HOW DO YOU DO?

2009-06-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

HOW DO YOU DO...

Smoking Moon Mammals

I do hope you’re an easily glummed off fool. I have no title so this is the best title/non title I had, it’s pretty rubbish really. I mean, for one it’s understood there isn’t life on the Moon, there may have been but no Ugaloo has munched moon dust in a fuck of a long time. The temperature couldn’t sustain a warm or cold-blooded creature, so that’s mammal's out. And so the likelihood that they could have cultivated and packaged their own brand of cigarettes, discovered fire and had the dexteritory to grip one, lung capacity to smoke one, neurological capacity to appreciate one and audacity to continue to smoke them while other moon mammals drop dead, is as likely as viewing the forthcoming miniaturised rice etching collection by Michael J Fox. He’s just not talented in that field.

I could say anything, anything.

You get to feel really insignificant writing this, firstly to be perfectly clear I don’t know if anyone reads this. The world of writing is vast, the sheer amount of blogs, websites and social networks, text messages, books, letters, adverts and forms is monumental. For all I know I’m writing to myself in a therapy to encourage psychosis. Every letter wrapping itself down into a whirlpool of binary voids, oh great.

Woz ere 4 eva

Most people (me included) want themselves to impact on the world, do something meaningful, be remembered, in at least a fondness, for a time. There are a lot of people who have died who have probably felt just the same and no fucker knows who the hell they are. It’s looking pretty rosey.

Well to make an impact in the world, you either have to be:

Rich – Richard Branson

Evil – Anthony Worrel Thomspon

Lucky – the Jackson 4

Very unlucky – Jesus

Be in the right place at the right time – Adolf Hitler

Do the right thing – Emily Pankhurst

Say the right thing – Wordsworth

Say the wrong thing very well – Eric Cantona

Be really good at something – Dirk Diggler

Invent something – Clive Sinclair

Be a big criminal – Gordan Ramsey

Have lots of brains - Will Self

Capture the emotions of many – Sooty

Kills loads - Steven Seegal

So unless you fit into one of the above or you’re inventing your own category. Past your death be grateful if they mention you whilst eating in your favorite café, wearing your unwashed jumper, reading your favorite book inscribed to them by you, with your identical twin. Once those people die, unless they bloody love you so much they’ve created hereditary Chinese whispers, you’re nothing but a moss and slug home gravestone. So if I were you I’d start on that stone-carving course while changing your name into one that strangers who saunter through graveyards would gawp at. Yellow Mc Star or Bum Shun, maybe Qwerty Paperson or Hugo There.

Three in a trillion, five in two?

There’s that chance, you’re on that list, a chance. While making your cut price yet eclectically elaborate meal out of E-numbers you discover the only known cure for immortality and it tastes filthy. That the North Koreans bombs were so overpowered and under programmed you became the 1st westerner in 56 years to have received a present from King Jong Ill. Or that you’re very very stupid and propelled into fame as a freak show act everyone loves to hate, sell off your emotions and die of kebab cancer. Immortality, immortality, maybe bomb.

Wide wet eyes

Looking around you do start to wonder nothing some days. Blurred head, blank walls, blanket sky, blue blanket, sour soundtrack and reflections of a slowly ageing male avoiding eye contact with himself.

Tears don’t flow, they should, but tears never come at the right time. Tears come when you’re riding bikes, on the toilet, cutting, in summer fields, walking into wind and at random times tear ducts fancy making you look like you can’t even control your face.

Knowledge is knowledge

I know maybe more than some but less than most or the other way round. I could have been fed lies and know nothing or have realised that everything I know is rubbish and thus know everything or nothing again. Someone may have told me or I may have read the answer to everything or not. I may never know more than I already do now. I may be ill and from this day on lose more and more until I had the same as the first day on this planet. Or not.

Cut off his thoughts

Romans said all roads lead to Rome. Which paints Rome then being one giant roundabout, or as they called it, a colosseum. Some say roads lead to nowhere, which is wrong, as matter cannot cease to exist anywhere, especially at the exact end of a road. I think all roads lead to other roads, which saunter slowly by clandestine cities and their surrounding scarscapes ploughing up bastard lands.

The untouched is touched up, groped, penetrated, and pumped full, dried out, then left. Everywhere is discovered, documented and owned by the self appointed authority, us. A horse can't dispute his field. A tree can't dispute its roots. A man can dispute his boundaries. Man, in a horsehair wig wafting a wooden hammer, reprieves man. Order, I must have order.

So we do. Force beauty into demolition and call it progress. Progress into what? We make the most hideous structures in the history of the world. What progress involved turning everything into a glassful classless mess? Progress, progress by its name means moving forward, out and up. Alas companies take progress as a literal translation and we're all left to jump onboard the retranslation ladder so we can climb up to look down at what our lives could have been.

Condition

Can we kill it, can we eat it, can we use it?

No answer, no point, no consequence, no more.

Beyond yonder was always hazy

We never simulated this…

Minds eye blinks alive to see smoke, dust and dirt rasp the many tired ill lungs in the torn shoddy shelter. Burning up all has cost us, using bombing as consequence didn’t help. You don’t see animals anymore, just us. Filling up a full planet. Angry and fearless, that’s what they tell you you have to be, that’s the model of this age. I wish I’d gone into space, though it’s kinda like death. No foreign world wants us. We’re troublesome and reliant. The human rash we became, the immigrants, not respected, not accepted, a barely acknowledged species, the rats of the universe.

Why weren’t Monkey’s content?

controversy

2009-05-22T07:30:00.000-07:00

How do you do…

Controversy

LESS TRUTH = MORE CONTROVERY

If you want controversy then you want controversy. This thing here, that your reading, this, this is not controversial. Hey lone ranger, I do childish simplistic sentences that I overheard other people saying in 3am kebab houses, that make largely no sense and bear no actual relation to anyone’s life excluding the really sad and pathetic bits that are acutely autobiographical o kay. Just so you’re a hundred and, well a hundred percent sure, you know these word things get outa hand if you slip off into a beastial starfish skewer (I have not had sex with anyone from Asteroidean kingdom).

C&ntr#ver%$al W@!ds

Make new shyster splicing words up because brats saying them on you tube have diluted virtually all. Gordon Ramsey fucked the word fuck. You sound like your fucking quoting him if you use it. Cunt is still pretty hot, I want some handy sandy women to over use that: “Cuntbags, where’s my cunting cup of cuntea, cuntoff , I’m gonna nail this cunt and shave a cunt off that cuntwood so the cunter opens into an attractive window dresser.”

Stay clear, invent words, make them sound rude though.

slapshats = sandwiches.

“I’m skint, you got any beggars slapshats.”

hufu = a trans-metro-homo-les-sexual picking their pants out of their bum.

“hungry hungry hufu.”

gozzits = indecipherable drug speak

“huh? Meaning of a glowstick? Barncards in the sky? Hm… your gozzits up to yer folicals ! “

bastummel= simulatanious diorehhera and vommiting

"It's bastummelled, no, NO, BASTUMMEL, where's Regan, blairrrrrrrrrrr!

That’s not art, that was my cat.

So making everything cubey was controversial. The Da Da and Bauhaus movements certainly caused a few iron crosses to turn back in the day, and pop art coursed us to look into the nature of aesthetics, conventions and celebrity which continued with modernism until about ten years ago when art seemed to have circled itself so much it went up its own arse. This shit implosion shot controversy into the mainstream rather than show the realities of culture or redefining the nature of what it means to be an artist. Post modernism became a visual show of style over content other than Tracy Emin who showed all her contents on those bed sheets.

We need accountability, it’s not me

Political controversy is the big soap opera in which news can veil us into a sense of bored enlightenment into the controlling powers when all it actually does is make us distrust the very people who are trying to win our trust while above the pendulum, time slowly ticks on by.

Inquiry, investigation, adjudication, consultation, talks, review, evaluation, palm off.

Pro-fit Moo-ham-hid

This whole picture prophet Muhammad hoo ha is an actual joke. Look at a few text books and you can see quite clearly the prophet Muhammad solving arguments with rocks on rugs? He’s even on an Algerian postcard from the 1920’s for gods sake.

No winkle dinkle

No! What! Russell Brand? Russell Brand is about as controversial as Sid James.

Mad donna

Honesty is anyone is the world shocked by two lasses getting off with eachother? Is there anyone repulsed by a middle aged woman in a thong?

.comedy.uh/egh

Now there's a genre that had a corrosive controversial edge and seems to have utterly lost it. It now involves them commenting on some humanitarian atrocity in the fastest and most callous tone to goad and garner chat show slots.

Sooner or later the spotlight escapes, when time, culture and self respect serves mud puddles, welcome to Blackpool!

These entertainers scam a living on a controversial message 200 years expired. Racists should hate themselves and find ways of getting themselves deported or wiped out, spice it up. Burn yourselves in the name of Britain and free speech, that's controversial.

We could hunt them down like we did with those paedophiles. With a burning torch, standing next to a teacher who hates bad things so much he had to put a tape in for Eastenders tonight. Maybe for convenience sake we could all just mail slow burning kinderling on the same comedy postcards they get half their hilarious jokes from.

Channel 4

No, no, controversial 4. When TV tries to make controversy it’s ridiculous, clowning around with realism pulped and stretched until it sounds about as genuine as a Red Dwarf laughter track. Or worse exposing society up to be, erm society and expecting us to bow at a box.

How much effort can a programmer make to antagonise its viewers, warp its beliefs and then turn round and tell you this is the public speaking. We know you’re not the public you’re called a channel not a person, not like Dave, shit we're really pushing the post modernism off a brief cliff. The Great Big Channel Swindle, stick around, up next we’ve got guaranteed bumper bum raping in Hollyoaks Nightlight

Heystation

Video games are so controversial. People actually think little Jamie’s in World War Two dealing crack to coppers at 300mph during Sunday Service. Jamie’s not gonna go out and machete Nazi’s, clean your glasses, but if he did people’d say games are great.

Sweet kids are made of these

By gum, Marilyn Manson. He’s not laughing all the way to the make up dept. Have people not heard of Goths? Just cos most people don’t dare talk to them, doesn’t mean their subliminary convincing 14 year olds to bomb schools. I think society manages disenfranchisement pretty well on it’s own.

Do I actually care?

Why is it always white people who cause 99% of all so called controversy in the World.

Minorities generally don't say much controversial, well unless you’re Spike Lee, then everything you say is about fighting the white power and making black people know that they're black people.

Oh and that Dolly the sheep, stupid modified super dead lung sheep.

Forgetting someone, clerics. Clerics love to bang on and on, half in a calm down secular harmony and the others in barmy Fatwatastics. Unless you see a coupla captain hooks slashing at the sky you can’t tell. They should have:

Red robes, pointed beard = evil.

White robes, fluffy beard = good.

HEADLINE!

People confuse controversy with not really knowing something that doesn’t really affect them and isn’t that interesting. Take The Sun “ WE HATE DIFFERENT FINGS AND YOU DO TO ” 21^st May headline directed at the white, en-ger-land, larger stupid, brawling, and because of those dam poles, jobless men. Strong readership, consistent readership, barely read ship.

Facts anyone?

Controversy, so mellowed and withered. People have misappropriated the word, whether through bad mags, cheap media, or our own desperate way to make our belittled lives that bit more sensational to every other poor sod that feels the same but has to listen out of a vague sense of the true value that word once had. Just maybe this whole verbal charade might not be about some poor friend finding a-fucking-nother bone in a chicken chuffing nugget.

Oh wait, yes it is.

fags

2009-04-24T06:59:00.000-07:00

How do you do…

FAGS

"We want to help you"

What? If vilifying large groups of society for no reason, ostracising them to the cold climate, bombarding them with nightmarish obscene imagery of cancerous lungs and diseases while already threatening them with death, illness and deformed babies and, AND charging those people more and more money for the privilege of doing that sounds, like a heap of help. Sounds like an invasion of our civil liberties to live, without judgment. Considering the smoking masses make up 1.1 billion of us or 17% of the worlds population. I think that makes a pretty strong, probably not healthy, minority.

Cigarettes will kill you

Really? no seriously, blow me over with a revelation, Fucking goldfish remember that smoking kills. It’s like saying tomorrow we forecast a fair amount of gravity or next week you’re gonna need to breathe a bit of that air stuff. It translates into now we are all aware, we are knowing fools.

But in relative terms there’s a lot of things we ingest that’ll could kill us off swifter: plastics, pollution, GM foods, crazy cows, air, and water? But there are no warnings or adverts about those. So in government terms they don’t need to worry about it, that is, until anyone finds out.

You smoke?

Why, why don't you quit, you'll be healthier, you'll save money, you won't smell bad.

I thought about the health thing. You know when you wheeze a bit cos you had to sprint to catch the ice cream man selling not just ice cream. If you smoke you look at those people all super fit jogging around, pacing and burning while hitting some walls. What you don't look at is their surrounding facile lives, waking up early to some bench presses, drinking lakes of water, cucumber snacks, living in the gym, working in an office, having a beautiful girlfriend, buying expensive clothes, no, no wait deeper into that. You couldn't do that because, it's too much. Too styled and fleeting and replicated innumerable times, city, country and world over. But if you jog a bit you might not eject ectoplasm in response to "So how are you today?"

You'll save money. If you smoke cigs, you'll save heaps. I smoke rollies, rollies cost nowt. I 'd save six quid a week, six quid for a pleasure, shit I can afford it, I spend more on crisps, chocolate, fast food and cans of pop. So it won't change me, that’s the angle I blow in your failed face.

So I smell bad, do I? I probably do. To everyone else, a smoker smells like old bonfires, which might be a positive. After they banned smoking in pubs and clubs, everything smelt rank-dank. Smokers smothered everyone into happy ignorance, the government made you face up to the stale funk you spent your week working to get in to, la lovely labour.

Endangered puff

So we've been kicked out of offices and pubs and stages, bus shelters and near food, rented houses and toilets, on banjos, and around toucans at 2:35pm. At least with heroin it's accepted you can shoot up in fast food toilets. Try smoking, they’ll do ya a new arsehole.

People don't want things back to the 1960's. People want rationality because if you haven't noticed yet, pubs aren't health spas. Having a ventilated area in a pub for smokers would make more sense than turfing them out onto the street. Having equality in warnings on products would help.

That painstakingly over thought water beaded glass filled with ice-cold, filtered, beer with a angled mirror attached reflecting the tired yellowed dribbling drunk sitting in a corner that you may become? Fast food queues with live feeds of the greasy spot-popping teens fondling your Mc Fresh meals? Pornography, maybe we should leave pornography. Radio 4 broadcasted with live audience participation, burying in bury, at Radio 4’s hearse-show.

Smoking isn't cool

It isn't un-cool. Whining about someone smoking nearby is. Faking coughing is. Moaning to a friend about their health is.

Smoking isn't clever

It depends. If you want to end your life a bit sooner. If you want to enjoy booze to it's fullest breathe-drink-congratulate.

Boring butts

Clouds are different colours, drugs are different colours, socks are different colours, so why do fags always look white with ginger bloody woodchip? Why not rainbow phallic sticks to be down with the gay community. The kids need to coordinate their tabs with their trainers, do summing!

Another thing, flavour. Tootie gin chimneys, or steaming monkey brains, fizzy jizz juice? Walkers do it. While we’re at it. Companies make smells smell different that’s why I want to drink my shower gel, also why I like to suck my ibuprofen a bit too long and why I got mildly hooked on cough syrup. Health, you can make fridges healthy, cars less bad, just make cigarettes good for you then you can sit back and chew your tobacco till the sponsorship comes home. Brands, fag brands have such old man pub names The Regal, The Embassy, the Dunhill or chatty mag names like escort, prima, horizon, kool, more, moon. We’re not all racing post, pint of mild, slug-slurey, men or look at these burnt, wrinkle ridden, sag-city, ex-breasts women. So how’s about these:

Suck and fuck corkscrew shaped, blistering red coloured sucking the taste of sweat from a moist shaven hole.

Zompertrons unable to smoke without five friends due to its do-deco-rhombus shape, smells like blue lasers and has the flavour of iconic eighties movies of a sci-fi genre, called Tron.

Whiz blow contains 1% tobacco and is sold exclusively in corners.

If you must

If you want to quit, which you probably should eventually then there are a stupid amount of ways in which you could: gum, lozenges, sprays, inhalers. Antidepressants, injections, hypnosis, herbal preparations, acupuncture, help group, quit meters, books, smokeless tobacco, aromatherapy, electronic cigarettes, herbs, some are more loopy lou like a vaporizer, spirituality (cos god was a 20 a dayer) and laser therapy.

The big choice

The tradition of havin’ a fag originated with the Mayans and Aztecs. Curiously at the same time they were also getting pretty fuct up on magic mushrooms and the sinicuichi plant, two rather more hallucinogenic drugs.

So we got mushrooms, not addictive, makes you laugh and see n think crazy . This sinicuichi plant you drink and get happy drunk in a sort of yellow echo. Tobacco you get addicted to which makes you feel a bit relaxed and it can kill you.

Woaw, yeah, wooooo! Good choice forefathers, inciteful.

Ban! ban! ban! then?

So society makes criminals out of recreational drug users, has planned to make it impossible for the sale or affordable consumption of cigarettes (effectively banning it), alcohol's next with binge drinking offers stopped, greater taxes. What will be left for our population to do? Drink caffeine free redbulls in the park smoking portable i-shisha's avoiding born again atheists.

I got the 1p flight booked.

modern music

2009-03-30T06:56:00.000-07:00

HOW DO YOU DO…

modern music

I AM THE MUSIC MAN, I CAME FROM ROUND THE BEND

All hail, our music industry speaks about the scourge, the scourrrge of pirates. "Without compensation the creators livelihood is unsustainable." What the gentlemen I think means is that because lots of us are doing things that are easier (getting music from our computers) and not spending money (e.g. sharing the music). Musicians are literally dying of champagne dehydration unable to scale cocaine ski slopes, in blood diamond ski suits to laud over us and lose their musical inspiration in vain veins of self-absorption, v.i.piss holes of Lady Thatch, and concurrent clinical holidays on manors in tax havens while we sit at home, skint. Oh the humanity. What will happen? It’s like the music industry has tried to fear monger whilst appearing a poor and blistered cultural social asset, orphaned from cutting edge consumption yet still being a billion pound, sue happy, die-cast empire. It wants to be everything, ever.

THE MUUUUSIC DIED

They killed it. Tappers will rest; grey tits will consume porn, kettles, dampened. Bereft of rhythmic sounds ritualistic fender fires will warm the gap, the hole, of illegality. And we shall all be vigilant for spontaneous musical ensembles beseeching the whirlless air that the music industry mercifully purifies for it's own possible profitable consumption while it expels air worrying about our own lack of accompaniment.

YOU HAVE TO DIE, REALLY I READ IT LAST WEEK

Why do we always preempt the death of music: It's not the same, there’s no rock stars anymore, it's so throw away, there’s just no great bands or music, it all sounds the same, music died in 69, 78, 85, 92... Everyone's sold out: Everyone just wants money, no one’s real anymore, and no true great lyricists. It's all three chord wonders, three minute radio friendly music, bang bang bang, sell outs. Where's the Dylan’s, Mc Cartneys and Formby's of our age?

These people fear super-fruit-mega-twist-blast! And stick licking vanilla listening to vanilla.

MUSIC ENTHUSIASTS

People who technically know music yet don’t know music. They cannot understand or comprehend or bother to open up to new breakaway music. Preferring to languish in a perceived form of musical excellence that incidentally is neither complete or representative of their musical interest, breezing over many sub genres, cult bands and bedroom projects that were comparable but never artificially hoisted to the colossus of Mojo’s definitive greatest top 100 of all time.

Music for them has been a refinement that has happened in decades, crossing off, turning down, and skipping over to reach an identikit record collection to the other enthusiasts. Differing only in the extent of their purchasing of what is deemed a “classic” and what limited youthful eclecticism they once had. In conclusion there's not many people like John Peel around and even he’s not here anymore.

STAR IDOL

“Look at Denise; she’s got stage three herpes, a Siamese schizophrenic featus sister called Magmud, rubber bones and sports camel breath and toe. But she can belt out bridge over troubled water better than Jane Mc Donald.” “You’re through.”

I think you can class this lot as an actual sub genre of music. As long as the word sub is 17 times larger than the word genre with the word music being separated by at least all the words ever wrote in any language since time began.

MYSPACE BANDS

Do you remember when people youst to call people who wore tracksuits and thieve cars, scallies, until the Sun decided to change them to chavs? When papers were not monopolised, when things were a little bit more honest and less formulated. Where bands were called one hit wonders or new bands. Well most people don’t, thanks to Rupert Murdoch.

DJ

If you’re a DJ is it absolutely necessary to put DJ before your (a bit bloody quirky) name, is it? Isn’t it obvious if your playing at a club that never has bands your gonna be a DJ. And on the flyer there’s you looking all over photoshopped camp-tough, with decks. Anyway isn’t disc jockey just a bit too “It’s Mayo in the morning.” I mean you might aswell skip the whole irony and call yourself BJ?

CHANGE THE RECORD

I think I’ve heard enough of self-deprecating heroin addicts whimsically telling me that I can't understand the pain they're going through. I'm overflowing with people telling me to dance, how to dance, how to get girls, that girls always want more money than you have, that this song is on the radio, that the streets in a downtown suburbs of a U.S. city are pretty shitty, being a celebrity has it's downsides, everyone prints lies about me, I’m not the person you think I am, I’m sexy, rich and desirable to everyone, I still come from those suburbs of a U.S city that's pretty shitty, L.A. is fake. I'm really quite insecure under that unfathomable amount of styled imagery I willingly acquired, I’m a virgin, I’m a lesbian, I’ve kissed a women, I’m free as a bird, I’m trying to sell this to America. I’m not an ordinary girl, i'm a punky girl, i'm a man who cares so much I would shed a tear to this sap-suck song. My husband’s beating me and i'm still married to him and he’ll probably spend all my money, which you are giving him by buying this cry for help record.

THE NEW BEAT

I like those bands who just ramble on in eclectic unfathomabled glory to the musical accompaniment of manic miner and a wet plank. Or them odd bods Will summat n Ginger who meander around the U.K. singing sea shanty’s like utter dudes. Hey Timbaland, remix that, see how far you get twat, don’t worry yourself, you’ll probably stick your foot in yourself pulling that tongue off trying to find your laces.

WHAT THE P@*! DIDDY WE GOT?

So hip hops a bare faced parody of itself, indie was meant to die 12 years ago, rock was cool for about 7 minutes in 2003, Bangra music bout 4 seconds 2007. Dance music just can't decide what it is, and when it’s sure. It’s house, dire, trance irritating, jungle the same exact thing, break beat an ex housemartin’s brief wet dream. What do we have left?

Tonnes, so reggae influenced us in the late 70's to make some amazing music, why not something else, some place in the world must be doing something better. We’ve made music up so far; lets keep tossing off more. While tossing off more.

children

2009-03-01T06:31:00.000-08:00

HOW DO YOU DO...

CHILDREN

Bearth

On other inhabited planets orbiting our Milky Way children grow up in Tainment pods, which provide two integral facilitations for everyone. The first being entertainment that educates the child into a fully aware individual, dropping food and thoughts with kaleidoscopic originality. The second and more vital usage is containment. So the lovely aliens can fly around on swoosh juice at the speed of life in utter ecstasy, without sound or concern for their offspring; screaming brown noise though all 34 of its gumholes.

(Alas)

Pregtagonists

There are people who clock count the days down until they can get preggo. They adore these little mites. Accruing many samey wamey nameys for it. Transfixed by it’s every gargle as if it gob-farted a soliloquy. They always know where it is because they’re under it; nauseatingly bouncing it until it expels all it’s little treats over their skirt, which they mop up in fits of warm adoration. While parent number two videos its every atomic movement, so it can be poured over at night, while the little one strains to understand the practical applications to its reoccurring thoughts of death.

Anti-births

Conversely others prefer not.

Prog-rocks

There’s muddy middle here. Tons of Tods and Tanya’s who seem to trip up into the idea or do they get bored, maybe don’t like cats or think their relationship’s missing some more… Flesh?

The self

Having children is ultimate duality. The selfish part is the desire to have a part of you replicated because your frankly so fucking great the world couldn’t and shouldn’t be without your unbelievably resplendent spirit, evoking your tired genes to surpass your own barefaced failings. In an inherently selfish motive to enslave other people of the future with your own genial eccentricities you have unbeknown crossed the line into selflessness. From birth and for the rest of your life you have to feed, cloth, wash, care for this you hoo.

Thus people who don’t acquire kids are selfish because they want to be number one. They don’t want to care for any offspring. They want their life. What utter realists.

It’s perfect!

Chances are, you will not have the kid you desire. Countless families expecting to eject a cool calm Kendal find out of the fanny frame, a needy, loud, whinging little luminous skin sack. It’s not like an I-pod, you can’t take it back cos you really wanted a metallic pink one. You’re stuck with vomit yellow at top volume, for life.

What if he’s ugly, everyone will squirm a bit when they look at him, you’ll have to spend ten years massaging his floored esteem, hiding him from public gatherings, until he becomes a serial killing nutbar or a KFC supervisor.

What if she’s a Yar-tard, you have to buy her special shoes, fill your house with domestic scafolding and watch her dribble out every meal while you wipe her arse raw. To later sympathetically listen to the poor thing shuffle for half an hour to reach her head-stick you had down your bum crack all morning.

What if they’re quintuplets, it happens, you can’t just leave four at the hospital; you’ve got a basketball team of dribbler’s, cornchip.

You’re well rubbish

Some Mothers and Fathers bother me. Not my own, well a little. But those others. Say one day you see them in Asda smacking the shit out of a nipper. Next week you see them pulling down its pants so it can piss in the middle of the high street. Next month the kid’s crying and lost ‘cause their Mum left them to chat up a newly divorced 16-year-old yoof. Next year they’ve got their ear, eye and nose pierced, sporting what can only be described as heavily homosexualsed clothing being dragged to a friends 5th birthday party.

Two years later they’re shouting, “Oi you, fuckin paedo” while tabbing 20p off you. Five years later you recognise them, whilst serving you a shitty meal; with the bodily juices of their mate Gozy, for no extra charge. Two years after, you get nudged suddenly you are the altercater in a gang fight without a gang. Culminating in wounds you can’t even charge anyone for because they’re all underage binge drinking, asbo wannabes, with power.

Don’ts

Some people should not have children, these include:

People who make you consider that those people who fuck pigs may have crossed uncharted reproductive darkness.
Anyone who thinks after ten they want to pop out another.
Scallies
The homeless (no, maybe not, I like gypsies as long as they inherit the waltzers when they get their HGV licence)
Irritating people, e.g. the population of Canada
Anyone who “appreciates” any of the following music: hard house, donk, trance, all metal, un ironic techno, interpol indie, any fusion with jazz, Aussie hip-hop, tinny euro pop and U2. Don’t have kids and don’t try to get me to listen to the latest Korn album because you think ‘it manages to re-capture their original brilliance’.
People who obviously don’t like kids (you’d think it was obvious,)
Paedophiles and equally sadomasochists. Probably the scariest thing in the world to know your Dad wants to fuck you whilst beating and tying up your mum.

Do’s

People who should if they really want to, have kids.

Anyone who has contributed positively to the development of our species, so not Thomas Midgely.
Odd people like train spotters, people who wear pottery and cardies, very very tall people, anyone with extra limbs and people of peculiar races; Eskimo + Aboriginal = wow.

+Plus

Advantages of having lots of children are that they’re malleable. You too can be the 21st century Fagin. With a 43rd century indoctrinated army of ideological rattle brains who warp language and structures by pontificating pontification while solicitating bemused bricks.

Kids, can be without crossing into the Glitter realms, cute, adorable, heart warming even, funny, entertaining but just not, all the time. That’s why it’s better to have friends with kids than to have kids. Leave Billy to his soiled pants and go, RUN!

-Minus

I never had a child, I think, yet, that has tracked me down, atleast. Though I understand the various child full families who would find the very idea of not desiring them, sacrilegious. But…

C’mon children are stupid, you tell them something and they’ve forgotten it, remembered it, cried about it, pissed themselves and knocked themselves out before you’ve slapped yourself in thinking why you even talked to that underdeveloped foetus. They always look hopeless, fat, badly dresseed, doddering, and obsessed with rubbish stuff like sellotape and hosepipe. Why do they always talk shit aswell, if it isn’t why? Why? They change the subject or simply stare vacantly back at you, like you’re the idiot.

We need YOU?

Our planet isn’t crying out for any more of that source of wanton destructive deformity that has been its watermark of recent history. Is there anyplace for them? We can have birthing centres in spider’s eyes, or under rugs. China’s population control strategy seems to work-ish although their human rights, suppression of information, environmental policy, widespread poisoning of babies and already swollen populous seem to overshadow it’s awkward home planning service.

Tw-it

If we get rid of children in pretty much a hundred and twelve years the most intelligent species on the earth would be owls.

Ta-woooooo!

economy

2009-02-03T03:37:00.001-08:00

HOW DO YOU DO...

the economy

Economic miracle

“What! lo! Dawn hath led thou from once a most foul earth, maketh Gold. Behold! A miracle hath occurred… Or thy digged close to yonder gold mine. A miracle!”

Miracles are coincidence or luck, economic miracles are neither. Economic miracles are making something that some sod somewhere wants to buy and them buying it. If I sold almost all my lands to neighbouring countries, my country would have an “economic miracle.” My country would probably also be in a bloody civil coup trying in vain to puncture the parliaments gold walls and my powerful egocentric heart.

Modern economics

Men in stupid suits wearing even stupider construction jackets waving bits a paper shouting about numbers. Much more complicated. Putting all your trust and wealth in the hands of what amounts to be a rabble of coke enthusiasts on sat nav shortcuts to penthouse plaza’s; trying to make things go up and down so their killlionaire clients can keep buying goal scoring Brazilian rapists is a sensible and rational way to run a world. Too simple?

“What’s happening Phil?”

Phil Burdon is in peak puberty. He’s got urges puncturing his zip in 12 minute intervals. He’s in dogs-dinner lust over a black goddess, everyone adores her, they plough rich sweets into her hands, taking her places to no avail. She wants more; she wants everyone because soon, it’ll dry up.

Phil‘s also noticed a developing hairy situation. He’s unable to control spiraling manifestations down under that threaten to envelop everywhere. He can’t even save face, everywhere’s out of control busting and hemorrhaging his once smooth but now bloated blotchy face without pattern or need for all to see. Plasters don’t work; Nelly just isn’t that cool.

His head’s all over the shop, he wants one thing, next minute, hates it and dumps it, he has so many dirty secrets he needs someone to talk to but everyone he talks to tells him “it’s normal” and he “shouldn’t worry, it’ll all pass ,it’ll all get better,” but Phil thinks not.

Boom

(2001 theme tune) daaaa, daaaaaaa, Daaaaaaaaa, ECONOMY, Dum-Dum, Dum-Dum, DAAAAA, DAAAAAAAA, DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA, shit. A crash that nobody expected, sorry everybody expected but didn’t want to tell the economy cos he might get all mad. But now he’s out for blood, cutting and slicing main arteries, nerve centres without remorse, he doesn’t want blood anymore he wants Hitler’s lost ball.

The Golden days

When? The nineties? We can’t go back to the golden days, they say. People were skint since money began. There never was, is or ever will be a “golden day” unless everyone globally only used the word money in referring to an inconvenience in carrying so much of it, that it gave their pockets unflattering bulges.

Economic revolution

Presidents and Prime Ministers all think that the 21st century should be the start of a revolution in the economic sector but how would, or could it change? How can you change something that isn’t too bovved about wearing tie dye, singing poetry chanting all is one and one is all, monging to Tim Fuckley.

Spending culture

The continuing game theory culture of prediction, of desire, will and wants are still shitdiculous. The common individual can live roughly a 30,000%* percent more sustainable lifestyle if he didn't drink so much sugar coated shit and instead got his food from the ground rather than the mish-mash-mush machine. Fix stuff, open it up and poke, get a screwdriver and some chuddy and really fix that fucker. Buying summat because it's the slightly better one that you’ve already got, with a new light on it, n one of the buttons is over there is so earnest in conformity. But that wouldn't keep the cogs of industry going, noo that wouldn't make economies grow and grow exponentially till they need to invent consumers and economies and solar systems to keep its expanding waistline from an earth saturating numerical shower. You ever been impaled by a two?

* figure based on data published somewhere by someone about something

Us lot

What are people left with, well we’re all in debt so we’re all at the mercy of banks which are at the mercy of their stocks which is at the mercy of the stock market, so maybe if we all got bigger loans and bought cheapo stock the stock would eventually rise up, we could pay the banks our debts back the banks would have capital and we’d be back to square one. Other than a pigeon dish with replaced hips n mushy bees, I got nothing.

World economies

Everyplace has one, even Zimbabwe and Iceland, just. Some are not very good ones, Lau Island for instance supports itself by rudimentary genetic altering native cat populations to create a diverse and unique species of endangered bird-mogs that tourists flock to see and shoot with mouse bullets.

Off the books

When you’re young and your dad tells you about the black market, you think, that’s magitastical! Thing is you can’t really get there cos it doesn’t exist. I assumed it would be a dodgy wonderland of deals and great great things beyond the realms of conceivable greatness. The reality’s, a bunch of scalls trying to palm off soiled Calvin Klein jeans in the pub which leaves you less in awe, more intimidated and poor.

Betty boobs

The depression was for one person at least an idealistic tale of wonderment. People riding on trains to get work, everybody on the same level, poor but singing songs and working the land in collective vision. The 20’s so I’m reliably informed was a tad tougher. Starvation, desperation, unrest, apathy while clinging onto awful work at disgraceful pay just to survive. So if it ever happens again we should probably not really think of the latter much, just get some angst ridden dystopian lyrics scribbled down, and that Nigerian tour. Y’know getting paid in uranium isn’t so bad.

Cracking

The economy isn't even funny, never has a joke, doesn't just move everything up one on Thursday for a laugh. Doesn’t even make its numbers into a pattern that can be read backwards revealing inescapable crudity for shits and gigs, not once. It's so serious; it needs a funny hat.

Did you hear?

So stuff the weather for mundane generalised conversational bile. I could have never have envisaged the day Doris lent over.
“Ow y’know that economic slowdown, isn’t it awful?”
“It is, it is. Just last week the Nikkei slumped! To a low. Not since Bernard was alive has it bin so bad.”
“I tell you last week I was picking up my suppositories which have gone up and I saw Mavis. She said it wasn’t the same as last time it crashed. I asked her how? She said they didn’t have those pyramid bags then. She said that she can relax more with those, it’s so true.”

“Bit gloomy today?”

royalty

2009-01-09T03:12:00.000-08:00

How do you do…

Royalty

Fuck the Osbournes

The Royal Family. There’s not another family in the entire world that people have such vehement opinions of.

“An outdated middle aged institution that takes tax payers money and swans around the mah, mah, mah.”

“Isn’t it marvelous the way she serves our country and unites the Commonwealth, such a shining moral example to mahhhhhh.”

Ok, now look at it differently though. If you were a member of the Royal Family. Firstly, through no choice, you’re Royalty, like it or hump it you could have been born Edvard Chebanaza, ant number 12 or a ginger pube, but no you’re HRH and to not behead yourself shows an incredible tolerance. To be on show to the world’s media when you’re anywhere. To have red-breasted bear-skinned hat-toting soldiers swanning round you. To have formality thrust into your psyche. To wear mega crowns. To be unable to live a normal life. To live in Palaces and Castles with massive fuck off cannons.

Queeny

She’s proper old, her husband calls her “cabbage.” She wears head to handbag to slip-ons in matching colours. She has questionable taste in dogs, four Dorgi’s, yes Dorgi’s. She bets a tenner on the horses. More private and enigmatic than Guantanamo Bay’s health spa . She’s as harmless as an armless Tony Blair, actually no he’s probably still quite dangerous considering that UN war keeping envoy role.

Posh Music?

God save the Queen, a fascist regime. In the root psychology of fascism I don’t suddenly picture a little old lady with no real power.
God save the Queen, she ain’t no human being. No a reptilian humanoid alien, extolling mystical car-crasher powers.
God save the queen, tourists are money. I have to agree with this one, they’re money, everyone hates them. Why does anyone even travel anywhere if this is so apparent? People will take advantage of you, despise you and wish you were never there.
God save history, God save your mad parade. It’s barmy and laughable and pompous, but worthy of further amusement no?

Although…

O Lord, our God, arise,
Scatter her enemies,
And make them fall.
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On Thee our hopes we fix,
God save us all.

The official version is downright merciless. We sound like brutes, Russian brutes, Russian God loving brutes.

Change the record

Prince Philip

Jim Davidson pah, Bernard Manning keep rotting, Prince Phillip is the funniest racist, bigot I’ve ever heard. The things he says have such comic brilliance he should be out of the palace and onto the pub stage. To be an ambassador to our country and actively insult it’s “servants” takes swollen gall and a malignant sense of humiliation. Him and President Bush must be having a word war. “Everybody was saying we must have more leisure. Now they are complaining they are unemployed.” (During the 1981 recession) “Deaf? If you are near there, no wonder you are deaf.” (To young deaf people sitting close to a steel band) “If it has got four legs and it is not a chair, if it has got two wings and it flies but is not an aeroplane, and if it swims and it is not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it.” (At a 1986 World Wildlife Fund meeting)

He also said to Tom Jones after the Royal Variety Performance: "What do you gargle with, pebbles?”

Rest of them

Princess Anne’s an Olympic horse mad criminal with two offences, whom the film Patriot Games was based on. She can be called among many things Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. Prince Andrew is a Royal International Arms Dealer. Managing to scoop 11 out of 13 countries currently engaged in conflict. Go Britain. Edward is one of those people you avoid because he’s too stupid; he’s drunk, high, gorging and infatuated with dimness. Don’t look for too long you might forget how to not look. And his wife Sophie was about as good at public relations as Chemical Ali was at not using chemicals.

William looks less like “dishy Wills” anymore and daily more like a cheese stuffed parrot chewing a bag of teeth. Charles is more into the countryside than the actual countryside is. Camilla makes me think Charles is accompanied by a scared, over-frothed cappuccino.

And Harry should have his own strip in the Beano. Harry the Menace. He’s grown up and well, gone a bit fascist. Harry like the Beano writers regretfully ponder to themselves alone wiping tears with white washed wank mags thinking “it seemed funny at the time.”

Diana

She did lots of things that helped the Royal Family become more up to date. How does fannying around, crying lots, marrying a jug eared mumbler, fucking Will Carling, filling up my TV with “portraits” of herself, getting mangled and making me miss a weeks television whilst praying for the death of a major song writing artist, help anything?

Picture on the paper

Anyway who else would go on our money, a pigeon, a hoodie, an androgynous multi ethnic human who hovers equidistant from all commonwealth countries, Gordon Brown, Jamie twatty Oliver, Simon bloody Cowell, two names that legally need an expletive inserted into them to ease public unrest. How about the entire cast of a drunk and drugged Pigeon Street, in a Ménage à dix-neuf with the overwhelmed cast of The Bill in Milton Keynes’ Chinese pagoda park. That’s not an image, that’s a movie.

I, like few others take comfort in a “pensioner” on my notes. It raises a polemic within myself. Shall I save my money like my Gran; oh look my wrinkly note is telling me “It is thrifty to prepare today for the wants of tomorrow.” Aw but wait a minute she’s wearing a bloody great crown of jewels, I need to spend these wealth bills. In a bid to find the answer I try and decipher the Latin with some Di Vinci Code model of scholarly effort eventually resorting to folding up my note to make the Queen’s face into a graphic depiction of the 7/7 bombings, using a Queen eyebrow as a tube train carriage. This doesn’t help buy Crunchies.

Cost

Liz don’t need so many homes, I mean she doesn’t do much other than travelling around the commonwealth and cutting ribbons. She should be moved into a travel lodge. Flexibility and free tea and coffee. Pensioner heaven.

It’s like those crowns, she don’t need all of those hats. She has a whole building, for hats and one head. Fred Dibner, the Earl of Derby, Slash and Top Cat couldn’t fill a corridor in this horde to magpies. Give one each to every country we brutally took over, pillaged resources from and abused the good nature of the peoples, and the rest, Wednesday night’s rollover jackpot.

World-class divinity

There's 21 Royal families in the world, if we got rid of the British Family, you know it wouldn’t be divisible by 7. Take the Thai Royal Family they are adored by millions, desiring them to divinely rule over them, huh. Divine rule. The Laotian Royal Family got sent to “Camp Re-education” in 1975, where quite peculiarly they died there. The Shah Dynasty of Nepal was cursed at its inception to rule for only ten kings and cease, and in 2008 it’s tenth king was the last. The Greek Royal family live in pigging London.

I’d be scared

Royalists

Why are they always old, obsessive, blue rinsed and a drop of sherry in that Earl Gray, bourbon, Grans? Ladies that are simlpy orf, orf, orf machines. Lord Dubious of Unmentionable Fraudhire. And Nicholas Witchell

Past Kings n Queens

Vicious, vile, evil, cruel, crazy, megalomaniacs, fascists.

Bloodlines

D’you know who you descended from, no. No you don’t, your probably not Anglo Saxon, you’re probably more diluted that BBC 3’s one minute bulletin, cut short to show edited highlights of, ‘You are not an indigenous creature, Unleashed”

The Royal Family are no different: there’s German, French, Scottish, Russian, Spanish, Danish, and Belgium in there; and they’re only the one’s they admit to. But every so often there was probably a ginger Harry that was brushed into the blood punch. No one in Britain is pure, true and only British. As soon as the British population realise that and consider our stiff upper lip might be derided from our biting climate of negativity. Then we can see the Royal Family doesn’t stand for much, if anything. So look less in terms of, ours is theirs and more, they, are, ours.

So for £40m or 66p each taxpayer, a year they are yours; a surreal, historic, and completely ridiculous Royal Family, c’mon 66p, you can’t even buy a King size sausage roll for that.

baldness

2008-12-28T23:04:00.000-08:00

How do you do…

BALDNESS

Worry

So you’ve noticed you’ve been showering on a bed of finest follicles lately. Also your hair doesn’t seem, well, there! I think you’re going bald, oh, what, Shit! Shit yeah, boy, girl you’ve reached an important milestone in your life, and that milestone is slowly gathering concern and hair and wondering why someone chose it as a milestone instead of just a regular, common in garden rock.

But don’t worry, this is the 21st century not no 20th anymore matey, and if this guide won’t help you, I’ll eat your hat.

I do prefer pork pies.

Q&A (Conducted in an inner city pub)

I noticed you are, “a bald.”
What?!

Can I ask you some questions about your affliction?
No.

Why does baldness exist, I mean, why?
I dunno, because it does. Why you asking me?

Why does it happen at the top, not, round the sides?
It’d look a lot less funny otherwise, fuck knows?

Do you have a contact for Mr Fuck?
Huh?

Why, why does it happen more for men?
Periods. C’mon your one wid Degree in O-Levels.

So why does baldness affect the skull, an essentially desirable area not say, baldness of the ball sack or bum baldness?
Do I look like the type of person that’ll take you asking me these questions? Keep this up n I’ll skin yer. Student

Why, why, Y! Is there no cure for it considering its relative abundance and visual dominance, why is it considered a mockery, why, why?
Questions, bleeding questions. Do you want to die?

I am going to die but I don’t necessarily want to. Do balds want to, more than say Sparrows?
Just piss off!

SUBJECT A

I have a friend; let’s call him Desmond. See, Desmond was a rather unfortunate child, he was born in an area called Liver Pool, and therefore adopted its simply beautiful tongue. Desmond although unfortunate in geographical riches did posses gameful efforts at social interaction. Drawing comics of his classmates and talking at vigorous speeds, nervous, that they’ll never give him another moment of contact. Yet his enthusiasm and willingness was considered peculiar and he was mercilessly avoided by all girls and most boys. To combat these issues and be atone to Daniel LaRusso's heights he joined Karate classes. This helped alleviate some social pressures but may have aided to his baldheadedness at just 15.

To complicate matters Desmond had a large, some would say, bulbous head. Faced with the genetic swollen peculiarity of middle age in a swamp of fresh sprouting doos. Desmond retreated into the comfort of his comics while developing a peculiar gait for a certain demographic of ostrisised female.

Desmond still survives today, he didn’t murder or rape no one, but is understandably single. Yet he serves as a lesson to us all. Quite what that lesson is, is another story, almost certainly about a girl called Mergatroid Swampslit.

Receding ungracefully

People like Jack Nicholson, you like Jack Nicholson? You’ll be hard pressed to find anyone who doesn’t like Jack Nicholson, he’s Jack Nicholson. See Jack Nicholson, he’s receding in such a cool way even some men with hair want his baldness. It accentuates a gravitas, an unquantifiable intriguing cool.

He is the only one. Everyone else in the world pretty much looks aged, alarming or ridiculous. For example when you’re in an audience and someone in front of you is going bald, you get this inexplicable curiosity to understand it. It’s as though he is the only person lacking hair, ever. By the end you could give a better description of his follicle coverage than of the youthful event you paid 30 odd quid to see. But why are “they” so curious?

Male pattern balding is a misnomer of sorts. Scientifically it traditionally originates at the crown and temples and thusly spreads back until the Shakespeare moment. But not all men’s hair does it, just like that. Some leave little kiddy wisps. Others get a Steve McDonald, some slowly go back so that you’re just one big forehead iceberg tempting more and more drunk twats to slap it, chanting. “Ha, ha, ha, slaaap heeeaaaad.” In apparent hilarity.

Genetic maladjustment

See my own genetics are against me. I don’t have history of cancer or nowt grim like that. But there’s a bald, fat, theme running a muck. With probably some argued sense of alcoholism and misplaced delusion of amusement thrown in for good measure.

Saying that, what would people trade off if they had the chance? I’d personally be willing to lose a left hand or gain coupla-webbed feet to keep my hair. Maybe even have a series of gills and a beak, I mean, aren’t they more useful that demeaning? But just not my hair. I like my hair. Ok, You can have my arse, one ball and the regulated use of my left eye.

What the fuck am I talking about, who’s YOU? Some giant compost limb thing with miracle grow phlegm assessing each and everyone’s rights, yes?

Muhah ah ahhhhh

Lex Luther, Ming, Dr Robotnik, Dr Evil, Pinhead, Dr X Dr Frankenstein, Voldemort, and Professor Xavier, all bald, all preperposed to evil. But how evil are bald men. Very. A recent poll by ‘What? Bald’ concluded that in actual fact 87% percent of bald people are predisposed or have committed evil acts and are likely to cataclysmically affect world order if there was a gay looking, cape wearing super thing in the vicinity with similar urges to thwart 'em.

The other 13% thought that claim was ludicrous although incidentally noted all were preceeded by a flock of vampire monkeys.

Wigga

"There will be no good wigs in the world." I know Andy Warhol put that into his will. Wigs are for individuals getting that desperate to have hair, you, look, stupid. Ok, ok there might be places with cosmeticists and doctors who can effortlessly remove what little warmth and beauty a poverty ravaged Eastern European can naturally acquire. Then stick and sew it onto the scalp of someone who can’t tell Europe from a Wotsit.

So what, he can afford it you might be thinking. Unless the client moves away, people might question the legitimacy of Randy’s thick flowing lion’s mane sporting a pretty Chechnyan bow. Maybe Randy’s just that kind of strong backboned, deeply self-conscious man who could ride the jokes about his women’s hair, those trout’s lips and that spanking set of bull’s balls, because he’s above all of that. That newly transplanted horse cock helps.

Worldwide

I don’t know about baldness ratios, hold on, Europeans are more prone to hair-loss. The Chinese and Japanese are the least affected yet right jammed in the middle is the Koreans, a nation of hideously thin hair. On the back of a crowded subway, on a good day you can see right through to the depressed, decidedly thinning driver.

People say we’re getting these mutations from our lifestyle, our diet of artificial chemicals and drugs. I say, probably, but if you want to live in a mud hut I’ll happily watch a five minute satirical mockumentary about you on my HD TV drinking distilled rum while an enhanced beauty lies naked goading me to snort chemically strained coca off their chest. But just before I bend my nostril I’d start to think if the world might have gone a different way if we generally avoided fucking with all our natural environment so much I wouldn’t be doing this, then laugh due to the naturally cultivated joint in my hand.

Shaven haven

What have Bruce Willis and Ross Kemp got in common? In real life they’re Anti Moby transvestites. True. Andre Aggassi, Patrick Stewart and Michael Jordan all (despite doctors recommendations) excessively indulge in anal skull penetration with barnyard animals.

There’s one other slight gaping void chasm of separation between ordinary people and us. They don’t have to worry about being attractive, having partners, dealing with the day-to-day problems of balding, living, shopping and catching up on all those mould universes in their dank homes. They’re celebrities, they’re rich, and they’re famous so what if they’re balding. Saying they’re inspiring examples to other people is a literal example of haze surrounding a smoke screen of blindness in the dark while watching the 80’s film The Fog.

“Brody the bear inspired me to achieve success. Making me understand that all I have to do is stand up on my hind legs and growl to be on the cover of National Geographic. I’ve quit the Genetic Science and now choose to roam Epping Forest, naked with a hunger for exposure.”

WOMEN bald

Women and hair never can be separated, but when it is… There’s this, mine field of closed lip time bombs, all screaming don’t even go there girlfriend, don’t even, of pure avoidance. I have never heard one single woman ever on anything anywhere express anything in regards to themselves or other women going bald. It’s where taboo originated.

“Ta Boo for not mentioning nothing about nothing going nowhere just then”
“S’aw reet pet I didn’t even see a single thing except what should naturally be there, which I definitely did see.“

Ambassador google ga ga

That’s life. And what a fuck of an insult that is. It’s like going up to a hyper cripple spastic, cancer filled offspring of Mick Hucknall and saying, that’s life, get on with it weepo. But some people will look good bald, others won’t, some people should be glad they had it for so long others will no doubt erect dartboards and religiously aim for Russell Brand’s crows feet. Other people need to invest in either a suitable range of hats, sprays, creams, or get a large loan for elephant sunglasses. Regardless the world will keep turning, people will keep living and babies‘ll keep being bald ugly bastards.

a poo

2008-11-30T02:59:00.000-08:00

how do you do…

A POO

Shh, it’s in our blood

Being of good ol’ British stock, apparently we’re supposed to have an utterly hilarious addiction to fecal matter and urine. Listen to any of the musician’s Eddie Shit albums: Complete Shit, Utter Shit and Complete and Utter Shit (Greatest Shits) for a start, and possibly an end.

I mean this doesn’t disprove it, Mozart wrote a piece called "Lech mich im arsch" translated, lick me in the arse. So to say we are exclusive and that the whole world never mentions when someone farts at a particular emotional scene in Gone With the Wind is a bold cheeked lie. They should extend that statement.

“There’s only four things in life that are certain, birth, bum sick, a peculiar piss and taking the piss out of that shit.”

Cos taxes can be avoided if you say you’re dead in which case you can avoid that whole death thing too.

To digress further there was one person so devoid of creative inspiration and equally absorbed with himself he photographed his every poo for six months and exhibited it for his degree show. By all accounts he was happy with it but by similar surveying, it stank. Saying that, his wasn’t the worst. The worst was this jobsworth who made characters out of bits of twigs, plaggy bags and household cutlery, which were her ‘creatures of nature.’ Sadly my work wasn’t next to either.

The Holy golden brownies

Mexicans, bronze teeth, bottle openers, diamonds, tailored suits, the drink sec-sec, Dear Miriam n Toucans are all perfect. But technically a healthy bowel movement must be eighteen inches long (for an adult,) one solid piece, light golden brown in color, one inch in diameter, odorless and floats in the toilet basin. Anything other than that is unhealthy. Broken apart, hard, dark, odor, large or loose stools are the indication of putritfication and constipation and thus the beginning of poor health, which will lead to severe back up or clog resulting in the condition “talking shit.”

Point is:
“Golden brown, texture like sun” = damn lucky
“Went out into the world on a Red dirt road” = lacking even basic preservational skills, nurse? Mum!

Wipeout

When we were potty trained we were given a bowl and told to “go on then.” Then we were wiped over and over and over. This continued until one day we were told, out the blue, before Postman Pat started, to do it your bloody self.

I don’t know about you but I was never schooled in the technique, took no courses, got no tips, I mean, no-one even talks about it. It’s the conversational antithesis of sex. But there’s some anonymous information available on your local superhighway.

So how best do you do it?
(feedback would be fucking stupid, so go on then)

1. Put two tp (toilet paper not tea spoons) squares between your index and thumb and pinch your bumhole with them (from the front). Whereas "wiping" motions spread the feaces out, the pinch should not.
TIP: lick the fingers first. It'll hold better.

2. The street sweeper method. Rotate the paper the opposite direction of travel (up and out) and you won't spread cling-ons.

3. Pinch it off by clenching the bumcheeks.

4. Use babies odorless wet ones and you only need one.

5. Thunder Bum brush. After dumping give one good wipe with tp then waddle to the sink for the finishing brushing. Use a soft bristled toothbrush with warm water and liquid soap. Gently scrub your pucker then finish with a washcloth dampened with warm water.

By the way I hope never to stay over at number 6’s house, bet their arse is gleaming though. The saying “he’s a bit anal“ can be taken three ways with that one.

Act 1 Scene 3 dump 6?

Depending on age, height, size and how many 1.98 roast dinners consumed; 5 –30 minutes of your day you’ll sit wishing for everything to end smoothly yet fearing a possible hemorrhoid hemorrhage. You’ll squeeze, strain, pant, sweat, wee a bit, and curse the lack of distractional literature available. Staring a the same 7 cm tile with a crack in it and a pattern that doesn’t quite match, hypothesizing the idiocy of the tiler’s primary understanding of a tiled themed style. All while assessing the size and stature of each gravy sausage and just what ‘s left in the magic box. Two minutes later, you think it’s over, you squeeze, and it is. Then stand up, oh it’s not, and settle with the knowledge that needless wiping was avoided, this time.

Days have been lost to the needless wipe. Yet we’re destined to repeat history, but why? Because our bodies are against us. Like that lovely chicken you had last week, it cost nothing and you got loads and it tasted like genetically moist virginal athletic perfection. Yet 12 minutes later your body decides you don’t deserve the fruition and prefer to assign you fever, total regret and advanced tiling psychology.

Dribble, dribble

Runs down your leg like a scrambled egg,
Di-o-re-ah, cha-cha-cha,
Di-o-re-ah, cha-cha-cha is the worst and best of all poos. When you catch it, metaphorically speaking, and safety release the relief is comparable to 37 Oscar wins, that’s why most Oscar nominees seem acutely constipated. But if you're sliding into two and your pants are filled with goo
Di-o-re-ah, agh-agh-agh! Your bodies self esteem checker decided those tight red jeans aren’t for this body matey. So it decides to just keep those feet on the ground, sloshing with shit in an unrelenting soundtrack of friend glee.

O Shit!

Indiana Jones in The Temple of Doom featured Indy courageously reaching his hand through insect infested holes to rescue his maiden. Never to be known until practice. Unblocking a toilet is worse. Having to reach through the deposits of your flatmates hole and smeared toilet paper to grab, not like Indy a lever, the biggest turd worm you can make without even a hint of sex deserves a cameo.

The slosh bogger

Public toilets are utterly yechhy. The day they all opened in 1943 some mind-boggler did a browntone Jackson Pollock and they've never seen Jif Or Cif since. They should be renamed by the British toilet association into National Heritage sites. So archeologists in radiation suits can trace our modern human stagnation. I must have been in the toilet when the whole of the nation were informed that anything that has the word ‘public’ attached to it or that is outdoors you can begrime.
I feel for the gay community (well I don't feeel for the gay community) I feel for the gay community having their only safe place to cottage being the dirtiest places in the whole country. Personally I'd leave a note with my address and embellished drawings of my bits on if I wanted to shag that badly.

Tp, Tp? T P !

Toilet paper. It's a rip but we do need it. Or do we? Here is
a list of items and methods that can be used that circumvent a lack of that pricey perforated poo paper.

Bill Gates’ choice, spare money. Not economical but if you’re loaded and they’re crisp, ohhhh sex-u-al-lay.

The bog roll roll, hard times and the site of a fingernail of viewable paper makes this harsh but reliable “fag-butt rollie” moment.

Newspaper, some cheap places actually do use this, great forbumming and catching up on the financial crisis via your partners cheap choice in public drinking establishment.

Leaves. Hey, way back they were all leafing it. Upside, you feel a bit natural, downside every plant that is in a bathroom has leaves so shiny you end up making a coupla burnished poo chairs.

Your own hair, wait there are people who you see and you think, yo my dear can wipe your arse with that, now think, exactly, you probably would have tried it, c’mon it’s not cos they think they look good.

Hands in bum scooping out poo. Sometimes maybe when the toilet roll has broken; you've plucked the plant to a stick, you’re too cheap to buy newspapers and last night you grated your rear against the grey roll till it was bloodier than an entire lady bin. Then, only then, should you start peeling off the wallpaper, you dirt bag.

Life after poo

You might want to imagine your partner deposits tiny dried perfumed pellets in the few months of harmonious honeymooning. the last, LAST thing you think about is “ have they just done a big poo?” Although in some intercoursical perversions this might be the first thing that floats through your mind, swiftly followed by “have I, yet?”

Why can’t we cast poo off? Because evolution doesn’t care n it only happens say once a day, it’s not that important to evolve from. Plus that ancient genome to produce something to mark your territory and get rid of those bits a mammoth you really shouldn’t have had is still in one way useful. The sad reality is nowadays our territory isn’t so important to mark and thus has been superseded by a little thing called, the front door key.

If only we’d have evolved and kept our primates inclinations to chuck their own poo. What a more, honest, shocking and dirty place life would be.

truth

2008-11-08T21:43:00.000-08:00

how do you do…

TRUTH

Does it exist?

Do penny cola bottles exist? Well they don’t they’re like 5p now but the principle is the same-ish. The truth is very much representative of whether you believe anything exists, if you think this breathing lark is a labour intensive delusion/illusion of a fallacy of institutions and collusions, forget this whole truth and book an appointment with The Man, you two need to talk.

Is it important? Not if your friends are sexually shaped sticks and you’re fishing in sewers for recycled meals. If you choose less rural living
It kinda does matter.

Listen!

Can you hear the truth…?

Concentrate, really focus your lobes and you can pick out the actual sound of truth. “Balalalabap bap wam Boo! BA bap Boo! BA wooooooOOOOO!”
Don’t dare question me, that’s what an actual scientist called “science...”
To, probably accidently two milliseconds later conclude this word with “…fiction”

Lies on the other hand (the right hand) are the vocal equivalent of Cambodia’s entire mosquito population realising that the sweaty, swollen, Michael Moore’s in town and he’s after the gritty “reality” of that there region.

Does this help, yes and no,

Mainly no.

Denial

"I think we have sufficiently talked about this matter and these Holocaust events need to be further investigated by independent and impartial parties. We say that if the Holocaust happened, then the Europeans must accept the consequences and the price should not be paid by Palestine. If it did not happen, then the Jews must return to where they came from." - Yeah damn right Mahmoud n frogs lay deckchairs, hair is concrete spaghetti shadows, n food isn’t food it’s fascism. Ahmadinejad, Ah hmmm.

Mothers and lies

Love Mums but realise they were conniving cunts to us:

Don’t drink all that, you’ll burst.
You have to eat all your vegetables or you’ll never grow up.
If the wind changes, you’ll stay like that.
Don’t cross the road, you’ll get killed.
If you go off the end of the street, you’ll get kidnapped.
Don’t swallow that, it’ll grow a tree in your belly.
I’ll only be a minute.
Don’t look at the TV for too long or your eyes’ll go square.
It won’t hurt.
It’s for the good of your health.

There’s protection and then there’s fanatical supremacy. That’s even before they took you to Sunday school.

Everyone’s entitled to this opinion

Religion, can I just say this subject is one dump of arduous, irrational persistence spanned out over thousands of years to insure conformity, I can, I said it. Santa Claus is dead real though.

True lies

You thought Arnie n your Mum were shysters, c’mon he is. There’s these people, old women who circumnavigate the globe with the sole intention of propergating twoddle. They’re mystical you see, because no one ever remembers seeing or speaking to these “old wives” although we always remember their tales. Some tales are inside you now:

Goldfish have a memory of only three seconds
More like a few months, but what the frig do they have to remember.

Lemmings engage in suicidal dives off cliffs when migrating.
A lie made by Old Disney Wives.

Astronauts in orbiting spacecraft experience true "zero gravity".
It’s a simulation of zero gravity, actually.

You should not tattoo the name of your lover on your skin, or the relationship is destined to fail.
Cos you’re a twat who tattooed names on you.

Dont swallow chewing gum as it takes seven years to pass through your system.
Bollocks.

Evolution is a progression from "lower" to "higher", and evolution requires an increase in complexity.
Nope, we can actually become more stupid.

People do not use only ten percent of their brains.
This is only true of scallies and hicks

Thomas Crapper did not invent the flush toilet, Thomas Edison did not invent the light bulb, and Henry Ford did not invent the automobile.
Nope, all me.

Which truth?

Sodding papers, the whole bleeding media, bastard institutions, damn people, forsaken ideologies. Farming the best crop out of needless weeds is, shall we say? An uphill plow.

If “the truth” that you are reading comes under the heading The Daily Mail, treat that as the biggest fucking clue for a lie. If you’re forever reading between lines then I think you’re in need of a newspaper comprised entirely out of blank paper or a new set of eyes or moving away from Cardiff. It isn’t good for you; lies and Cardiff. I mean, neither offer much; one actually takes off human worth.

Statistically the media has 0.002% credibility and is always serving an agenda or protecting its own back. It’s largely less factual than a mute nursery school rendition of Hamlet, in the dark, in Iraq, after a so-called successful allied bombing.

When it comes to institutions, treat them with as much suspicion as a supreme duck with lobster goujons sandwich at LIDL. About the only things you can trust is libraries, but even then they seem to be purchasing copious amounts of Midsummer Murders DVDs while forgetting Beat literature, presumably so we can abstractly relate to the realities of knife crime while forgetting the traumatic causes.

Ideology wise we’re all confused with which will offer the best, which’ll betray us and why bother, I don’t like socialism, now fuck off. Why do socialists open discourse with. “Well Marx talked about that.”
If Marx knew a Che Guevara wearing prick was misquoting him, he’d probably get Engels and Durkheim to beard whip the pleb until his blotchy face resembled his ill-fitted t-shirt’s colouring.

Even your mates lie. Girlfriends, boyfriends, everyfriends, exaggerate, falsify, and lie to, well, make things more interesting than they, in reality, are. Everyone has a history that is malformed, edited to sound that bit more exciting and justifiable than:
“For 23 years I’ve been waiting for my life to be vastly more exciting, whilst getting more lost in a world of insecurities of a collectivised making. Counting days down to something that’ll never happen because I don’t even possess the natural backbone to murder myself.”

“Ba-don chish”

Thy Truth will out

History has taught us many things. But who’s right when nearly all of it is mistaken lies and an active perpetuation of bullshit. Leaving 3% of what humans have done throughout history has actually benefited you and me. It’s the textbook myth pulped into ‘truth’ amended into world framework. Convincing the masses, dragging the minorities, with whatever their justified judgements are, into a continuation of a fallacy. So to the masses, the factualites become vilified idiots and conspiracy theorists and absolutely, absolutely, not our saviours, that’s for God, of course.

How can I find it?

Can you believe the facts? What are facts, who vets facts? No committee actually says whether facts are facts.

Chances are you now won’t believe anyone truly. Chances are you have doubts in just about every source of entertainment, circles and sources you care to dive from. And this is the deal, yes there’s a fucking deal. The deal is you believe whatever you think is right. If you’re confused and a bit one sided you’ll believe whichever soothsayer tells you to get a CB radio and talk to amorous sailors.

No belief is right; having nouse to distinguish truth from lies spun is critical. Don’t think the truth is even here, don’t think it’s anywhere; our whole existence is Hearsay, pure and simple.

I hope all the members of the Popstars band Hearsay who released the single Pure and Simple were harmed in the writing of this, no confirmed kills so far although reports suggest Danny is slowly dying inside.

nightmares

2008-10-23T06:55:00.000-07:00

how do you do…

NIGHTMARES

Sick of fucking sheep?

Want a nocturnal lady horse

Scared?

The face oh the face, it’s still there!

When Crimewatch’s Nick Ross used to say. “Don’t have nightmares, please, do sleep well.” Did you ever feel an choking air of disengeniousness? He said those words with such an unbelievably smug mug I used to think that the whole show was an elaborate put-up job to mask Nick Ross’ brutal and barbaric crime orgy. Show me a serious fuckload of hideous attacks, give me a series of disproportioned criminal identikit photos, then, THEN tell me they’re at large and are highly dangerous, should not be approached and may not even look especially like that photo we just shown you. Essentially telling a boy of ten everyone in the whole country is a grievous gunman and a roaming grievous gunman at that. I remember seeing horror films at that age and being indifferent to the lot of them. Then sitting down to Crimewatch and fearing I’ll never get to use my willy proper cos some crim‘ll cut it off when I accidentally cut him off on my BMX while he’s on the way to disembowel Neil Matimow for calling him a “divvy” and generally being a divvy, cos he was.

So every Wednesday I used to go to my cold, dark, slide mirror wardrobed bedroom overlooking an easily assessable backyard with patchy lighting, wooden windows, with inadequate locks, in an area that sat on top of the worst neighbourhood in my world. Coupled by situational fear in a house of creaks so varied and ambiguous, it hurt. Yet eventually, eventually I started to drift into normality e.g. A Mr Soft marshmallow like world of my invention, but wait, what was that, oh, oh my, aghhhhhhh! Then I’d run, and keep pegging it for 7 hours of sleep. To confound it all, I awoke to a fog horn shriek of “Quick, qwwwick get up!” by my always understanding mum.

The Nightmare Of Peace And Prosperity Is Finally Over

“I think war is a dangerous place.” The World needs to participate in US elections for this sole reason. When George W stepped onto the White House lawn, most of this watching world felt due embarrassment for a nation controlled by ‘that’ for four years. After an illustrious nightmare period of shod ridden, dangerous, fear-mongering and overall befuddlement "This foreign policy stuff is a little frustrating." Requiring world leaders to hurriedly read up on ‘ Taking care of your specialties’ we globally thought, “Alright, but it’s only 6 months left, right?” Then he got voted in again! Then the world went “Do’h!” That’s one of the reasons everyone hates most Americans, there are others but being a nation of self-mutilating sadists isn’t a recipe for getting the thumbs up, maybe the fingers up.

Despite this, local nightmares come through your door slits almost weekly: Bills, warrants for court appearances, and demands for bailiffs, overdue rent, credit card statements, and Christian missionary newsletters. The thing is, your home isn’t even safe, and you think you have a safe home. Ohhh Forrest, Oxfam, Jehovah, debt collectors, grieved neighbours, persistent acquaintances, the police, salesmen, other peoples friends that you hate, all make you lower your drawbridge for nightmarish discourse that if you weren’t passive would result in a marked increase of doorstep related attacks involving coned, kebab stained phonebooks.

Arghhhh! Work

My granddad used to love work, no he did, ‘bout the only thing he’d ever talk about, that and “the pools” oh THE POOLS. I remember our local shopkeeper Ali Kahn, he was right old, he started decomposing but seemed to love work so much he’d open everyday just to see our bright little faces steal sweets from his milky eyed vision. Counting every cola bottle in some deep mystical murmur “bli, bli-bli-bli-bli, bli-bli bli, bli.“

Now, no-one normal loves work. Everyone’s tired and arsey and stressed. The only exceptions are: people who magically land their ideal job most of the time achieved through sod all effort, stupid people in jobs where they talk to people or get experimented on for money, Porn moderaters, people who make a living from posting stupid- not in a “ohhh ha ha, that’s so stupid,” no stupid you tube videos, minimalist artists, Smug-head Branson and Huge fringe benefits Hefner.

For 99% of you not living in dreamworks and for those who work in Dreamworks™. Work turns dark, ghoulish even, backstabbing, with targets, cost cutting, disciplinary hearings, ethics and always, always, cut backs. You can’t walk into a job nowadays without assessing the level of anal hemorrhage you could potentially incur. Can’t we all just, buy and demand a bit less and just maybe then we can all slouch out waiting for our flexi time TV’s to warm up. Instead of playing yes sir, yes sir, three files done, which cubicle today sir? Oh the left.

That’s your arm?

One day soon, but one day, might be today you’ll look down and realise you harbor some abnormally foul part of you that has somehow grown over a period of months or years into what’s gaping, wrinkling, postulating out of seemingly average surroundings. But wait, your surroundings are starting to look more like:
1. Desert like aridity or 2. Flood like swelling. What has happened?

Physicality has a strange way of essentially growing awkwardly and uneven, changing until you’re sick of changing, then more changing until it plateaus around your mid twenties. You arrive, you’re finally comfortable, pleasing even, you feel there. As soon as you’ve realised it, Bam, your body stops looking good, you falter, you start looking tired and start having to hide more and more. You start living in a misanthropic nightmare of your true self-escaping from this cleverly constructed mirage. So you keep changing to stay ahead till eventually you wake up hoping, praying to look even faintly like Bernard Manning’s testes and you don’t even come close.

Ghastly tidings

So the best way in the 21st century to have nightmares is the thing you’re doing right bleeding now. Living is the number one cause of nightmares. So, to get the worst out of your brain’s sense of lurid greed, get a job in sales; some sort that involves lying to victims of say, domestic abuse. Don’t shy away, find out their awful details then make sure they’re left without heating in December because of some small print about differing payments not allowed, that you wrote in biro when they weren’t looking. Don’t stop there; start burning dogs near libraries, if they find you, say Mohammad told you to. Gizz in the street on expectant mums, with the reason “I just can’t wait till he pops out.” Take regular shits under the floorboards of houses “I’m interested in.” Flick people who are paralysed, “to check.”
If that doesn’t work get a job as a hole specialist and really work it. Become so full of cum it’s dribbling out your ears, then go to sleep. Worked for Barrymore. So it must be “Alwight at the back.”

shops

2008-09-23T06:48:00.000-07:00

How do you do…

the shops

Don’t come again

Everyone’s been to the shops, hold on, everyone’s been to the shops that isn’t currently the unfortunate offspring of Michael Jackson’s fish pond. Blanket, he sees no evil, yet feels some evil, that boy is an unwilling consumer of organics.

Seven Eleven twenty four seven

Shops are like, totally everywhere! Mountains, caves, deserts, dreams, myths. On rivers, seas, ice, even underwater. Our seemingly desperate need to buy a cornetto at the North Pole with some crazed marketeer's epiphany to facilitate that perversion. Creating these often bizarrely out of placed erections in baron desolate wilderness is a needs must for us good old homos. People need purse chains.

Your Local

“Helloooow” is the daily message ousted by our local shop owner in that accented east of western of tongues. We don’t know his name, this is important. It takes a certain level of casual discourse or drunken confessional to acquire their name. 95% of the time you will forget it. You then have to be overly friendly and happy to see them so they feel no need to test your name knowledge.

They meet ten’s, hundreds, or thousands of people everyday. Your strategy is to be the next X factor not the price hike victim. This can be achieved in the use of multiple questions, although that doesn’t normally happen.
“How are you?”
“Oh fine.”
“How’s things?”
“O.k. like.”
“How you doing?”
“Same same."
“How’s tricks?”
“Incessantly repetitive if you’re asking, as you do ask daily with no concern to the answer; while you continue to purchase my out of date beer and chocolate to soon leave me with leftover stock when you clog up while watching match of the day replays.”
“Oh good, 8 pack today, champions league final”

Ask about the refrigerator's body capacity, how they get the tiles to sag on the ceiling like that, what’s they’re favourite mythical god or why oh Judas why they have such an abundance of the Daily Mail and Daily Star.

Shops are laid out for maximum showcase and minimal space in the back. For the consumer that in turn causes the early onset of neck and back injures while finding relatively nothing of what you came in for. Having to often ask the shopkeeper where salt is in a shop you frequent daily that’s only six foot by six foot is belittling for all.

Interwebbing

The internet is bum-cum fad-full hogwash. It’s gonna go tits up anyway next week when some hacker buys too many Dominoes pizzas and crashes the whole intercourse; leaving the web wired world expressing their first collective voice, that being one of “huh?”

Everyone’ll be left to just buy their books, at a bookshop. Reaquiant that painfully happy feeling of sifting through CD’s again at, you guessed it, a record shop; while expressing your inner most feelings and comments, to real people. Spare time will be spent doing crosswords or tutting and newsagents will be installing sturdy new racks to cope with the reinvigorated porn mag industry. And this will be good.

Cos you never get memories of buying something on Amazon. You’re clicking; no one cares if you’re there, no one knows if you’re there except an automated pie chart and data tally. Its beyond sterile its pissing ghost like. 3 million people at the same shop at the same time n you’re getting paranoid it’s so silent.

S,S, S, Supermarkets

These aren’t shops, their not even markets, and I have never heard anyone say “Oh that Tescos is super.” These were what countries of the world embraced for their ease and variety and years and years later realised they just shot the local shop in the foot and are still continuing to do so. Giving money to a man who uses it directly to feed his family (sounds a bit like those Ethiopia adverts) or giving it to a company that uses it for whatever the fuck they want. They’re not gonna tell you, cos well, some of it isn’t pretty and some other is downright illegal and a chunk is for some celebrities new stretch scooter.

Oh man, I’m so friggin high street right now

The high street was a term for the better, the new, and the improved area of a town. The new and more accurate term for this area is clone town. The identikit nature of shopping centres with a veritable reliance of these core shops as a status of success in more low browed estimations and a amnesiac approach to the few diverse outlets suffering from a beggars pot of marketing budget and a thoroughfare equalled to the Chernobyl railway station.

In case it passed you by this is a list of shops with no discernable justification for existence:

Gap - Just close, know one likes you

Argos - In the 80’s shopping out a magazine seemed a bit cool, here’s my code, oh sorry that item is not in stock. That’s ok you’re redundant.

The Disney shop - Did anyone even desire this thing?

Woolworths – Everyone loved growing up with it’s pick a mix n that but really, what’s the point?

The body shop – Run by those famed animal lovers L’Oreal. Ethics zilch, products pah, bye bye.

Superdrug – No super drugs, no need.

Debenhams – Fashion don’t get much worse than Debenhams. Everything is done better somewhere else. Also included with this: Select, West One, Republic and Hurley’s (although scallies DO need to be clothed).

My name’s Dumbo. I’m a Shopaholic

Shopaholics are lame people that are so desperate to be part of our addictive generation they plum for shopaholic. Going to the shops if you analysed it consists of: burning up energy, methodical sorting, stressful crowd negotiation, using up time, becoming more poor, resulting in more often than not dissatisfaction or lack of purchase. This whole buzz thing is not regular, can be enjoyable but rarely lasts that long. Plus, and this is very important plus. I can understand picking out something truly amazing, unique, and perfectly fitted. But those ‘shopoholics’ at Primark supposedly hunting for a bargain in a trout farm of bargains, to try to keep that buzz going are worse than crack whores. Wait, wait. Crack whores are pure of station, intent, need, desire and cost. Shopoholics at Primark are common, not that unique, unfulfilled and actively perpetuating slave workhouses.

Round 2 Shopoholic VS the ultimate enemy, Hippy. These creatures make their own hessian clothes, care very little about their public image. Hate washing, love growing their own everything. Fight!

Where’s hippy gone? There’s a flushed, bulging, made up mother of three getting menopausal for a size 18 green and pink new wave pair of bell bottoms left tugging against herself.

Bonkers

I always wondered as a child why adults’ keeps worrying about this thing called money. Children just swap things of equal worth and achieve a relatively deck free society. As an adult I still wonder this. Ancient tribes exchanged goods for goods, skills for craftsmanship, quantities for other more desired quantities. We operated on this basis until roughly 5000BC. Since then that controlling mechanism has exasperated our various societies until maybe now.

How about next time you go into a shop bring something you have found, made or offer your skills for say a mars bar, start low; if this works, expand. Pretty soon if all goes to plan H&M will be selling clothes, for badges. Morrisons bruised apple section will escalate to the whole shop and Vodafone will have walls covered in crochet and experimental nude portraiture. Mash potato sculptures will vie for room with crisp packet triangles. And everyone will be carrying large quantities of drag flapped paper aeroplanes. Sucess

The trueity to shops is making your whole life one long good one.

escaping

2008-09-09T03:58:00.000-07:00

How do you do…

escaping

“Heeeeeeeeeeelp!”

Gazing listlessly past thong clad page three perms, through the steel bar quartered horizon while the ammonia heavy air competes for nostril inhalation with smegma sweat. You ponder why you created such a vivid prison description when you live in a middle class semi in South Manchester. Do you empathise? Is prison a welcome escape? Questioned your sexuality? You not all there?

To escape is what we humans do throughout our lives. In countries, relationships, friends, jobs, lifestyles and dear old braino with all its pseudo logic, afflictive desires and tempting idiosyncrasies. But will we, could we, do we, want to escape?

YES

My head

What’s wrong, huh? Statistically you are or know at least one person in your friend group suffering from say, depression, personally try four. If you’re not depressed that head will assist whatever subtle quirks into becoming stigmas, afflictions concluding to full-blown mongman status. You gotta love the way the mind works.

Escaping yourself from this gluttonous sadism is no easy feat. Coercion splattered relinquishment is the best discourse without recourse. Gently giving your head more of what it likes while telling it where to stick the rest.

As a rather essential organ, don’t wangle with it too much or it might just shut off ya sense of pain.

Pack up

Firstly, if you’re going somewhere, leaving, really leaving, like proper off, defo! Don’t rabbit on about it. It’s fine to know your new geographic whereabouts. Don’t shit on about its tidal forecasts, interest rates or high speed internet connection. No-one cares, or wants to be made to feel inferior and more importantly be barefaced bored with someone’s ranting about a place they haven’t even been to yet! In brief, escape and shut the fuck up.

If you are having any trouble with the logistics, then get your mummy to help you or ask your mental health worker for the pills that turn everything into Mark Kermode shaped doilies.

Friends

Romans, countrymen; get the Jesus away from me. Solitude is a beautiful affair. Real stark isolation is electric in mind’s relish.
“Knock, KNOCK.”
Simon.
“Knock, knock knock knock, knock!” Sometimes friends operate in insidious forms, permeating serenity, blighting selective satisfaction.
“Ring Ring.”
What!
“Ring ring, ring ring.” Pained by the imagined mundanity of an evening in it’s presence. Trying to escape the regulated foghorn sophistication of it’s clichéd exploits.
“Hey, Hey Alex, Alex! I thought you didn’t see me there for a minute.”

“No I saw you, tried to avoid your eye contact, even attempted to close off my hearing, but alas Simon I can’t side step your pavement eclipsing stature, you resource depleting joy-tard.”

Escape is an insult away.

Girls and boys

What?! No, I just don’t care. What, egh? YOU wanted it. Huh? I can’t be arsed. No I didn’t use it, no, I don’t do that, NO! What you talking bout? THEY DON’T EVEN FIT UP THERE ALRIGHT! I’m going to the shop.

Marriage is a trap, of sorts. Whoever now is have an internal dialogue about the sanctuary of 21st century monogamous institutionalised commitment in the perfe... I implore, no, I am telling you you’re deaf and doomed if you keep thinking this bullshit.

While there is nothing wrong with relationships, marriage is flawed. We still possess our animalistic tendencies to have polygamous relations, we have fucked around more than in the last 40 years, and we desire more choice and difference.

Marriage isn’t up to it. Hence the gluttony of divorces, loveless marriages, and general listless expressions on families’ faces like they’ve all been sold into a life sentence at Plug Land with Toni the stud-ly happy-go-lucky. Only for post confetti to reveal Tony the belly bulging belligerent balding bully and the plug flumes closed.

Escaping is hard; an affair is a gratefully hurtful way to end it. Murder is interesting, divorce is embarrassing. If you’re that weak, dying is the steadfast option.

Relationships are easier. No it’s not you it’s me. “It’s you, I have grown to despise and loath every facet of your simplistic self” is a great opener. Conclude with some sort of lingering flatulence. Or combine…

Shit on their mum? And run.

Work it

In this whole world roughly 3 billion people work. Which if you think about it, in a population of 6.5 billion, there are more people that don’t. You, you little worker, are in a minority. So if that late postmodern revolution occurs I’d be on dollies side if you desired to remain a breather. If that don’t 'suade you let your job do that.
Just work there, keep working there. Imagine working there for another year, another five more years of flesh coloured walls and inane laughter. Imagine being like that old supervisor that everyone mocks,
yes that = you.

See, you’re out the door before you’re in.

5 FOR 1

The ultimate hedonistic getaway is upon us. Firstly pack: 200,000 quid, one of those big coat hangers they use to open car doors, five bottles of 80% vodka, a pseudonym, one Celine Dion mask and a pencil.

In a couple of years, 2010 purchase one of Branson’s Virgin Galactic seats. Just prior to peak weightlessness sharpen your pencil then float off and start articulately stabbing ponces. Coat hanger yourself into the cockpit, don both the pilots’ nifty new hats and plot a course for the international space station. Once docked distribute your vodka to the now desperately sober Russian crew. They will be over the moon and willing to title you, Caption Space. As Captain Space open World communication wearing your Celine Dion mask askew muffling the following:
“Attention Planet myopic, you are surrounded by our formidable species. We are shape shifters and for millennia’s we’ve been scrutinising you under the genius guise of your planets. Granny Moon, Great Uncle Uranus, and big Sister Sun have all been watching. For all your foolishness we demand the world’s drugs and alcohol to be sent with this list of interesting and very attractive people skyward post haste or the International space station comes to you or my names not Captain Space.”
When they respond with some slapdash aggressiveness, turn slightly to one side revealing a grotesquely stretched rubberised Celine Dion. Deep and vermontly say. “Remember, we are already near, far, wherever you are. So hurry the fuck up.”

hero

2008-08-25T08:04:00.000-07:00

How do you do...

a hero

Lance?

Sword, nunchucks??

Gamma-ray laser taser gloves in sky blue???

“GIVE ME BACK MY PANCREAS!”- Agent X

So what’s the fucking point of heroes, no really? Don’t they just act all morally highbrow saving virtues and looking like dicks albeit better dressed dicks than us? But still dicks though, bequeathed with amour or a good seamstress. Showing us up to be A typical inept-lings while they swan in (most times un-asked) and mute whatever quite entertaining cataclysm that was descending down your road while stealing whichever apparently distressed maiden is hanging about the place.

Based on that alone, they should not be encouraged, moreover culled. Alas 21st century heroism isn’t so slice and die. Everyone can be a sort of hero, so sit down Fatwoman and Widerman and lets get cracking.

Where’s mi realm gone?

So knights are pretty much extinct in modern day suburbia. Yet a few maddens with swords thrashing the spines out of unruly gobshites should’av been a perpetuated constant. Frankly we need them, at least for an evening’s entertainment at most a whole armored population jauntily roaming ye olde Milton Keynes shopping centres with a dire thirst for mead and freezer shop pillaging would really help our indiscernible national pride. Tescos' actually invading countries, the channel tunnel a giant crap cannon for unfettered waste xenophobia. Taking back the empire old style, with new styled boom box battalions. New Devolution, stuff labour.

So that’s not for you? Too weighty and you prefer wine and molestation. In honesty knights weren’t that fun. All they preportly used to do was sit around cylindrical tables, slavishly serving some despot and getting hurt, a lot. Alright they were respected but if you got hot oil burns and a face like a pummeled shit chute you ain’t gonna be too happy a hero.

I’ll be back; I’m doin a sequel

So what, do you follow dustcarts cos you think they’re weddings? You could be an Action Hero or, a fool. So either way, get stupid steroid bolstered up and start applying at MI5’s equal opportunities dept. To one day be missioned out into an apocalyptic doom-a-thon with only a knife your dear ol’ Mum entrusted in you to “kill those commies.” Iran could seem rather formidable. As long as you keep throwing brain cells to the wind, lose much of your clothing, effortlessly volt around shouting puns to foreigners while nuking sons of guns terror-shits. You’ll be just fine.

KaaboooooooomM! ! Payback explosion with only a slither of camouflage decency left you grapple-hook the chopper as it whirls up from blood sand. Your airbrushed damsel tongues your coolest of cuts and un-inhibiting bone breaks that are the only memories left of that “hell.” The pain will go, no scars, they got those modern plastic skin healing plasters you can’t even get from Boots.

It’s a bit B A Barakas crackus over the head with one of your big gold chains n tell me not to go on those planes? Huh?

Didn’t understand the question, you need a…

Thwack!

Our other modern bountiful incarnations of heroes have been the aptly titled Super Heroes. Cos being simply ‘heroes’ isn’t enough. It’s that rationale of owning super powers n not using them in a perverted human way is really why they are heroes.

Super heroes don’t half-inch a case of wine with super speed. Spend evenings invisibly going door to door watching couples fuck, no sir re. Win a carny's entire collection of oversized tiger toys on that hammer strength game. Na, their powers are for good, hm. They battle with their demons but still good wins, hmmm.

Take Captain Planet aka day-glo Pat Sharp with his, “gonna take pollution down to zero” mantra. In real terms he’ll save dirt before you. Or Alex Mack, a high school GIRL who after an accidental radioactive contamination can turn into animated metallic liquid to get into, err pee holes and cracks? Watch out, she has lightening bolt fingers and is a 12 year old girl.

And we, the viewers continue to wince as they save a bunch of ungrateful New Yowkers while a large pile of back street class A drugs is being casually ignored.

But you don’t have those powers, so fantasy fuck that.

Big sandals or clean tea towels? Both.

Hero heroes. You’ve all got about two, maybe now three in your head, those heroes. The injustice heroes that spend years and years in jail. The ones that devote a lifetime campaigning to change something and get killed or die and nothing has really altered that much, yep all those. These are our bread and butter heroes. Some great that get remembered: Martin Luther, Nelson Mandela, Gandhi, Hunter S Thompson. Some others that get forgotten: King Norton, Long Distance Clara, Chaka Deemus AND Pliers and Mr Majeeka. We need to remember.

She was such a character

Then we come to our last sort. Everyday heroes. Calendar news does a special on them every so often. Now I don’t want to cheapen his or her achievements but everyone can get to be an everyday hero.
Here’s how…

Find a sunshine bus of specials and adopt them for a while.

Dig a couple of pensioners’ rockeries.

Be really old; wander outside a lot talking complete gibberish; while attacking "the youths of today."

Have a kid with an overly prolonged wasting disease and take him places you wanna go to.

Acquire tons of feral cats and make them all personalised bowls.

Save a neglected (cos it’s shit) pond from being rightfully built on.

Do the same vile job since you were old enough to work till beyond retirement for no apparent reason.

Give your pitifully amassed savings to a local monument that even now you still have to pay to visit.

Embarrassment is kinda the key, you have to appear, not stupid, selfless with a servitual manner, like you’re a machine for everyone else, and your life isn’t yours. And that makes you a respected hero? And that makes you a respected hero.

No luck

If by now you still haven’t found a suitable hero, good, I lied. There’s another hero. This hero is the person who when needed is there, who protects his soul and trueness. Who saves the day in a small way. They talk and help when required. Yep this hero is everyone who wants to be one. And they only wear a cape when being a bit Goth. There’s no quest, no mission, no dragons unless you’re reading this limply sprawled over a dog-eared newspaper with a belt not being worn in a traditional sense.

In that case, lets get crack in.

genetics

2008-07-24T06:51:00.000-07:00

How do you do…

genetics

Why am I so rubbish?

How do I make dinosaurs?

I’m 98% chimp!

I ain’t got DNAs

Every odd bod has contained within their flexible flesh and brittle bones 35,000 genes, per body cell. And 10 – 100 trillion cells in the human body. But throw me a bucket that’s a lot of information. Means even for the most redundant of entities roaming the planet there’s a deplorable amount of backstage work going on to get Monsieur Twatface to the Jobcentre so he can afford to sit at home staring at two million pixels fighting not to be Jeremy Kyle’s self-righteous gob.

But I hear you not ask, what’s in our genes? Well, largely nothing apparently; 90% is what genetists’ call junk DNA. We got so much crap in our bodies if our bodies were the U.K, we could feasibly survive on Guernsey.

Chimpansapien

We evolved, but how? Adam and Eve and a big ol’ God? No MYH16.
MYH16 is a funny fucker. This gene is purported to be the reason for Homo-erectus (modern man). This MYH16 somehow got deleted a couple of million years ago. It gave us smaller muscles and subsequently may have removed evolutionary constraints on our brain size. Leaving our homo to feel a little self-conscious and to feel a little self-consciousness.

A stupid fact is; 75,000 years ago our genes could have got blipped out of existence. The Tahoma volcano brought the human population to within 1,000 mating couples. But with much gusto and a lot of fucking we survived.

The Offspring’s winter

So your dads a club-footed drunk bald rapist with an unhealthy obsession for heroin and right wing politics. Whereas your mum spends her evenings penetrating her genitals with oversized, overused dog toys waiting for the reluctant flea bitten Rockweiller to fetch. Watching the whole debacle your considering your genetics aren’t going to be the linch pin in that search for a cancer cure. More so, you think you’re the likely catalyst for laws enacting mandatory abortions for hideously pudding headed families.

But how much of you are you?
Height, weight, sex, skin, etc are mapped out by which parent has the dominate gene, that’s why there are less short, ginger, blue eyed, colour blind, Inuit’s around nowadays, they, like their land, are recessive.

If you find you’re a divvy that checks the doors twenty times before he leaves the house and has to have everything perfectly positioned like you live in some idiosymmetric feng shui mental dystopia, OCD is a genetic illness.

“I’m 100% fag, yay I’m gay ok, and it’s in my genes?” It was the great, I was made this way, so screw you bigot phrase. Alas sexual orientation cannot possibly be inherited in the direct way eye color is. Consensus is that homosexuality is attributable to a combination of factors. “Hey don’t oppress me, I’m queer, it’s what psychological, social, and biological factors made me!”

Genghis Carnal

This guy’s life is beyond amazing, from leader at 12, killing his half brother, he and his Mongol army invaded most of Asia. They were and still are considered the bravest, most successful and ingenious fighters. Beyond that, it appears that Casanova Khan left a mark on more than history. 1 in 12 men in Asia--and therefore 1 in 200 men worldwide--carry a form of the Y chromosome that originated in Mongolia nearly 1,000 years ago. Researchers suggest that Genghis Khan himself had this particular version of the Y. The trooper.

Mutations

DNA ain’t perfect, when it replicates it occasionally makes errors or mutations.

“What is that hanging pustule?”
“Oh that’s my wobbly freak thing. Everyone’s got a thing. What you got?”
“Just my twin’s parasitic head drooling with dilated spasticated eyes slowly leeching my lifeblood and any chance of a serious relationship. He’s got Tourette’s you see, every time I get close to someone, he gargles, ‘Where’s my body mummy?’ That’s it, intimacy caput. How are you with a saw?
“Shit! I’ve got twig fingers.”

Hairy ladies, webbed feet people, half man half tree, catdogs, see through skin boy, and Boris Johnson all get undue attention because of a perceived ridiculous appearance. Genetics have just given them peculiar cards. They could someday, be what we will all become. So lets collectively cross our fingers and hope the hell not.

Jurassic park!

So when are we gonna get those amber things with that fly inside and make a proper good zoo?

Sadly not for a longtime or ever. Boring things like the lack of full DNA structures, or that dinosaurs couldn’t handle our environment n they wouldn’t like the food we gave em, right through to diseases they could get if exposed to our apparently dirty diseased selves. There’s plenty of scientists queuing up to curb-stamp our cozened craniums on this one. Bastards

Genetically Bodifyied

We’ve reached the point where we’re designing our babies. That quite beautiful potential for a million different children, due to the random selection of genes in each fertilized egg, has been edited by parents who simply prefer to pick and choose life in favour of the latest dishwater dull celebrity fad they’re into.

Enlarged, resistant, chemically and biologically, modified, swollen and optimised animals and vegetables. You might like that, you might. The sad thing is that half the time you don’t even know your eating hormone enhanced cocks.

Medical cures. Who can’t like those? Everyone hates cancer. Imagine being cancer, everyone and everything hating you. If it weren’t so powerful it’d be a depressive nervous wreak. Genetics helps find cures. Maybe they take the odd baby spine. If you’ve got cancer you’d probably be at the abortion clinic getting those bad choices out of the bins. Ploughing your weak fingers to scrape out some stem cells for Dr Disease. I wouldn’t stop you if that’s how it all works which I don’t think it does.

If you’re the type of person who inspects his faeces. Three companies are now offering extensive DNA read-outs directly to the public. They offer the chance to pay a chunk of money to find out if you’re likely to get elephantitus and whether your ancestors were equally as wasteful with money, manor house in-breds.

Cloning, Cloning, Cloning, Cloning, ningloC

South Korea the darlings of the Jones’ worst nightmare have produced the first dog clones. But this band of brothers isn’t for Mr Choi’s dinner plate. No, these regularities are for ironically detecting things that make us humans feel different, drugs. Snuppy the sniffer joins an unhappy host of other cloned animals including Dolly the sheep, CC the cat and Ralph the rat.

These animals have less chance of survival than normal cats, dogs and sheep. Even so, I bet it felt a bit good being an A-List sheep.

A E I O U Robot

Asmio is our bestest best robot at the moment. It looks like a backpacking astronaut, don’t even talk. What’s all this about?

And what the hell is Robosapien. It meanders ineptly in a finite simulation of a constipated pensioner; it should be on an American football team’s reject bench whisking Gatorade with those hands. His limited dialogue consists of belching and gorilla warbles. This is "The robot that thinks it's a human!" He’s not even as useful as a cup holder. Robosapien crushes your cup. Everything this thing does has to be pressed by a dejected adolescent.

These two aren’t the ones I want. No one should want these, they’re expensive fraudsters. Robots shouldn’t have remote controls and need a technician every two nanoseconds, my robots, “are alive, Stephanie.”

The technological singularity intends to solve this for everyone, well kind of. Imagine Asmios great, great grandchild, Miasmo. Miasmo’s brainy. It’s the equivalent of an amphetamine addled Jeremy Paxman brain incased in carbon fibre. With that power and intelligence he could theoretically build an improved version of himself. That one builds another super version and ten generations later the robots themselves have to design new names to replace begger-mega-stupendee-owso while we have become the best polishers in the galaxy.

This prediction has a lot of people in a flutter. Ok step back, right you know building robots that make better and better robots unrestricted by our meddling psyches is a leap of misunderstanding. We humans historically fuck with anything and everything until it’s redundant or shit and redundant. Simply, It won’t work because we’re a part of it.

Eugenics

In the 1970’s geneticists were a bit sad. Not finding out much gets those borderline asberger’s types a tad strung out. Angry at their own inventive incapabilities they created the genetic determinist theory. That genes use our bodies as machines to survive and replicate themselves, themselves! Human’s are mere vessels for DNA to continue.

Your cells choose and edit which DNA it uses dependant on environmental forces acting on it. To the extent your own emotions are just rational strategies for coping, orchestrated by our own genes. "All emotions removed. Man reborn as Cyberman, perish under maximum deletion. Delete, delete, delete, DELETE!"

Upside, shiny exterior.

I hate you but I love you, but I HATE YOU.

Fruit flies have helped create some of the biggest leaps in curing diseases. About 60% of known human disease genes have a match in fruit flies.

I despise them. They breed uncontrollably, you kill them but they just get up and make a new band of bumbling fools, they can’t fly, they flap around with absolutely nothing better to do than kill any sense of calm. That’s in their DNA and…. And Fruit flies get 'drunk,' just like humans. “When exposed to large amounts of alcohol, (our alcohol) and may in future help to explain why some people are genetically predisposed to alcohol abuse.” I’ll save you the research, fruit flies. “Humans and fruit flies respond to alcohol in a very similar way at the gene level.” In that case I hope they get drunk and fuck a wasp.

Stick, wood, fire, think of those carbon emissions.

Our cave painting “ug ugg” cousins Neanderthal’s DNA is 99.5% percent identical to us. (To put this into context, chimpanzee DNA is 98.77% identical to us) It’s all a bit too close. That whole superiority you get looking at those museum timelines and seeing chimps in a zoo is demolished. You’re now paranoid they might know more about the zoo than you do, escape and throw faeces at you in your own living room, while your eating a banana split watching Planet of the Apes.

Killer genes

Yeah I bet you thought your genes wank in you. “Ohhh i'm so bloody happy I’m here, ooohhh this is bbb bbbb bbbbbbiioologeeeeee! Nope some genes want you dead. Yes there are genes in you that are trying to kill you. Shutting off various reproductive processes so you get older faster and die younger. They release viruses infecting cells. Saboteurs they are, you can’t trust none of them. Tell me their names. No. Scab not I.

Immortal genes

You read right. Because DNA separates asymmetrically. These enduring rapscallions, (they are rapscallions) split so that they maintain the same set template, passed on from Mother to daughter to grandson to… well, they’re immortal. These Immortal genes aren’t your saviour, more like your disorder, your cancer or your fat blushing frog of a face.

Ethnic

Orientals with squinty eyes, Africans with brown skin, Europeans with blonde hair. The deal with variables in race came from mutated genes that gave the finest adaptation for an environment most prominent within that gene pool, while those less suitable will eventually die out, French Canadians.

So who am I?

Our genes are everything to us. But everyone doesn’t and realistically can’t have a clue just what their DNA is, will and can do.

Flip a coin?

Heads, don’t care.

Tails, lackluster geneticist.

freedom

2008-07-07T07:05:00.001-07:00

How do you do…

freedom

Feeling trapped?

Are those handcuffs?

Oh no, they’re not mind locked?

???

Freedom, free e dom, fr-eee-dom, FREEDOM! What actually is it? A concept, a reality, a belief, a fiction, a paradox, the meaning of life, the great invention, an unattainable ideal… just for starters. Getting to the bottom of it involves firstly climbing the mountain that it is. Makes you feel like a bookish Bear Grylls.

Yes, simple? No.

So what do you fancy?

Is it all just a deterministic illusion mapped out to our every fibre, follicle and cell leaving us to continue down an ultimate goal of required actions to consequence. It’s the new “in” theory and if correctly assumed makes us a predictable cell machine completing bodily requirements to stay breathing.

Negative freedom? The freedom we so desire is beyond our capabilities and unable for us to experience. This, now being our lot, until those nifty armpit wings grow.

Even worse is the philosophy that you can even feel condemned to be free, compelled to seek, that which doesn’t exist. Now that is depressing.

Or you can strive for what a great philosopher once said; “The real thing.”
© Coca cola corporation

Freedom in the attempted experience of it; seems to be an amalgamation of all these ideas. We are grand machines with often cause and effect consciousness but with minds capable of more than they can even imagine. And yes in effect the human condition is one of under-fulfillment, fantastical idealism and bodily development slower than our mind desires. Liberation of desires, beliefs and restriction is a prevalent antithesis of the human races traditional and current War for Freedom. Freedom is this and beyond this, so I’m not gonna sit around defining it.

Born free?

Lets clear this one up. You’re born from the genes of usually a government and religiously legal married couple in a state institution, hospital. Their inclinations, personalities, traits are spliced into you. With your name, social status, and health already assessed and assigned all without choice of whether you want to even live, here, now, or ever. Don’t worry, as Jean-Jacques Rousseau knows, it gets worse.

You, now.

That phone bills just come out and your landlords wanting your last months rent. You have to wake up everyday to go to a belittling job while seemingly counting the hours till you have the briefest of brief times off to excessively drink-drug it to make you feel the absolute opposite of the work you eventually sober up to realise you’re late for. Y’know It almost sounds controlling. It almost sounds like you don’t want to do it, correct me if i'm wrong but it almost sounds as though any other freer life you dream of, watch on TV, listen to, hear about or read is a shed load better than the one you’re in. Correct me.

Oh geez you got it bad, those South African starving crybabies with Aids are just attention seekers. N what’s with them Afghans growing heroin all the time, they’re just dope ‘eads. Them peeps with no legs and arms suffering from itchy-itis don’t even work for that ill equipped council flat. Don’t get me started on them Burmese and North Koreans, just look at em, ohhhh we’re so poor, with those gold statues and gigantic stadiums of opulence, you can’t hoodwink us, we got Sky Travel mate.

Dreaming’s free

Yeah dreams are free, well, no, not even dreams are free. You ever dreamt about getting fruity with your slightly sexy neighbour then up pops Louise with thread veins and report updates needing completing. You finally get back to dreaming and down to peeling their shirt off to reveal, an almighty pair of, gas bills! Wake up red eyed, sweating and pinned by a gigantic green veined thigh in a bed full of debt. There is no rest bite; you think your mind might be telling you something? All that brain hopes for is weekends of alcohol overdoses resulting in widespread neuron destruction. Being stupid for a brain is retirement, the shithead.

Too busy. What, Top Gear’s on?

Look at yourself; take everything your brain is telling you about the seemingly pointless manifestation of your human incarnation and listen. We’ve developed as a society to embrace material possessions and ultimately have gotten trapped by this illusion of freedom. I know it’s hard cos Gio Goi have released another slogan t-shirt in pink and there’s the figures for today that need sending off to head office. Your minds still preoccupied with the subtle implication of your housemates’ derogatory statement in relation to your previous relationship, but hold on, HOLD ON to the idea that none of that stuff is important.

That it’s just tertiary filling for a cake you hate anyway. Use yourself as a ball and hit that twat. Slap the hell out of the British, Christian, form filling, complaining, complying, untrusting, by the book, composed cunt you are and breathe. Breathe some life into those awkward arms; be autonomous with your true self.

Rebel

This is the good part. I know you’re scared, you’ve never even had a mohican and those anarchistic men in make up genuinely scare you. Go against the urge of seeing something ugly and bolting, head down, very swiftly away from it all. You know, friends know, everybody knows heroes of justice and freedom are cool, well not the fantastic spastic four or really Spiderman much and definitely not Superman or Catwoman but what, Ironman is it now? Yes like Ironman minus iron and open to femininity.

Now listen to yourself. Don’t do what your society is telling you, you should do, be free. You have complete freedom over what you experience in this life if your names not Dr Deterministic. For example say when you’re on a bus and some annoying scally is playing her crazy frog Jean Paul RnB remixes. Tell her, “My dear please turn that off you docile don’t –even-know–if-a-good–tune-raped-you-in–the–starfish!” As long as a few more commuters swallow their cowardice-laden demeanours, she’ll turn that tinny phone off.

If you don’t want a Jehovah calling round; invite them in and never let them leave, ask them where they live and pop round every morning for a chat, bring your magazines Animal Antics and Slaughter house 5 to share with them because as they say God has many incarnations, like that goat fucking the blondes saintly spirit, look, no look it’s biblical.

If you don’t want to be charged a 1.50 card fee for a beer in a pub, tell them to get a sign saying, ‘we are probably the wankest bank in the world.’

If you want to dance at 3am high on some shit you had no idea what it contains at the 24 hour Tesco, bring a receipt.

Because it’s the only way to get the message across to the larger world that statistically there can’t be that many insane people in the local area. They’ve just realised not to give a fuck about any-ocrity.

Un-judging?

In fairness, they’ll label you insane, but the insane are quite actually the sanest people you’ll know. Their society reclusive brains have ultimate freedom to do whatever crazy presumption that head rests on. By being crazy or labelled crazy you are now free because to be free so it seems, is to be insane.

STAMP OF AUTHORITY, YOU ARE NOW INSANE.

Now for Political freedom

Don’t be a moron who thinks that freedom is real in this time in any archetypal socialist collectivisation. Look around this flagrant controlled existence and if you don’t like it, just move! That’s the only way people will understand and get the societies they realistically desire, is that too easy? Get some trashy facebook group devoted to which place you’ll all move to get away from the shit you’re experiencing.

Don’t listen to people who tell you we have a free democracy listen to people who tell you you’re the most watched, most controlled society in the democratic world and fuck off. If you’re that fucking free why is there so many people in Britain, currently 60 odd million of you. Looking around complaining about the situation but going to work five, six, days a week and paying any tax, fines or charges thrust in your forgiving faces.

Here’s an idea, if you truly think that living in a cold as fuck, belittling, imprisoning land is so overwhelmingly great then change those things that grate on your marrowbone. Moan about people like me giving your astounding country a bad name. Tell off those socialists taking issue with small parts of it, which you personally, can ignore, go on tell them!

Or, protest, complain, withhold payment, down tools and don’t work because the main reason we continue to function is because of two simplistic principles, money and compliance.

Universal Declaration of Human Rights

This’ll save us. Ever read it? Yeah, one world’s societies answer to freedom on paper and coy subterfuge in practice. Omittance is the glutinous order of today.

Everyone has the right to recognition everywhere as a person (Guantanamowww).

No one shall be held in slavery or servitude (most Eastern European illegal immigrants might disagree).

Everyone has the right to join trade unions (unless you work for: Asda, Wal-mart, Mc Donalds, Kettle Chips, Tescos, Nestle…)

No one shall be subjected to torture (Iraqi torture? still no custodial convictions).

No one shall be subjected to arbitrary arrest or detention (45 days without charge is taking the piss out of this one).

Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, (unless it’s against your Chinese leader)

Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression (other than if it’s against a government issue, anywhere near parliament ay Gordon).

Everyone has the right to equal pay (except women paid average 1/3 less than men).

Everyone has the right to reasonable working hours and holidays with pay, (unless you need money to live and or happen to be born under dictatorship or military rule).

They also have another brilliantly misanthropic one the Cairo Declaration of Human Rights in Islam due to conflict with Shi’a law. Lets just say women and non-Muslims won’t be too chuffed.

Recently the UN condemned widespread violators in this statement. “Hey you flouters, yeah you, we know who you are, we got sanctions, that’s right. So you better not want uneconomical American cars or cheap old Pokemon toys.”

The English situation

The English translation of freedom means, “to love.” The inherent implication is a fabulous start. But you heard of the 60’s, that went tits up because no one believed it could last. No one thought this fun could continue albeit a few who did continue and suffered outcast status worst than the robotically resurrected corpse of john ‘bonzo’ bonham touring Quaker lodges. English people from the 70s and 80s were fighting for their freedom to work and survive and build something. The 90’s in England gave us the lovely delusion that we have that, and it’s new and cool. We breathed out but by the next intake, air had been sidelined for sour restricted policy and self-loathing. So hating being British by the English is almost considered a rule if you don’t want to appear fascist.

The thing is another English translation of freedom is “de nile.” Denial of a freedom until it’s taken away from us, denial that we can change things. Most importantly, denial that we can change or do anything about it. Denial that letting people exercise their own judgment will result in anarchy. The underlining denial is a denial that we are adults and an assumption that we are children incapable of being whatever we want to be.

Large portions of our existence are tolerated because we are too polite or we feel the need to keep the peace, not make a fuss. Still the 'free' person who pretends to be free but in the end behaves like his parents, friends, boss, partner, etc. Forces him to be locked for life. His excuse is that he is like that because he likes it and he chooses to be like it; that continues the world over.

Free to be…

Ultimately, we are the kings and we should have freedom of the city we live in. But as we should or already be aware of our city is not ours. There is the trap of our misgivings perpetuating the mirage in societies’ development of rights and freedoms to blinker the true perception of consentual slavery…Living unhappily ever after.

P.S.

Still there is this vague hope that deep beneath our feet is a cluster of freedom inspired revolutionaries pro-creating till their numbers exceed the worlds’ underground pipes. All bred with elephant sized backbones, waiting till the abomination of humanity gets to its logical hurtful tipping point. For them to then launch out from the sewers in a scene reminiscent of the Teenage Mutant Turtles (minus coordinated headbands.)

With cries of hopelessness echoing the streets. They will show the numb abandoned populous a convicted whit and biting conversational thought befalling all oppressors, confounding all to agree to collectively gaze up at the forgotten stars, and see the other worlds looking back, thinking,“ Them humans took their pissing time.”

koreans

2008-06-14T04:04:00.000-07:00

HOW DO YOU DO….

Koreans

Love

Oi Oi, Calm it, this ain’t some loner hearts guide in how to deceive Koreans into having sexualness with you. Being foreign, knowing relatively no Korean, attempting to coerce one into actually understanding your advances is like seeing Barry Chuckle in an anti wrinkle advert, unlikely. And for the record saying “ho chi wa wa long time” only works in Vietnam.

For straight men there are no boobies in Korea. You will not find the promotion, viewing, depiction or highlighting of either of them, it’s like Korean women are androgenous from the waist up. But boobs are so dated, bore ring. What’s in are leggys. Yeah those two walky things are Korean womens' whit woo assets.

For women, have you ever seen a man on the street and thought. “He’s gorgeous if only he wore a range of shiny suits and maybe slicked back his 80’s businessman type haircut he’d be mine.” Ladies, welcome to the Eden project.

Gay people, expect to be confused. Men love touching each other, they like showering together but the vast majority are straight, well allude to be. Lesbi’s are in disguise, but they're there, but just as subtle as seeing puce in a rave.

Power

The moment your pale deep veined thrombered legs slope out onto the polished marble world class airport with a working Terminal five you’ll feel special, power ranger special. You realise, this is a nation who still believes dragons exist. You to them are like a dragon. Powerful and with unknown abilities, although you’ll soon find they might treat you like a mosquito, deadly and completely irritating.

3, 2, 1, Fight !

People in the world make anything fight each other. Cocks, horses, dogs and Americans, all feel the need to defend their territory normally if humans antagonise them. Dogs are the most vicious of fighters. Koreans understand this. That’s why they avoid the whole conflict and eat them.

Koreans don’t like much near them. North Korea and South Korea both have a mile deep of borders and a mile of frustrated eager soldiers waiting for the day they can stab that staring mother fucker right between his slighty more slittier than mine, eyes. China in a gesture of good will sends “deadly toxic dust clouds” over most of Western Korea for three months every year killing an average of 76 people, cos they're China.

Politically China's Communist Leader and North Korea’s Dictator don’t see eye to eye with South Korea’s Conservative, Capitalist, U.S. sympathising Government. Some would argue they want everyone to learn English just to piss China off. It's not even English, they spell aeroplane airplane, and correct you for writing it, like your passport reads Nationality: Mongaloid. And every Thursday those American fighter jets jettison and career overhead practicing their manoeuvres, yes practicing, for?

Where the fuckinachi?

Buy a GPS cos everywhere is anywhere. Picture being eternally lost in an unimaginative computer game called ‘Concrete Quest.’ There must have one very lazy, very rich architect who’s literally that busy the only thing he can do is point his worn down hook at this one cuboid housing block he constructed in his 4 minutes of free time entirely out of a box of dull cakes. It’s like giving Stephen Hawkins the key to Step City, a waste of key making materials.

Intelligent design

The Korean government are forward thinkers. Some bright spark at the internal affairs office realised that instead of buying costly street sweepers they could just use bored middle aged women. Thusly every Korean mother or aunt is bowlegged, shaped like a question mark and smells of bins. But those street corners, wow.

The Korean Government is the only country outside of Saudi Arabia building tertiary so called "ubiquitous" cities in a peroid of world economic slowdown and recession. It has the belief Global companies will somehow desire to relocate in there droves while cutting back on everything else. The Korean think their slowing economy will grow faster and that the whole world does not affect them. And that said world will not be laughing at their brand new empty office blocks and their soon to be bankrupt nation, Noooo way.

Oh my ___

One thing you expect to feel safe about is the abundance of Jesus and his bland army of sheep. But due of the oppression of nations and government over the South Korean population, missionaries’ bright idea to play the salvation card worked. A third of the population is now Christian and rising. It’s actually fashionable to be Christian. Being woken up at eight in the morning by a coupla Jehovah’s witnesses who trawler on bout good old god, in Korean is beyond the absurd, worst is, their magazines don’t change. They got the same one’s since I was seven, I’ve heard all the jokes before. The kicker is Atheist and Agnostic can’t be translated so your stuck with them. The good thing is you can tell them apart from the crowd. They have a big magazine bag, smile inanely and hang about like scallies waiting to prey on the unsuspecting ‘haven’t found him yet’ crowd.

C’mon Buddhists I know it’s against your mantra but sell a few gold Buddha’s and do some ads, get on TV. No one is safe, they’ll find that mount you pray on and you know you’ll end up breaking that pacification pact.

Work it

Thought your job works you hard? The last forty odd years Koreans have been working six and seven-day weeks, due to the various (Japanese are bastards) regimes. You’d think by now they’re all sitting back with gigantic opium pipes nursing continent sized calluses. No no no no no, not content in seeing their grandparents look like skeletor and their Mum's like punctuation. They, the youth themselves are working at overpopulating and over producing everything simply because of seeing what their uneducated families have done and what their peers are blindly doing. And they’re not on drugs and this is a democracy and they don’t have to send their kids to school seven days a week; so that they truly hate education, grow up stilted, institutionalised and devoid of childhood abandonment. But they do, and they’re not on drugs. You just wish someone would slap them real hard with a 12 piece sofa of calm the fuck down.

Our Land

When Korean, be suspicious of anyone who looks like you but isn’t Korean. Because Korea is Hitler’s super race idea without the need for propaganda or gassings. Here it’s a giant narcissism convention, and your not invited.

Knowing this, Koreans don’t much like foreigners. They realise foreigners bring drugs into their country, get drunk and rowdy, sleep with their proud mono-cultured population and can’t understand a word they say. They are starting to realise that every foreigner isn’t a lager lout or an American soldier and if you smile or nod they will respond affectionately back.

A different face is a novelty like seeing Spiderman walk down your street. The first Spiderman you see you’ll be shocked and curious to why Spiderman is here. But after a few Spidermen are seen constructing webs while a regular Spiderman drinks at your bar. And last week a couple of Spidermen were in your supermarket getting confused whether something’s cod guts or dog cock. Now there’s a Spiderman teaching your kid spider-glish. You’d eventually end up accepting Spiderman and treat them like just another Batman.

Traits

Taking your gentleman out in the street is a national pastime along with flemmy bowel retching. It’s genetic, any attempts by westerners to replicate this will be filled with a self consciousness worse than eyeing up your Grans knickers while she smiles encouragingly.

For a nation supposedly not on drugs they seem at ends to whimsy everything up. Romantic crabs with flowers, Chef pigs eating pigs. Statisically the drug of choice here is crystal meth, arghhhHHHHHHH. And the main users, some 7% are, wait for it, farmers. Yes Farmer Wong is blazing his meth pipe waiting for his crop to bud while his brain dissolves and his cheeks sink into caves.

Hey up cock

In Korea certain elements of society are still in the 1950’s. Respecting elders is the law. Last week The Korean Times reported about this Korean actor that slapped this old man (he was mouthing off at him) but the old man wanted a bit more. Grabbed hold of his car and the actor dragged him down the road. That actor had to go get down on his knees in public and told everyone he doesn’t want to live, he is ashamed and appalled and actually cried for forgiveness, magic.

Mod cons

Lucky enough to have a garden. No, no, you have a vegetable patch. You won’t find pretty gardens but you will find oddly shaped root vegetables that you wouldn’t know whether to varnish or run from.

Get a car that’s either stupidly small or gratuitously oversized for your needs. Upgrade the horn get a sat nav and stare at that throughout your journey oblivious to the litany of accidents you create.

HD Mega TV is what every aspirational Korean needs. It's irony in your living room, it's not mega, like a bad freeview but everything you select you have to load, in about as much the same way a ZX Spectrum did but slower and less musical. But it doesn’t matter cos TV makes no sense, like watching ITV on a Saturday night.

You what!?

Being in an odd place you have to adjust, or die. Things that Korea doesn’t have which non Koreans won’t miss are:

Scallies, a seemingly endless formality of paperwork, unreliable transport system, reluctance to change, the reinventions of bad pop music, feeling skint, the Royal family, celebrities, drunk obnoxious piss heads, eye annoying advertising and dodge weather.

Things that you will miss:

Salt and vinegar crisps, teabags, being able to understand what everyone is babbling on about, friends, roast dinners, chewy sweets, not eating rice every meal, good pillows and things making sense.

So?

Yes Koreans are crazy, irrational, stupid and on one. But, buuuuuut at least their not American.

bird flu

2008-06-01T04:26:00.000-07:00

How do you do...

bird flu

But it sounds so cute

Getting a bit bored with the scaremongering and need to know the unbiased facts of this rampaging global killer, from China?

Crisis?

So you’ve had a dire-ria day. Get compacted home. No post, no messages, no food. After finishing microwaving your Kiev you switch on the box. There he is, John Simpson telling you chicken is ill, and here’s another picture of your walking chicken Kiev, and here’s one being slaughtered. O wait there’s a professor telling you he’s concerned. And there’s the bin, and there’s your poultry Kiev in a sea of value eggs and edd the duck puppets.

It’s hard not to worry when news sound bites read like a fundamentalist recruits’ wet dream. “Serious threat to civilization” and “mortality rate that can approach 100% within 48 hours.” Or the always reassuring “ we are not prepared” “there is nowhere near enough antiviral drugs.”
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“Locusts, pestilence, but some will be saved, some as long as you become a slave to God, it’s that easy.” Most of us would rather deal with the arduous nature of painful death, than serve a self righteous God-army.

Thing is, BBC researchers watch a lot of Dr Who. And on Dr Who we the Earth, (well Londoners) teeter on the apocalypse every Saturday evening. Faced with the bland reality of a Sunday in suburbia, you’d be heartless if you didn’t scaremonger.
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Symptoms

With all the chicken shops in your local area, pretty much everyone could have the flu. Arghhhhhh! Oh god, your mum loves chicken nuggets and you always buy that gauntly thin value chicken from the supermarket that looks like it’s been sick. Nooooooo! And last night you had a very runny nose.
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Just so you’re not hastily arranging a lefty mob meeting. Human symptoms of H5N1 are; a fever, coughing, really sore throat, and achy muscles, the WHO not the who; the World Health Organisation said bird flu has “influenza like symptoms.” Oh yeah like you know what influenza even looks like? Might as well say bird flu symptoms are like contracting the plague in super glue, riding dodo roller skates.

You could also get really awful stuff happen like; eye infections, pneumonia, acute respiratory distress, and “other severe and life-threatening complications.” I think the last point translates to a gang of people intent on burning you alive before you give them a “contagious killer disease.”
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Origins

It was first identified in Italy in 1878 by someone.
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A long long time ago 1959 in a far far away place called Scotland, one little freezing cold chick had the first known bred case of the H5N1 virus. Thankfully only two flocks of chickens and approximately 300 highland locals had to be forcefully incinerated.

Since then it’s metamorphosised like Spiderman and got more irritating, like Spiderman. The latest strain has been able to cross to certain other poultry and wild ducks which made them rather unhappy, like Spiderman does to people. Legends like Count Duckula, Chicken LIckin and the paedophile Foghorn Leghorn are under observational quarantine.
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Fact

Bird flu’s nickname is Chicken Ebola, what nickname is longer than the original name you’re nicking. How about ‘luck-cluck-fuct’ if we’re gonna be stupid.
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What you should do if you have it ?
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Die. Statistically 63% do. Whatever happens your famous. Your face is front page, probably along side a picture of a chicken and the words ‘infected’ and ‘not too c-lucky now’. If you get a vaccine you should be fine. So give Glaxo Smith Cline a knock and if they’re all out, you need Seroxat but leave the knives alone the drug’s controlling this so-called ‘misadventure’.
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Deadly Steaks

Everyone likes a story. Put a ‘pandemic’ here and an ‘end of the world’ there, woop de woo you got yourself a front page. But what are the chances this world will be brought down by a few chickens without hankies?
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1. Nuclear/biological War is quite high, with the number of dumb and knee jerk politicians on those buttons all it’d take is a bad coffee and a wink and we’re gone before we’ve had our morning poo. Chances 75%
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2. Natural disaster. This is a great way to go. But it’s Mother Nature, caring Mother Nature with a big forestry tea towel protecting her children. But Mother Nature’s pissed, she’s done with our glowing rivers and land filled nappy knolls, she wants Giraffe’s to be the kings. So our planet covers us with lava or blows us off itself. The chances, likely. Probably not resulting in one gigantic event, more so lots of very depilating and painful years spent surviving in our own sewage with happy meal houses. Chance 60%
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3. Biblical reality, i.e., The Reckoning. I don’t know about you but God seems fucking scary, what with those well informed followers and that heaven and all those miracles. 1%
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4. Outside attack. We’re all secretly going for this one. Like if we had a choice of death. We? Well me and the clientele of Forbidden Planet. Aliens, invasion, colonisation, misinterpreted communication by the President of America “Y’all want speak to the Muslims?” Chances, considering our likely worth to another species that can travel to other planets in the universe, slim to none. 5%
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5. Now bird flu, or general pandemics. Aids was pretty big in the 80’s, The Black Death, Small Pox, Mad Cow’s mate Creutzfeldt-Jacob Disease caused a few heads to go down with “awww, us again” shame. And now or up-to now, bird flu. Well what do you think? Exactly, slim but like everything a chance, like not getting raped every month by the council, it could happen. I’d be more scared of which country with nuclear weapons your head of state’s badly fingering. Chance 30%
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Is the world adequately prepared?

Blatantly not, but when is the world prepared? Is there anything that has happened ever and people have said. “By Joe the world handled that spiffingly, well done humans.” We’ve really ballsed up virtually everything, we let Hitler have another go, France is still here, and the whole human race would rather waste food than let people live. I think socially we need to give up thinking we can solve things like pandemics and crisis’s and just let nature get rid of us. Call it just desserts, or Just for Wraths.
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Death
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Apocalypse is in. I Don’t know what it is about seeing America blown up, washed away, colonised by aliens, inhabited by monkeys, filled will disease and zombies and killer bees but it’s entertaining and joyous. Now you watch these films wanting more and more eccentric ways of social deformity. Babies suckling their mother’s lifeblood from raw teats. People blowing aliens for the unlikely vestige of freedom. Yanks pleading for their saviour, their lives, their God and getting killed, spandelicious.
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But while we ghoulishly consume the badly acted, hastily wrote scripts. Outside those chickens are sneezing and that little Vietnamese child is sneezing too, cos he’s got a cold, you morbid monster munchers.
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Ultimate Protection
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Kill all birds! Wear a mask. Don’t continue talking to anyone who says. “Oh last Tuesday I caught that bird flu” No eggs with soldiers in at risk countries and no pink chicken. Just to be sure start shadowing Ross Kemp, nothing‘ll touch him. He drinks cancer for breakfast that guy, he meets gangs who don’t even know the Grant Mitchell character and never even watched an episode of Ultimate Force. And you know why, y’ know why he doesn’t get pummelled by those Mexican gangs with weaponry far exceeding the US Army’s’?
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Cos his brother is Spandau Ballet, n you don’t mess with the spanners. or is it the clangers? or is it that other brother? are they brothers? Who cares? Well probably Ross Kemp who's now realising he doesn't have a secret weapon and has to fall back on his long winded stragegy of butting everything.

career

2008-05-15T23:12:00.000-07:00

How do you do…

a career

Parents keep telling you to get one and you’ve looked all over eBay?

Job Centre's sacked you?

People tell you you smell, you’re that stagnant?
Your work history reads like an A to Z of a fast food guide?

Confident?

Shit, I hope so. Don’t, whatever whimsical passion you surcome to do a University course that has the words ‘interactive’ ‘media’ or ‘art’ in the title. Because then you’ll have to tell everyone “Yes, but I don’t do drugs anymore, my heads back at the top of my body, and I’m more focused into the whole 9 to 5 jobby whatchma thing” to stand any chance of them letting you use the first aid kit without a senior staff member present. If ‘Interactive media artist’ is your course title, I think there’s an exhibition in a bin down the road. Not that bin, it ain't that repellent and fake filled.

Pro-fesh

Get yourself a suit, remember it doesn’t have to look great but they key is shiine. If you see TV people in suits they bloody shine, not because of Mr lighting man or your own badly placed positioning of the TV set. They buy the equivalent of a solar panelled suit so those seemingly teeny tiny PDAs can run off the power generated from just a starbucks stroll. That is power, is class and now is you. Top this off with Audi cufflinks and the biggest and the pinkest tie, now you can go sky high.

Hold on a magic roundabout minute!

Why do you want a good job? Because it gives you money. Why do you need money? To buy the latest things. Why do you need to buy the latest things? Because high society and the Government tell you to. Why do they tell you to? Because they've got good jobs. Okay carry on.

The ladder

A career is not like a ladder, it’s like a really arduous battle of will and self-belief and having that ability to suppress those for many years until you realise you’ve wasted many years befriending coked-up power enthused, twats.

The routine is like this: Temp, Permanent Junior, Senior, Section Supervisor, Section Manager, Middle Manager, Deputy Executive Manager, Executive Manager, Regional Manager, National Manager, International Coordinator, Vice President, Senior Vice President, CEO. Some companies are different, they have more titles. Trying, most people will get to say the third or forth job, some in their lifetime will achieve fifth or sixth, one mabye seventh.

No one you know will ever get to be CEO.

But in the end, after all that work, the sex you missed, the bum sweat sex you wished you missed, the all nighters, the smiles and suppression. To come out with the bequeathed title of

Ms Fanny Stainbridge U.K. manager of Tampax, must be so very worth it.

Rule to rule

Talk to your boss. Sit down and have a very direct conversation with him about the toilet rolls in cubicles. Say it undermines your hard-line work ethic to use quilted when you need cushiony soft velvet God damn it! Share your own career goals with him. Tell him you want his job and think he does a shimmering shit job of it now. Say that you could achieve better results with your head in a bowl of frogspawn gargling “my old man said follow the van.” Your boss will respect this display of confidence and maturity.

Be innovative. When everyone talks shop, you talk Power Rangers' new series. Never be afraid to think outside of the box, discuss the cinema and the latest comics.

Don’t ask for more. Volunteering to help out other departments will mean you have less time to play whatever trendy Facebook game with ninjas or zombies is pop-plop poo. Within your first month erect a very strong bulb above your head creating a spotlight for everyone to see who's the divine shining light in this office.

Sharpen your pencil skills, everyone loves sharp pencils. One day, your boss will ask you if you have a pen, give him one of your sharpest pencils and see that look, yes, it’s the same as you had ten minutes before when you got it that sharp.

Don’t listen carefully to people. Do look around while people are discussing important in depth matters. When your confident with your observations, tell the room. “Yes, true as that appears to be David, your missing the point, why do we have mouse traps but I never see any mice, arrrrrrrh. Exactly.”

I have a dream

Dream, dream for that penthouse, dream for the yacht your boss has, dream to fly business class, dream because it won’t happen. Your boss is your boss because he realised that he, only he, can get all that stuff, not you, your some upstart who wants his bath tub.

Mein shaft

Not had a promotion in a while, best thing to do, create a crisis. Deliberately make a part of your company break, then because you broke it, you are the best person to fix it. One thing, you didn't break it, well you did, but to your boss, it was Bob with warts, or Victor with the vein face, maybe divorced debt Donald or too-tight Claire with the terminal cancer.

Slander colleagues who want to achieve and are better than you but just haven’t got the lack of morals you have. Even if their family goes hungry. I mean, hey he gets free coffee and biscuits, he can provide.

Succeed

Succeed you have to succeed, if the boss puts that big old wrinkly cock in your mouth you know you're going to succeed, cos he wants you. If he lays his trust in your hand you know he wants it handled well.

There will be compromising times, times you wish you were somewhere else, times that make you think is it all worth it. But when you look out of your office window into that grey monoxide clogged city with all those millions of people in those thousands of office blocks all thinking the exact same thing, you know you're right.

“If you are very involved with your career where it becomes your 24 hour life, it is easy to not worry about relationships. As for love, if people don’t want it, they avoid the people that would offer it. I’ve done it. As for meeting someone when you get older, I have noticed a lot of women in their 50’s who are willing. Most of them either have had kids but are not in a relationship. Or the ones who are childless I find are not trying very hard to turn me down.” Anon

god

2008-05-06T06:57:00.000-07:00

How do you do...

god

Didn't already know?

Everyone tells you you've got a 'God complex' and your lives relatively simplistic and don't even know a God?

Better not try this.

THY KINGDOM

What do you want to control; a planet, a friggin Petra dish, a galaxy, maybe the whole bleeding universe or even the entire concept of what everything sumounts to be? Are you a leader or a crazed megalomaniac?

GODLY

What d'you wanna look like? Historically God's have had many incarnations: Gases, TV personalities, penguins, Alanis Morrisette (if your that way inclined), fat friendly men (if your the other), dolphins, stars, blobs, epervessant light, multi appenedaged old men with beards, bald boys, flipper. Pretty much owt you like that isn't Morgan (oh please give me another God role) Freeman.

GOD GET UP

White, white, WHITE. Why white? Because in heaven you don't get stains, simple, simple? Yep cos if everyone could wear white they would do it for a bit and in that bit, be God, n look a tad odd. Nah tie dye, nah black. How about being that gratiousatus clothes would be an insult to an abomination.

THE FLOCK

It's essential you create a following. If no one knows you exist it's a bit rubbish being God, kinda like been incharge of the UN and realising no one gives a fuck about it. The best way to do this would be to get a TV channel, call it 'God' or 'Yiiass me, yes the silly sod!' Have some celebrity special to launch it with a starfish winking Madonna performance. Now audiences aren't stupid? You have to create an extravaganza of biblical proportions: Raise a sunken cock, make it rain menstuation fluid, blow uranus, turn everything adjacent, bring every man back that ever tossed off Julius Ceaser, something that'll keeps the ratings up and won't just end up as a footnote to I LOVE 2008.

Once you got them, you can sit back while they build oddly shaped buildings in your honour and have strange conversations in there about what they think you would say without you actually been part of the exchange. Like they think you're omni-retarded.

SHOW 'EM

Exercise divine muscle over everyone. Be the raging fuckin super-power. Burn, abuse, drown, kill, confuse, falter, starve, terrorise and then destroy with a knowing Baron Greenback like cat that jeers and sneers. Because you are God, you are all and all is worthless and you are worthless, powerless, useless, infertile, nothing.

Hi god, bet your feeling quite small right now but shit you have to cope with that kinda confused criticism. That and sceptics. People who just don't believe in a book you got some people to write that's not that entertaining, seems to drag alot and have too many supporting characters. I'm just saying for part two razzle it up a little, have an addiction an affliction, a clit ring accident, anything other than a good person. God, it's so dated.

See God everyone thinks they got an opinion. The best way to handle any God job is to be half arsed. Carelessness is the only way to go, ask em. They all watch us like we're entertainment, handing out floods and earthquakes while privatly having a increasing violent war with the other Gods about their 18,000 year popularity contest, madness, divine madness.

SO WATCHA WAITING FOR

It's ok, reelax this whole thing is all just a big computer game called First Life. Our simplistic human and animal creations and relative binary coded theorem of cause and effect conciseness was, is and will be acted out in our virtual constucted terraferma. Earth, or as the programmer calls it Bertha. Any hilarious and stupidly embarrassing events are captured and replayed on a behemoth sized God Tube for a gaggle of Buddha's to giggle at. Even our sky is a 500,000,000 mega-pixel photograph that shakes every so often to give the idea of perspective. You need to complete the guided tour of Milton Keynes, Microsoft Word and all of The Rock's "films" and then you'd become the next Quantum spiritual htmliio. Or have I have just being reading too much New Scientist backwards?

revoltingly rich

2008-04-17T08:33:00.000-07:00

How do you do...

revoltingly rich

Tell me you don't want to be rich, tell me, ha, fucking liar

It'd be a right buzz-oldrin

GROUND WORK

Zimbabwe's brilliant, in't it? Aside from all that dictatorship business, those deaths and routine starvation rumours. Because of inflation for fifty quid you're a zibabab millionaire, Jesus never had it that good.

Generally, to be a regular richy rich your family have to drink water sourced from polor ice caps, filtered through panda brains and shoot foreign dignitaries for fun. If you're not and those first few months of life are spent surrounded by parents; Candice and Johnno, who feed you an assortment of the pringles range and gone off Hooch. Kill that nubile young body and wait for the next miracle moment, won't be long, bout three a second i hear.

MAKING MONEY AND NOT HAVING TO COMMIT MULTIPLE SUICIDE

Regardless of any hidious scal-formed upbringing, as a shrewd businessman, slogging your guts out you could make a valued contribution to the populous and thusly become finacially and emotionally rich. Or you could just invent something.

Inventing is piss easy, just take something and make it different and say it's new. Or put together bits of really good inventions to make one super invention that every aspirational being seems to all of a sudden. Need.

Last week I invented the cup-snack-camera-cat. Combining the executive luxury of food in a cup and the freedom of capturing that moment on a convienient cat. Too right you can't use that, it's copywrited © 2008 pissyouinc.

MEAN

Well, you don't have to...nahhhhh, you have to be one mean mother to be a rich mother, so there Mum.

SCREWING PEOPLE OVER

Pyramid schemes are great, they're profitable, some people make money and if you start one you're the Pharoah. People who buy a brick of the pyramid scheme and get screwed deserve to be screwed, you own a brick.

Other ways that don't envolve ancient civilisational iconography are: Getting people to buy something that doesn't exist, can't even be built in the First, Second, Third or Forth Life game, won't be delivered, can't been seen, or concieved through pre-longed Buddist englightenment , combined with abstract religious anal penetration.

WHAT SHOULD I BUY?

So you've amassed a tidy fortune by selling out, ripping people off and generally being tighter than tights. Now you must buy stuff and make people jealious. Some things found desirable are:

All the tickets for the premiere screening of the most anticipated film of the year, and not go.

The worlds supply of oil and keep it saying to the world. "You'll only get some if you eat all your sprouts, and I mean every last one of them, even if their cold, and don't cry cos it'll only make them soggier."

A court jester who if he stops making you laugh, under UN protocol, you can burn him.

Lots of holes in Blackburn, Lancashire.

A priceless watch sculpted to look cheap, with hints of pricelessness that is actually cheap.

With your army, invade every Christian church and turn them into athiest whorehouses.

Build an institute for the study of Ball-sack shaving

WHAT NOT TO BUY?

We've warned you with the title, but rich people are fools, so go on, buy:

Things that dissolve.

Art made from faeces.

The landmass of Nergal 4 for developments of a palatial palace with the hope of spaceport links to Nergal 5.

The rights to Gary Glitter songs.

DRESS

The first King of America, Edward Norton wore the finest clothing yet he was a pauper. We recommend you ignore him, due to your buoyant riches wear solely inflatable clothing.

HANGERS ON

UGLY- there's the door

BEAUTIFUL - there's the bed and yes i'm into that.

BANKRUPTCY?

When your fighting a war and you stumble accross a cute squirrel, pump five rounds of ammo into its furry body, look up and find you're surrounded by bloodthirsty millitia with ' I LOVE U BASTARD SQUIRREL' T- shirts on, that's bankruptcy.

Don't wonder why, when, how or even what. All you need to remember is where those holes of gold are. If you're the diamond who didn't think about this contingancy, get used to this phrase, "bum's worth" that's the portion of everything you'll be asking for.

language

2008-03-25T04:35:00.000-07:00

How do you do…

Language

Ours

“Oi you fucking cardboard cut-out cunt bag. You, ya lying pokey arsed little gobshite blowing yer pip sqweeky mouth off at me, faggot. I deck yer now, fat faced dick-billed knob-jockey.” Is considered bad language.

“Thy’s hedge-born whoreson hath influenced thou’s own clot poled, tardy gaited, pig-nut, heavily cockered, maggot pie of a foul knave’s rat‘s bain. Alas it perturbs any such resurrection to even Judas’s urchin.” Is considered good language.

But who decides?

Namely this guy called Mr Oxford and his friend Mr Hypocrite who consider what they choose as words being the antithesis of language. Disregarding any improper word until it’s been in circulation for a number of years, verified by numerous source texts with atleast three circle jerk meetings held phyically discussing it relevance. When they've finished tossing it about and put it in. Anybody who’s anybody hardly uses Cowabunga anymore.

This, so it seems is where we’re at, listening to people in stone buildings telling us whether spazmo is an actual word, or whether you toffs are useless spazmos can be pluralized in it’s common usage.

Language and dialect

I once said "A language is a dialect with an army and navy" when I quoted Max Weinreich. See take Scallies, they have a dialect, Scalish, they also have a strong weapons supply and a band of mad people that can be called to arms at the drop of a baseball hat. The only thing their lacking is control over Britons numerous waterways. Consequently if you ever do see a group of tracksuits seemingly floating on a cloud of purple haze, call Curry’s and the U.N. cos they’ve got a language and we’ve got Scally Civil War.

Body Language

This is the new language well so it seems. So everyone goes on about it, like it’s never existed, like they’ve been shown the holy grail of a secret understanding of human interpretation. We are born to recognise it. If we need a TV programme to highlight it we're doing a pretty shity job at being human beings. Granted body language is succinct, subtle and underhanded at times, but if you're concentrating on where someone is crossing their hands while talking to you, “because that means your being defensive bah blah blah.” You probably haven’t realised their conversely pissed off internation in the fact you’re pointing that shit out and not listening to a word they say.

Foreign language

I know, why so bleeding many of them. People are people, a foreign language is a foreign language and you are a lazy git who can’t be bothered to learn the right way to say something so just points gesturing like a baby or an ape or a sperm. Apologies you was meant to be replaced with I. On average people know 0.0001% of the worlds languages, that‘s one. The whole world is dislocated by something that was supposed to bring us closer, irony moment.

People have tried to launch global languages Esperanto, Lojban and Toki Pona to name three. Yet humans are selfish and socially realistic and controlled to the point that unless the whole population of the world learns it, I’m not going to. Even though “mama pi mi mute o, sina lon sewi kon” sounds more lively than ”Our Father, which art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy snore”

Written

People consider Shakespeare one of the greatest writers along with Socrates, Marx, Edgar Allen Poe, Dostoyevsky, Emily Dickinson, Aristophanes and Aesop etc. But recently we seemed to have plainly forgotten how to write. A lot of words are written, the most since words began yet the level of comprehension and their maximum impact seem to have pissed off with Kerouac and Burroughs.

We have no belief in the importance of biting words and on a whole seem to prefer dumb generalisations. Read any tabloid randomly and you’ll scarcely find a creative verb or succinct noun used unless coupled with a unsophisticated emphasis, inside a quote or added with a cockney how’s your farther precursor.

Look Elle, More Nuts. There seems an endless amount of four letter word publications. Feeling it their duty to continue the theme inside, the only longer words permitted are premiere and rehab. Yes their piss drunk on the dumb vibe and we haven’t even reached the storm.

So by in large, as usual pop culture is getting more and more indisguinishable and more and more simplistic, things are fast and in a fast world we need fast words. This is sad, sad for ubiquitous, shimmering, bulbous, incredulous incandescent and all those other big words that can’t abbreviate to a size 0. But pop culture doesn’t mind because serving the dumb masses is easier than bringing them out of their hangover because if they did, people might go elsewhere, Hello?

Punctuation

I gave my spell checker the authority of a judge, feeling I have to argue my case at every fragment and semi colon bad usage. But personally my spell checker’s seriously disabled. For one, it’s an American and thus frequently masturbates over the letter z. Two, it loves to connect and split words when I like them the way they are. After I disagree with it’s correction and we move on, it not only highlights that expression not been in it’s Delaware Dictionary It goes back to it believing that I’ve collected my senses realised my misguided misgivings offering me the same standardization. This twat’s seriously deluded. It’s got no qualifications and it doesn’t even speak!

And while we’re here. Why do we hang onto odd things like Times New Roman. Romans didn’t even have Times New Roman cos it was invented in 1933. So why do we have to keep using it, it’s cottage cheese.

Fillers

YES yes yes, Errrrrr is back again. Err: a indicator to people and the individual that their out of anything particular witty or funny to say but what you heard was great, wasn’t it, it was and I want to talk more, oh I do.

When people say Um and Uh as fillers they tend to sound a bit dumb, confused and like they're starting an ill-conceived frog chorus. Essentially Um and Uh are the base root easiest thing you can say without any vocal effort, the Welsh do the same but it’s pronounced ‘Ym.’

Fuck is a different type of indicator, it indicates the individual feels the need to weight words with a fuck precursor and that person is quite insecure about his words without a fuckin fuck in it. Alternatively it adds emphasis to a sun lounging word to make into a raging fucking fireball. Fuck? it’s actually quite a diverse word.

Class

Like so many things. If you've got a couple of plums in your mouth and you’ve never heard the word giro being used in your vicinity. Statistically you’re going to have a more varied grasp of the English language than those who hear and plead for Mrs Giro to come, daily. But what’s interesting is that language is a natural constantly changing life force. The working class tongue may not be as complicated in a traditional sense. But it makes up for that with true invention of language by adaptation, cutting and splicing together. The Internet has played global slang role with invention of equally unique terms like celebufreak and bullshot replacing the words Spice girl and the phrase "why do i believe the advert graphics and not read the small print, again."

Speaking

When we talk, we compose words instinctively almost without consultation. We rely on our brain to compose perfection and curse it for making disturbing judgement. Conversations in an ideal world should be adventures, happy, electrifying, galvanised intrigue that shock and encapsulate the listener. To hang on every word is the mark of a good speaker. If people walk out of a room, turn on the TV when your still speaking they’re either insensitive or your cat’s a better linguist.

When speaking, alot of people are sloth lazy. They’d rather:

Reuse a word man repeatedly man, in the same dull way dude.

End a conversation with a vague generalisation, yeah life, it’s just 1’s and 0’s, no 2’s not in this life, man

Repeat the television as if quoting the Quran.

Agree with people believing it’s easier to align themselves than to stand out.

Droll on until other parties make excuses to leave.

Bile everything out about themselves however inconsequential and uninteresting til everyone who’s listening feels like they know them inside and out without even requesting it, and try best to forget it, but can’t.

Raise their voice SO EVERYONE IS LISTENING TO THIS IMPORTANT STATEMENT I HAD ON PIGEONS.

Repeat the same thing over and over and over again about something you didn’t want to even hear the first time.

Talk about one uninteresting subject just to fill silence that everyone concerned would rather be silence.

Interrupt a very interesting statement with something they have thought CARROTS that barely links whatever YES CARROTS was been discussed and subsequently calls an end whatever brain stimulating moment you were I HEARD CARROTS ARE NOW NOT GOOD FOR EYES having.

I should change the title to: When speaking, a lot of people piss the hell out of my soul.

Is there a use for language?

This is debatable. Words or rather sounds have been around since a noise could be mustered form a very early life form, simpler than even “ughh ughh.“ Since then it has evolved and increased in complication to its modern incarnations “e arrr, e arrrr.“ But in recent studies people have found that there just aren’t enough words to describe things, feelings, events and emotions.

Granted and lauded over (by themselves) the French’s 12 different words for love. More impressive in a way are the Eskimos 100 different words for snow. Greater still, we the English, (yes us) invented a unquantifiable range of words for being drunk. All don’t have a word that describes a strangely damp feeling in your socks, that’s not quite wet but not quite sticky. This all stems from our cultural landscape. If we have a history of badly made shoes combined with consistent rainfall, there would be a word for it. (and it’s not fusty, but we‘re close).

Shhhhh

Maybe if there is a perfect language out there, not many of us have found it. I reckon those smarmy faced dolphins use it. Whatever language people perceive as perfect it will be subverted abbreviated and warped into imperfection in one mans ears and happy discordant in anothers. Now why don’t we just screw everyone over and just use mime

yeah two to you too.

time travel

2008-03-14T05:41:00.000-07:00

HOW DO YOU DO…

TIME TRAVEL

21st century boring you?
Want a way to walk with dinosaurs that isn’t sitting really close to the TV to watch an unrealistic 3D diplodocus eat leaves?
You need a holiday in time, or dinoworld

Tick, tick, tick… tick

1.5 million years since fire was lit, 35,000 years after the birth of art, 16,000 years from the first mappings of stars and 600 years since the blueprints of the helicopter were drawn. We sit here thinking, “Y’know the 21st century could have been a bit more, well. Silvery.” Aside from those metal toasters that’ll burn a farmyard animal into your bread and those credit cards with one of the corners cut off a bit. The 21st century has had:

No proper Robots. My house isn’t doing stuff for me when I go to work so when I get back it’s like a new house and the kitchens in the bathroom. Cars and skateboards don’t hover. We can’t holiday in space and the so called information super highway is still not bypassing my brain with an LCD screen in my eye and USB ports in my tippy toes.

AHHhhhh, yet as a time traveller you can go to the future where these things should have occurred with a few other things that you probably didn’t think about; like a chocolate bar called waffpinuts. A wafer, pineapple and nuts bar wrapped in Kevlar.

Then, go back in time to tell all those people on Tomorrows World that hoodwinked our innocent child eyes, “Hey hey, perm-head, that ain't going to happen you pre-foetus futurist fuck.”
And they’d have to believe your aggressive preaching cos you’d bring an almanac from 2008 with all the sports results and next weeks Eastenders from UK-GOLD, so there.

The Time machine

"This only is denied to God: the power to undo the past." Aristotle (448 BC - 400 BC). Glad we’re not God, the dick.

Deloreans, Police phone boxes, American phone boxes, Quantum Leap Accelerators, Wormholes, Time portals, Time tunnels, Stargates and Cryogenics aside you need to build your time machine in something very now. Sedgeways, I phone's, Airbus 303’s and Wii’s are just that, but seem to lack a certain kook. We recommend you build your time machine inside the 3D extravaganza but transparently shit film Beowulf.

Basically making the thing is a doddle.

Arrange two wormholes many times the mass of our sun into close connectivity to the eight stars the daily star reviewed film Beowulf rightfully received.

Simply construct a cylinder about 100 km long and about 10 km across, made of material compressed to just over the density of a neutron star, and rotating twice every millisecond.

get a cup of tea placed on top a DVD player of the vast film, Beowulf and jump into the TV screen. Zap-tastic, a time machine! People on the Internet have so much knowledge. You know I bet they get cock mauled on the way to the oversize Hawaiian shirt store.

Stuff that

Alternatively, become an important figure in history and the time machine will come to you. You need to be pretty important like the guy who built the Spectrum, Clive Sinclair won’t get a visit or the actual Captain Birdseye who invented a way to preserve food sounds far too fucking boring to even listen about him, look your getting bored of even a past reference to him, yawn pigging borr-rad.

On TV Shakespeare gets a knock every five minutes, which makes me suspicious of just how many plays he did write and how many he just copied from one of the many time traveller’s GCSE English textbooks. So, inventing a language, being a despicably amazing musician or a timeless iconic celebrity are the laziest ways to time travel.

Dress

Now as a time traveller you can either stand out like Technicolor Cobains, Bill and Ted or blend in like Quantum Leap’s Sam (I’ll just leap into a retarded kid so I can act all slow and try and actually fuck my mum) Beckett. It’s a given you can get away with travelling to the eighties and know one will suspect those Nikes are reissues and that tops from Ryan’s Vintage.

Other time periods are a bit more difficult and require a full-bodied latex silver suit that emphasises no thought in the time period’s fashion and persistently highlights a mild arousal. This will guarantee kudos with blind and eccentric homosexuals. When not soliciting sex with your wardrobe combine it with a bravado Brando would skirt from. This‘ll give every poor sole that spots you the brainwashed thought you possess mystical powers. That in an instant you can transform that baco foiled eye offence into a pixelated gold Angelina Jolie that can transfix any man with a Nordic crown or a rasp akin to, genuine 100%, no shit, rock hard man, Ray Winston.

Where to go?

Err, the future. I don’t think anyone with a time machine’s maiden voyage is going to think, “ Out of all the time periods it’d have to be the dark ages, pissy mead and warts, fuck yeah! ” Actually if you do say ‘fuck yeah’ then actually go and stay in the dark ages moronically chanting; mead bong, mead bong. Seeing development of our species is man’s desire. Plus in the future they probably have weird sex using orifices you never thought existed. Don’t go too far in the future though, we don’t want any conviction on the grounds that, “It seemed like that was the usual hole to fuck oops sorry, intercourse someone your honour”
“Mr Primark, do you take money out of women’s vaginas often? Have you never used a speakable ATM? You know your are not allowed that in our futuristic type court room with lights made out of hovering glow balls”
“sorry your honour, it’s the suit”
“That and you are going down for ten years, soft labour at seaside prison”
“hmmm, ok”
I reckon those futuristic prisons will almost definitely have you mining for tampon bio-fuels in Skegness with the type of criminal that use you as a toilet and you know Scratcher McBalls doesn’t care about dribbling on the rim.

Fucking with things

As we’ve seen in literature and films interacting with oneself might create a paradox. The answer is fuck it. Time is rather uninteresting until you change a bit, or a lot of it. And create what theorists call a ‘multiverse’, sounds fun don’t it. They’re many other terms like the ‘Grand-parent paradox’ that must mean screwing your Gran while she’s up the duff with your mum. Also ‘Cat-in-the-box’ s’all about looking at a cat means it exists and if you don’t and put it in a box, it dies. So steal a box, a cat and finger the Queen. So long as you have an Imax theatre playing the hit film Beowulf you don’t have worry.

Just imagine the look on your best friend’s face when you thieved his only condoms and pre-programmed crazy frog on his stereo before he was suppost to finally get laid, while hiding in his closet, after killing his Dad. Make sure no ‘Biffs’ uses your time machine for their ulterior motives, with the blockbuster extravaganza Beowulf, I don’t think you’ll have a problem.

Sidekick

Reality time, knowing you, you’ll end up pissing someone off with a turn of phrase or a misinterpreted laugh in face. So get a sidekick, at least you can blame them or sleep with them if it all gets a bit sexy. Choose one who has abilities not someone your friends with or this person you quite fancy. Well maybe the person you quite fancy only if they have abilities that might be hopefully, one time at least, just after they shaved, be useful to you.

Armed?

Are you crazy? Are you an American? Are yowl ? We assume NASA doesn’t equip its astronauts with guns but with the nature of aggressive paranoia they have, not surprised. Sonic screwdrivers aside, you should definitely carry a pen, to communicate with our un evolved ancestors, and if anything does turn ugly, with a pen you can kill someone in three places or have a scribble off, fact.

If you come into contact with anything carrying a weapon. You must act as though they have just called your sidekick Dallas Debbie a whore after receiving relief from her, like Dallas Debbie does that. Begin to shout passionately about sanctuary of 21st century monogamous relationships while simultaniously hand miming every numerous oral and penetrative sex techniques your proficient in, in perfect sync to Debbie’s booby bongo version of ‘working for a living.‘ You won’t get no shit after that unless Debbie’s into skat.

Time after time

Like Cyndi Lauper's song, you will eventually vanish into obscurity regardless of how bright your clothes get or irritatingly loud you scream notes. Conceding like Cyndi lauper has, to living on the streets of Victorian England with lice and rat faced and bodied friends, eating stale bread and being soliicitated for sex with a selection of warning photograph herpes sufferers waiting for the carbon dioxide soaked air to mute her out. Her last prayer being for a wooden coffin as opposed to the rotting filthy ally God's unlistened prayer leaves her.

See if we were only able to live in the 10th dimension; with all the possible branches for all the possible timelines of all the possible universes compacted into a single point, it’d be much easier. Like taking your pterodactyl to the Milky Way shop for Malteasers and getting change in orgasms.

berliner

2008-03-06T05:42:00.000-08:00

HOW DO YOU DO…

BEING A BERLINER

Wanna swastika shaped beer mug?
Like climbing walls?
Stay in the UK

History, lissen

Right, There’s this place it’s like 1,000 miles away, yeah. It’s called Jeremy or Grr many or whatever. N innit is people who live like proper happy in-dare. Yer Germanans yousta have this war cos they were all mentals, day got all deese cool badges n moustaches n tings n they wannid ta show all dem world em, safe. But it wernd n we all didn like dat dutty bling so we battered them, gangsta style. Int end we made em build a pukka wall but they dealers wannid to deal boths sides of it so day paid David Hasselhoff to knock it down, boo ya. But thing is, now these Shermans, they all happy, but we keep talking about them moustaches nt guns, which they don’t like. Dem Gergans think we’re living int past wit house musik, they’re all techno eds and they is right. Cos worlds moved n dat, n we don’t know it. Yoww Peace.

W ow

An experiment took place that instead of fluoride the Government put stylide in Berlin’s drinking water. This chemically distorted everyone into genius German punk hobo. Middle aged, “this is what I like, so screw you if you like,” mental. Or just plain, “I’m so over sex it makes all and sundry want to bukakki around me,” ethereal wonderment. So whether it’s choosing a daunting dog chaperone, getting a drum symbol hat with a tweeting bird adornment, do definitely gaze at the thing your buying and actually considering whether it makes you gush up your duds.

Sky scraping

Do you hang around building sites dipping your dipping stick into ejaculated wet goo? Germany is a whole city of dried up gooey concrete paradises. It seems Germans are so retarded for something we have grown to label and despise.

Their tower blocks have an abundance of beautiful, shocking graffiti. Murals of babies eating babies, of robots lasers and apocalypses with beautifully sluttish rabbit ladies. Sadly it makes us realise that graffiti isn’t just writing ‘finker’ on a wall, in a way that no one can appreciate its lack of thought, grammar and to that point, even read.

Watch it

Los Angeles cars are such limp cocks. They have to stop when any fanny fancies teetering out onto the road. In Germany, cars are the Don Quan Daddy Double Dick Dongos. Even if the traffic lights are on green it’s legal for you as a German in a car to keep driving if there’s no people wanting to cross. No motorway speed limit, with a plethora of powerful German made cars to choose from. If you wanna drive, get down to dick town.

Crap

Berlin’s is employing a new Secret Service Crap Corp that at unspeakable hours hoovers and polishes up Berlin’s streets while shooting stump laden mangy pigeons. Because Berlin is super clean. They have this machine where you get 20p everytime you recycle a plastic bottle. Which would help on a Saturday night not having enough money for some curly fries. I suppose, if you like those novelties, which I do.

Polizei

If you break the law they don’t really care if you have breakable limbs, you’re in that van by your boobs. See maybe it comes from their history, maybe it comes from their understanding of conformity, of rules and regulations and acceptance of this. I think one copper had just enough of some flashy tosspot waving his 50 euro bills in his face, saying.
“Vere’s your power Mr Policeman? Is Versailles Treaty still taking more of your backbone cos I think vis is one of your colleagues. Hello Mr grilled pig, you only cost two euros to own. Had any Jews lately? Oh yeah vat’s right vey can’t stomach you, vell maybe you sho…”
“SWACK”
Gasps.
“A, a, a. Good job, great work, ermm promotion. Everyone, everyone. Look at this fine example of law enforcement officer, three cheers for karma, hip hip…”

I, like most people hate the police. The way they throw their authority about and generally believe you’re a criminal before you’ve even thrown that molitov cocktail at that adoption home for the disfigured. But I kinda like the Berlin police. They don’t get in your face, they don’t accost you if you’re a drunk, they don’t think your dealing drugs if your cigarette is a funny shape. They just stand around, or walk, being police.

No ban

Cigarettes are wonderful things, after getting over the whole disease, smell and death. If you still want to smoke, as a Berliner you can smoke virtually anywhere and buy them as soon as you can reach the street corner’s vending machines. Equally, cheap good booze is available everywhere; cafes, corner shops, cinemas, patisseries and no word of a lie, even pharmacies. It’s wonderland.

Yet I haven’t seen one drunken brawl, no kids smoking cigs. Nothing that I see every Friday and Saturday in any town or city centre in the UK. Because Germans seem to have this thing, I think it’s called trust, whereby, (and go with me on this one,) just because they have something, like most European countries they don’t feel the need to abuse it. It’s why you can’t leave you bike for a minute outside the offy without the fear and invariably actual theft of it. Yet Berliners leave a litany of bikes without even a lock on for days. It’s why you often fear going out after dark. Whereas Berlin is so calm you feel like a 2am nude stroll. If your trying to find your passport, waaait.

Obsession

Germany if drawn would have a big fat snout, a curly tail and go oink oink, you see what I’m trying to symbolically illustrate, Germany is just one big dirty pig. They manage to farm, breed and eat so friggin much of the animal they’ve pretty much wiped out the concept of any other animal existing. In Germany if you don’t like pig your not German, to them your not even human, don’t squeal, they’ll eat yer.

Sexy

Bears in cold climates have adapted their coats as genetic shields. German women have taken heed and grow their body hair to naturally shield them from men ever taking their clothes off. This bushy nature is found to be conducive to the climate of “urrrgggghhhhhh” if ever seen by foreign eyes.

Yet in comparison to their female counterparts men seem to be a lot balder. Big bulbous baldies, young small thinning and strange old axe like indented males wander around seemingly oblivious to their ingestion of radioactive pro bald genetically modified pig meat, M mmm. (Think that might be slanderous).

Blonde and blue eyed?

I don’t want to make assumptions about the holocaust, or even fear of a reoccurrence of that inclination of genocidal inhalation but there isn’t that many minorities or diversity in Berlin. Maybe when everyone was talking about multicultural landscapes and cross border diversity, they were worrying about how they’re going to get rid of a bloody big wall. But the old enforced Arian adage still seems to have a hangover in the population. Consequently minorities receives undue attention stared onto them. Admiration and jealousy combined is a hard expression to muster, but them Berliners are masters at the bating.

A wee

Five beers and no peanuts your standing outside wishing your nuts hold pee because you have no money and it’s 80 cents to piss. Yes in modern Berlin it’s illegal to wee on the street and nearly everywhere charges, even McDonalds. So always carry change or go into a bar because those toilet attendants are far too high on anti bac they’ll most likely make you re-digest.

So

In the world pie chart of freedom and quality of life, Germany would have Beth Ditto’s share where as the UK and US’s wouldn’t satisfy Kate Moss even if it had cocaine crust and she hadn’t got gacked up in a week. So be a Berliner for a bit, maybe, if you want, not bov'ed, i don't rule your life or nothin, TIDY YOUR ROOM!

government

2008-02-28T04:10:00.000-08:00

HOW DO YOU DO…

Government

Fancy been caricatured and criticised mercilessly?

Love those benches they got?

Never made a good decision in your life?

Get yourself a suit, cos your going to Westminster

Hello Mrs?

As politicians you’ll spend ages trudging round housing estates getting consistently; laughed at, pelted with and shouted down while campaigning for your party, in fairness, yourself. Take in a long-suffering breath to relentlessly talk to demographics that don’t vote or like you or your party or anything you have or ever will have to say. And now they kinda think that you think that they smell because you’re holding your breath and turning a funny colour of puce.

There is also another type of politician. These pay money to influential people offering their skills as liars to get people into power like Meet and Leek Campbell and Randy Mandelson. If you’re that minted you can buy power It doesn’t matter which party you plum for. So Jehovah's Witness or Jehovah's card details?

Shtick

Everyone’s got a shtick. If you want to be all working class and appeal to the fifty kid mothers of those scall’s who tag n key your car, then get that batter patter down. Talk in some rastastani way, innit. Set up a dealership at your party HQ. Comment on everything other politicians say in the papers with "Bwoy that’s proper rank yeah, weeez beat your pale ass down, Jenga-ed."

If your background is more middle class, ask quite ridiculous questions, ride a Sinclair C5, have stupid hair, say misguided things about immigrants and people from northern industrial towns. Get photographed a bit pissed or doing your secretary so they think you have some spunk.

Dress

Forget individual style you must now till your death appear to be selling Central heating at all times. OOooow he’s so shiny. Well, greased.

Babies

Kissing babies is very important and if you’re a paedophile, very rewarding. The practicality is that hopefully the babies you kiss on the way up will be the carers that nurse you on the way down. So slip em the tongue or they’ll slip you an extra large suppository.

Won

After buying voters off with your unimaginable amount of unbelievable and undoable policies you get voted in. Only just in front of the BNP party who in fairness you copied half your manifesto from. With that racist seat and some furrowed brow questioning in parliament people start to take notice, think that you must be some sort of latter-day Enoch Powell with balls bigger than Stephen Hawking's.

After been sat in the seat for what seems to be eternity you ponder just what the hell’s anyone actually is doing here. Resorting to paraphrasing Terry Wogan’s Eurovision commentary whenever the E.U. is mentioned. You eventually even stop that, get bitter and find the most abusive way you can attack fellow members of the opposition baring in mind that you have to call them ‘the right honourable gentleman’ before every thusly contradictory statement. The now stagnant party likes your absurd idiocy and when the current prime minister suddenly unquestioningly dies, they put you forward for leader.

And holy moley you win.

Gestures

Winston Churchill had his Victory V, Blair had his conversation hands, Ted Rodgers had his 321 and Gordon Brown has, well, the office on DVD. You need an intrinsic personality trait that people can identify and poke fun at. Some suggestions are: A blood soaked hand puppet called Benaseer. Maybe at intrinsic moments in international discussions point up at the ceiling with a pale crazed fear shouting “Independence Day!” Start every speech with “Word up suity booties…” and end with “…someone dropped a snizzle I’m outa this faggot forrest”. Always referring to the United Kingdom as “oh that shit hole.” Trying it on with every Head of State, Minister, Secretary and Royal with the explanation “I’m just trying to make peace and love with my piece and you luv.” Paying for things openly in rupees refusing to use the pound “cos it aint got my face on, yet. ”

Lie?

You have probably noticed Politicians never really lie so to speak. (pause to collect your thoughts). They just don’t tell the truth. If you listen closely their statements are never answers to questions posed. More whimsical narrations of theoretical situations and events happening in a parallel universe to our own. When these “lies” are exposed a politician has to be ready to gratuatiously adjust all previous statements, intents and actions to sound, well believable to them and Murdoch and generally more unbelievable to the general public.

Remember to not tell the truth when the press are heading for your head. Affairs, blowjobs, corruption, invisible weapons of mass destruction, terrorist threats, wasteful public spending, having relations with human rights abusers, being a human rights abuser, murdering and a dictator like disposition can all be side stepped with a smile and a whole heap of blame, on someone else.

Religion

This is so pop at the mo. Try and use whatever God your country is lumped with a say with a straight face that whatever your proposing is for God. God wanted this war, we are fighting for good, good God, we’re fighting for God and we will conquer, oops give them democracy.

The papers

Pretty much assume these two things. There are papers that support you but make you look a fool. Then there are papers that hate you and make you look a fool.

Get used to been papped. Get used to having your sweat, your teeth, your diet, your sex life and your pubes debated national and internationally. They’ll characature you worse than homeless Italian artists do at the tower of Pisa. Then they’ll make effigies from that characature and parade that right in front of your new matey presidents house. They’ll be even one guy who devotes your entire term of office shouting at you from across the street, you can call him whore.

Cabinet

Roll up, roll up, names in a hat time, not yours. Let’s come on down to play cabinet reeeeshuffllllle.

Most of these people in the hat should be ugly useless MPs so as to never pose a leadership threat. It won’t matter none of them really need to do anything because all offices have secretaries and competent incompetent consultants. All they have to do is answer a few questions in Westminster about frauds, ‘working holidays’ and a total collapse in infrastructure. Just instruct them to say this line “there will be a full independent enquiry conducted by Lord matey boy.”

Now where’s Johnson with my cigar.

Power

“Y'Know what really fucks me off about this country”

“What?”

“Bricks, I hate those pissing blocky red things filling up our streets, taking our jobs, being part of our houses, they don’t help, just sit there, looking”

Ban them. Change all road markings to match the flowers in your window box. Criminalise any form of runny nose, outlaw people in tracksuits that have obviously never used them for sporting activities. Hell close London, naming Barnsley our new capital of commerce, diversity and the 21st centuries technological world heartland.

Crisis

O no, a crisis. Get yourself a special red alert C.O.B.R.A. meeting and review nothing. Watcha bit of TV have a chat, get the MOD and MI5 to bring a few beers round. Ring the U.S. ask em what to say, then release a statement.

If anyone in the news says owt about strong public opinion, do the opposite, and then it’ll look like your being decisive.

Out

Defeat, scandal, and still in office? But oh what do I hear, they’re calling for your resignation for flattening Wigan last week when they beat Man city. And when you shipped the population of Devon to South Africa to black up and run farms the United Nations are dizzily labelling it genocide, I think you need a back door.

How about a multi million pound book deal? I series of motivational lecture tours with ex presidents? A CEO of a pharmaceutical company even? If you really believe in absurdity how about a job in a place you’ve already fuct up once before say, Middle East Ambassador?