the blackness of my inner dark,
My pain, a simple moth,
Is guided by a beacon of pure, white light,
Through forests, endless charcoal forests,
Pining, questioning, searching.
A lonely bat in the silent cave of my soul.
On it flies, on and on, through the senseless, restless twilight,
Until it settles, as fragile as the first snowflake of winter,
On your tits.
I’m so sorry. I let the guys back into the house for a couple of weeks and while I’m not looking they post a barrage of worrying material not fit for Gandhi’s mountaineering book club, and faster than I can correct the grammar. Again, I apologise. It will never happen again. Today.
It seems that someone has made a badge labelled “The one who writes the house updates” and stapled it firmly to my bare chest. The physical discomfort alone would have been bearable without the emotional strain of the badge’s subtitle, “Lord Chancellor of Twattery”. So, updates ahead. Basically nothing at all has happened in the house. Oh, there was this one time when we moved a piano; that’s downstairs now. We’ve started writing some more songs and attempting bad covers of 80s hits. Moses has been converted to accept unleaded fuel, Dan has learned to ride a unicycle sideways, and Jeff can now hover two inches above the ground, but only when singing tunes from Disney’s Lion King in a falsetto voice.
All in all, the same old stuff. Oh and I went to France. Back now though.
The problem with you is that you always get angry at the wrong things.
Take last week for example when you got annoyed at that old lady muttering behind you in the supermarket. ‘She had eyes like over cooked lemons!’ you squawked; maybe she did, but it wasn’t the old dear you should have been getting in a bother over. No, your ire would have been more rightly directed at the European Union - how can anyone not mutter at perfect strangers when there is a no-nothing jobsworth straightening our bananas in fandango land? It’s just not possible.
Then there was that time on Tuesday night when you became irritated trying to squeeze the last bits of toothpaste from the tube, swearing and shouting at it you were as it refused to budge. Yet it’s not the hard working toothpaste tube designers, who you were so quick to blame, at fault here. Not at all, my dear. It’s the immigrants. How can anyone concentrate on the finer points of squeezable paste dispensers when a simple walk down the high street turns into a hideous gauntlet of foreign thieves gushing ever deeper like a tsunami. How can a man focus his razor sharp mind when at any moment the vicious bastards are eyeing up the cash in his pocket, the curves of his wife and the steak in his trousers? This whole country has gone to the dogs, and those dogs are probably from Poland.
Then there was yesterday when you were so upset with me for spending the whole afternoon smoking cuban cigars and beating hookers with my slippers. Yet how can I be to blame when it is society and your own over-inflated expectations that are the real culprit here. You should be focusing your hammer of hate on the real evil of woman kind being allowed to dream and think above their simple capacities. No, by far the best thing is for you to just let me do the thinking in future - I’ll be taking care of deciding exactly who you are allowed to be cross with. Just in time too, as there are some important issues coming up - like exactly who is responsible for me not having a more expensive dog. My bet is on it being either the gays or the poor behind this particular conspiracy, and if I’ve learned one thing its that I’ll certainly find out the answer down the pub.
As I poured the last of the vodka on to my morning cornflakes today, I wondered if people properly understood the dangers of sobriety. Recent years have seen a disturbing trend of people awakening from their nightly slumbers without the comforting reminder of our own mortality, that a headache and a mounting collection of inexplicable bruises, provides. More and more people are opting to say “No thanks, I’m driving” or “just a coke for me please” and the government seems powerless to stop them. Indeed conspiracy theorists may suspect that the sober mafia have infiltrated our own houses of parliament, this once booze friendly mecca of fun and frolics has been converted to normal working hours, whatever that means.
Now don’t get me wrong I’m not some kind of party pooper, indeed in my youth I was once guilty, in a fit of exuberance, of turning down a pint of beer. I know the temptations of the sober side, the feeling of exhaultation you get from walking in a straight line, the giddy thrill of a glass of water. But sobriety has consequences. Just yesterday there wasn’t a multi lane pile up on the M6 because everybody forgot to get shitfaced; three tv stations were deprived of vital news and had to fill the time with a story about rabbits covered in butter. Last week a man was able to walk safely through the streets of London at night and crowds of youths merely looked at him disinterestedly. The cause? Nobody was getting completely trolleyed on cheap cider and working themselves into a blind fury. Tonight that man is still on the streets, thanks to sobriety.
Some people say you can’t have any fun being drunk all the time. They couldn’t be more wrong, what of the little pleasures found in nutting pensioners who look at you funny? The quiet satisfaction of a good splatter pattern achieved as you are sick on your girlfriend’s shoes? And the utter delight of losing all memory of your sad, stupid life as you wallow in the arms of beer? No, being pissed is plenty of fun enough on its on without having to spice it up with a little bit of tee totalism.
Remember kids, Just say “Mine’s a double vodka”.
Some day you’ll find it. In the cracks between your teeth maybe. Perhaps under that man there. You know what I’m talking about - your real self.
What’s that you say?
“Your real self -
A simple mirror
In a house of
Disfigured clowns?
All spewing it out
All vomiting
Their own
Inwardness?”
What?
If music television was slightly more sexed-up it would be indistinguishable from pornography. I wonder if this is an accelerating phenomenon, so that as the music videos get more pornographic they will begin to compete with the porn industry itself. How will the porn industry respond? Perhaps, with larger music budgets, boosting the quality of their soundtracks until the music in porn films is as highly produced as that on the music channels. Then of course there will be a series of mergers and acquisitions until the new ‘muornic’ industry is fully formed. Hmm…
In response a new, more powerful, undeground ‘true music’ scene will from, rejecting entirely the tyranny of the videographic form. The international world government, using the muornic industry as the perfect cultural weapon against its own people, dispatches units dedicated to the supression of rebellious thought to crush the true music undeground. Massacres take place at outlawed gig venues, news of which spreads like wildfire, massively growing the underground scene.
A few of the organisers begin selling t-shirts.
Pretty soon ‘true music’ is on the shelves of every supermarket in the galaxy. The first true music millionaire superstars hold a sellout concert on the moon. An early true music anthem is the soundtrack to the election campaign of the new galactic president. True music lapdancing clubs become common in the martian colonies.
One of the founders of the true music scene is found dead of an overdose, alone in her appartment, surrounded by blank TDK-90 cassette tapes. England win the galactic water polo championships on the same day and the story is never reported until four months later.
EDIT: Also you must watch this right now: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vSb-nV8l2QY
We’ve all seen it by now. Through the cracks.
Its obviously great, of course. How could it not be after we waited for so long. It was good and we had fun didn’t we? I’m sure I remember some fun. Oh yes! We definitely laughed, that hollow croaking as we rocked back and forth, with foam forming on our lower lip; laughter! Oh yes! We remember how it seemed to stare back inside of us, what a happy time! Oh yes!
We must have been having a great time then, especially given the extended length of time during which we had anticipated its arrival. The longing had grown so mighty it almost feels hollow inside now, but it can’t be because of all of the great times we must be having with it now its finally here. We almost certainly can’t wait to be with it again, why wouldn’t we want to be with it all the time? Why would we ever leave it? We can’t have we must be with it right now. We just can’t quite touch it because of the nailed in place planks. It must be here so close by. Close by and monitoring us. How wonderful it must feel to be so close to it as we are now. As it gets closer to us all the time.
When we think back to the moments before its arrival they seem like the most alive moments of our entire existence, but obviously they can’t have been because it’s here now, and as we read, it’s going to change our lives forever for the better. It certainly has to feel better to have our life so perfectly enhanced, now that it’s finally here. It’s been here all week so we must be really happy now. We’re sure we are, thats why the water is dripping from our eyes, the water wants to get closer to it too. Oh yes, we don’t imagine people like us could be feeling much better than people like us should be feeling. Just as long as it stays in the kitchen, and we never leave this corner. Oh yes.
Oh yes.
Dear Mr. Roffle,
We here at Stranglex Ltd, the UK’s largest Donkey Strangling enterprise, are delighted to inform you that you have been successful in your application to join us in the role of Donkey Disposal Technician. This short pamphlet will serve as your introduction to what we do here at Stranglex, and how you will play a key role in our vision for the future of throttling donkeys, foals, deer, and small horses.
First of all, you will need to attend one of our training weeks. While in training, you will learn the best way to wrap your hands tightly around an animal’s neck, restricting the flow of blood and oxygen to its brain, and hold them there as it snorts and writhes its life away, finally flopping, spent, to the ground like so much limp meat. You will learn the different types of grip we use, our many corpse disposal techniques, and will be introduced to CleanSleeps™ - the pills that allow our technicians to rid their minds of the pleading whinnies, bulging eyes, and frantic, desperate stares of the animals during their last moments.
Once this training is complete, you will be dispatched into the field, along with your new “Best Friend”, a colleague who will show you the ropes (quite literally!!!), and guide you in your first tentative steps towards a successful career in the strangulation of small, defenceless hoofed animals.
We will call you shortly to inform you of the date of your training week. Until then, we advise that you practice your strangling on the nearest old man.
Yours Sincerely,
Scott Simons,
Recruitment Director,
Stranglex UK Ltd.
“The customer is our God now”
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.
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
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?
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