Wednesday, December 30, 2015

This will finally explain that

This will finally explain that 

It's New Year's Eve! That's means everyone of you will be doing shit you regret tonight. Regardless of what you do you regret it on New Years Eve, it's the NYE dream! 

So here is a little poem to remind you that everyone makes mistake and it's all good: 

'I'm as serious as a fucking rash on your dick!' Yelled a guy called God, who's temperament was normally so level and calming that he was like a god to some people in these parts. 
'You can't be serious' Noah had just questioned.
But it turned out he was.

In God's defense though, even he hadn't fully thought this through. 
You see fourteen years earlier he'd sent his first child to earth. 
A daughter.
And now there were twelve sick men in robes following her around saying they worshipped her.
And like any father would, he wanted them dead, fast. And he wanted zero evidence of this left behind.
And to make sure if it he'd come up with a plan to just to kill everyone and in the meantime distract them with some kook on the hill loading animals into a boat.

He swore he'd never make this mistake again.
Next time he'd send a son! 
Of course he didn't bargain for his son's own teenage years.
When again weirdo dudes, in filthy robes followed him around and tried to wash his feet. 
Fucking sickos. 
By now he'd calmed a bit though.
First he spread some silly rumor that homosexuality was wrong, and had a bunch of these men stoned to death. 
But then that seemed like a lot of effort. 
 'Ahh fuck it' he finally said 'I'll just tell em' not to write about anything that happens till he's thirty or so'
And nothing bad ever happened again. 

Ahh God, so wise, no wonder he's like a god to some people.

Join Today

If I started a cult, where the only rules were: 

- It costs a sweet ten bucks a day to stay.
- You have to treat everything that your fellow followers say literally, with grace, and with a vow to honor those sayings. 
- You have to wear the official cult outfit at all times. And 
- The only sentence you are ever allowed to say is 'I promise you, I'm not leaving, trust me, I'm not going anywhere, I swear on my families lives, the lives of all my friends, the future of harmony in the UN, and I even swear on IMPORTANT things, like my pets, my smart phone, and my lucky t-shirt that I was wearing that time I got seven nuggets in a six pack, I'm serious, I am not going anywhere, and if I'm lying and disappear, I want you to fuck that ALL up, that's how much you can trust that I'm not going anywhere'.

Well I bet people who joined would probably quit hardly ever, and I'd get to keep all those sweet, sweet ten bucks! 

And I'll tell you why they wouldn't leave, because the official cult outfit would include cute hats! It's genius. 

Wait, why did I say 'if' I started a cult, clearly I meant 'when'! 

Join today! 

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

It’s My Annual End Of Year List Of The Best End Of Year Lists Of The Best Things Of The Year In List Form

It's the end of the year everybody, and you know what that means?

That’s right, severe depression about failing to achieve what you hoped to in the past year. I mean our relationships with our friends, family members, lovers and even our regular and favorite soda fountain jerks are all in shambles. Professionally we all went hardcore backwards. And emotionally our tear buckets have overflown so much the carpet is completely ruined. It’s been rough.  

Well maybe that’s not all true for all of us, but I have not heard a single person say out loud that they are completely happy with their local soda fountain jerk this year, NOT ONE PERSON, so it is very clear that depression is hitting us all. And that’s sad. And sadness just exasperates the problem.

But the end of the year is not JUST time for wallowing in misery, no of course not, it is also time for lazy ass Newspaper and Magazine Journalists, Television Presenters, Radio Hosts, Podcasters, Bloggers, Soap Box Monologists, Royal Shakespeare Theatre Curators, Bar Fly Social Commentators, Interpretive Dance Chorographers, and the rest, to ignore even the suggestion of delving into their imagination in an attempt to conjure up some new content, and to instead merely say ‘fuck it, let’s just whack together some form of BEST OF 2015 list’.  

And here at Fleeting Forever we are no exception. Having said that, ONLY here at Fleeting Forever, will you find not merely a list of the best say films of the year, or the best recipes, but instead the list of the 'BEST' Best Of Lists of the year! That’s right, our research department has scavenged through every element of entertainment, explored every single best of 2015 list, then dissected them, dismembered them, disfigured them, and debated them critically, till we have come up with a definitive (if now slightly maimed) list, so without further adieu, here is….

The Top Ten Best ‘BEST OF 2015’ best of lists:

10. Worst Come Back Magazine for their list of ‘Top Five Worst 1920s Actual Mobster Reanimations and/or Clones’!

This list was was beautifully crafted from top to bottom, however we felt that it was their positioning of Tony 'The Bologna' Disteppo as their number one, not given haphazardly, but justified with wonderfully defended meadow like freshness, with all new insight into The Bologna’s modern malaise being caused by an immense pressure to live up to the fearful reputation of his original carnation, while still trying to be healthy and happy in a modern world far more ready to accept and embrace the dainty side of his demeanor. Wonderful work guys. 

9. TheHelmet Or Hat’ Show, on CNN, for their ‘Top Ten Times We Got It RIGHT Episode’!

We found this list both gutsy and refreshing. For a show that mostly attracts an audience keen to witness disastrous head injuries from times the product tested turned out to be a hat when a helmet would have been better, or fashion failures when parties were attended in what turned out to be a helmet, to then dedicate an entire show to things like people being smacked in the head with golf clubs and NOT sustain brain damage was just cool. 

8. Bread and Spread Magazine, who are making this list for a record breaking third time, this time for their ‘Top Six Spreads for 2015 Breads’!

Let’s face it, who didn't race to the local church and light a candle in thanks for our prayers being answered when they saw that Countypool Dreamsted Home Crafted Orange, Lime and Cranberry Sweet Marmalade was finally RETURNED to the top spot after a brutal two years in the wilderness of second place? Helped of course by the beautiful prevalence that the ‘Deck Chair and Bread Affairs’ had on both our social lives and spread consumption this year. Great work as always bread and spread folk,

7. The Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper and Cardboard Radio Hour for their ‘Top 6 Insults We Received This Year About How Many Times We Have Paper In Our Title’ list.

Ha Ha, everyone receives overwhelming piles of hatred online these days, but only The Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper and Cardboard Radio Hour manages to inspire such revolting and abhorrence riddled gems from their top 6 as:

- ‘Why “paper” 6 times, wouldn’t 5 have the same impact’?
- ‘Paper is made from trees right? Who the hell saw a tree and thought “I’ll make something thin and white out of THAT!” wow, I’d never have thought that’. And
- ‘You guys are pathetic piles of shit that have been eaten by giraffes, then vomited into a pile of walrus cum, you fucking retards! Although I do enjoy your discernments into envelopes’.

6. The Dictionary for ranking all thirty eight million words in the modern English language in order, and discovering that in what is surely a mathematical marvel that must have blown the minds of statisticians and actuaries everywhere, the order tuned out to be EXACTLY the same as alphabetical.

5. Benjamin Cohler, Head Barfly Social Commentator at Salut and Grill, and his list of ‘Ways First World Nations Proved This Year That More Could Be Could Done To Help The Developing World Without The Need To Ask More From Taxpayers’.

We found this list to be smart, well researched, flawlessly justified from top to bottom, and exquisitely socially aware, heart enriching, hope enhancing, and all around positivity exploding. And yet his number one still managed to surprise us all – a steaming pile of beer and peanut puke. We’re not developmental economists here, so we’ll leave it to the experts to decipher exactly the message, but we are humans here, and we thank Ben for his list.

4. for their annual 'Did We Do It, or Was is it a Hack Plastic Surgeon?' list.

Regular readers of OUR list will know that the boys and girls down an photoshop can’t seem to keep off this list, but this is their HIGHEST positing on this list. So we congratulate them for that. But we also want to say a warm ‘hooray’ for innovation, for maintaining a delightful regular feature of their website, but also adding a new and beloved section dedicated to the work of people who merely ‘claimed’ they were plastic surgeons. Sometimes you see a picture that makes you laugh so hard that you cough up a section of spleen. THIS list made us here cough up so much spleen that we had to amend our intern’s contacts to include the clause ‘required to give spleen to boss’.

3. The ASS Blog for their ‘Biggest ass of the Year’ blog!

We all expect certain things from the ass blog – class, respect, revolution, modern thinking, pictures of asses, originality and a level of sophistication that most ass based blogs can’t dare poke a hole in. But this year they out innovated even the best innovators in history, when they chose their best ass of the year, and didn’t just show a photo, but copy and pasted it onto the head of a donkey for some weird reason! Wow. Why? Who knows? That’s why it’s genius.

2. Toe Touching Battles - The Reality Show for naming 'Even he didn’t think that his hamstring was about to feel sore’ as their number one episode of a pretty epic year!

Who would have thought upon first viewing that 'Is that REALLY as deep as you can stretch, I bet you could get another tiny bit if you tried' could have been beaten? No one, that's who. Let alone the truly marvelous 'Two contestants were found that could touch their toes on the SAME week, wow, but which two’? Which was simply awe-inspiring TV. Seriously, fuck me, if you've got a brain then get the box set, brilliant stuff.

1. The Vienna Institute of Interpretive Dance, for crafting the ONLY best of list of the year this year that mentioned paper. Great work dancers, and CONGRATULATIONS!

Special mentions this year go out to:

The Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper and Cardboard Radio Hour and their ‘Top Eight Emails We’ve Received From Listeners Who Obviously Mistakenly And Quite Stupidly Thought That WE Were ‘The Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper, Paper and Cardboard Radio Hour” Ha ha, Morons’ list. We particularly liked their number three entry – ‘wow, you guys sure must like paper’.

Roger Hundersmith, chief Barfly Social Commentator at the Onion and The Peal, for his list of ‘Reasons why that prick Sean, who comes in most Thursdays, is a total prick!’

SkyNews for their ‘Top Ten Stories Of The Year’, for the first time in their history having their number one story NOT be a really sad story, and instead have it be a really, really sad story.


Michelle Waters Soapbox Monologist in Washington Square Park, and her list of ‘Top Things I Put In My Soapbox This Year Other Than Soap’, which we liked in particular for number 6 – bodywash. Which opened her up to endless ‘that’s just another type of soap you idiot’ comments, but she bravely pushed ahead with it regardless, choosing to find strength in her belief that in her personal opinion and belief that bodywash is in fact ‘kind of soap, but not really’.  

It’s been another breathtaking year in best of lists everybody. We hope that this list of the best of best of lists has challenged you, motivated you, and opened up much lively debate in your household, or pretty much any response that distracts you from just how god damn disappointed you are in how little you’ve accomplished this year.

And just before we sign out, a quick reminder that, just like you, your favorite local soda fountain jerk had a truly appalling lack of achievements this year, so hey, tomorrow, as you head down to the store for your morning soda fountain beverage freshly jerked just the way you like it, how about instead doing as you’re planning, and spitting in his face, why not give him a break, and maybe just spit on his shirt.

Happy New Year Everyone.

Monday, December 28, 2015

Shining a light

The year was about 1983, when 1983 first began to fester in its mother's gestation hole, and around 1983, 1983 decided it had had enough of gestation hole life and was birth canaled into the world, only to land in a squishy pile of post disco and pre-new-wave gunk. 

These were dark times that it had landed in. Dark I tells ya. Dark. 

I mean lights hadn't even been discovered yet, so at night we mostly just burned incense and reminisced about times when it wasn't totally lame to light incense.

So it was dark. 

Skin cancer hadn't been invented yet, so we were all so tanned that our entire bodies were one big large constantly morphing almost black mole. 

So dark. 

Black was still the original black, which confused us, because 'original' tended to be the worst flavor of bubble-gum, which was often pink, which was the color of seventy percent of tongues, so were we supposed to lick the gum? 

The times, super dark they were. 

Sliced bread hadn't yet taken off, so we mostly ate Nutella between two slices of vegemite. 

Dark I'm telling you. 

The most fun activity ever invented till now was interpreting a dog, but because of some mysterious stickiness in our mouths, we'd pronounce b's as d's and go around 'darking' at old ladies till they gave us lollies, which were themselves sticky! 

These were dark times I'm letting you know. 

Kendall Jenner wasn't even born yet, and several rappers had already banged her. 


The biggest movie of the year was Return Of The Jedi, which was a good movie and all, but we were all like 'seriously, a sequel is the BIGGEST movie? That's pathetic, this will be the only year in history this will ever happen, and we'll all be laughed at!' And we were. 


The band INXS were still called 'In Excess (although we wish there was a shorter way of spelling that)' and they were total liars, I mean they had yet to all get a blow job by the same groupie at the same time while in a hot air balloon, that was floating over a secret pancake restaurant causing them all to shriek 'I'm getting a short stack, no no no I'M getting a short stack!', pathetic, it's FAR more 'in excess' to get a LONG stack! 

Really dark. 

There'd only been three or four billion deaths in the history of the world, so we were on a first name basis with all our ghosts, but they were always whining about their lives - 'during the depression I had to eat a shoe'  they'd say - ok I fucking get it, WE don't have McDonalds breakfast yet, it's tough for everyone! 

My god dark. 

Movie theaters held a monopoly on No Exit signs, so we all burned to death every time we went putt putt golfing, but we still played every week because the charcoal chicken their was excellent.  

Unilluminated darkness. 

The trendiest hair style was a rats tail, and just like today having one guaranteed you'd get laid constantly, but we were just children so this cost us LOTS of uncles.

Was it dark? Yes. 

The hot new product on he market was Blue Tack, but at the time it was mostly marketed as a foodstuff, so we all had Duran Duran posters stuck to the inside of our intestines. 

Totally dark. 

But among all this darkeness was hope, and that hope was a little annual tradition that had recently been founded by some gays, 'gay' still being a word meaning joyful and happy, so don't fucking get up me for using that word dicks, and that ray of hope was Christmas.

But 1983s Christmas was about to be so dark that it made its regular darkness seem like fresh virgin snow, and this darkness was going to lead to hypothetical blood shed, which looks great on fresh virgin snow, but on the other hand is hard to see in darkness, meaning you risk slipping on it, which could be gross, especially seeing as we all wore nothing but white clothes with plans to die them fluorescent Orange the moment it was first imagined. 

Yep, my brother convinced me to put a skateboard on MY Xmas list but then give it to him. And I did it. 

1983 was dark I tell ya. 

But its dead now so who cares? 

Well I do! 

Yep, With 2015 about to come to a close, and everyone looking back over this year, I think it's nice to think back at some other years that have come over the years, many of which themselves are no longer with us, and today it was 1983.

So thanks 1983. Give me back my skateboard dick! 

Sunday, December 27, 2015

Breaking news

Breaking news: Tragedy struck earlier today, in striking fashion during a break from picketing by three striking Fashion Industry Strokers, down in the Strap region of the fashion district on Distract Street, as a microwave in the break room was turned off just as Simon, a corn kernel, was finally ready to pop.

Simon's lack of popping was particularly tragic due to several important facts:

- He was the last kernel left to pop in the whole bag, meaning his exploding would have led to the first burn-free and yet completely popped bag of microwave popcorn, a feat that surely would have led to 'Jonathan' the bags popper, and planned consumer, to unleash powerful words of astonishment, that I am lead to believe would have gone - 'wow, sweet'.
- Jonathon dearly needed a 'wow, sweet'. His life was very savory (ha ha. Wait that’s the opposite of sweet right? Or is it sour? It doesn’t matter; let’s stick with ha ha!) at the moment, and it was just jokes as lame as that, that were holding him from true umami. Ha ha. Umami.
- That's one of the flavor profiles right? 
- Is profile the right word? 
- How come the savory vs sweet question was reduced to mere parentheses when these questions get to exist as their own points?
- What the hell is a ‘fashion industry stroker’?
- And are they hiring?
- Also Simon had been a hero!
- He had been ready to pop way earlier but had seen some prepubescent corn kernels struggling, and made the selfless decision to make sure they popped safely before he would go. 
- Not that they said thank you.
- Having popped and all.
- I wonder what it feels like to ‘pop’?
- I bet it would feel swell!
- When I was in Japan I found a snack that was a full bag of half popped popcorn, and MAN it was good.
- Yum.
- PLUS texturally pleasurable.
- See, I know textures, someone hire me down on Distract Street Please; if those lazy bums want to strike then I’ll HAPPILY take their jobs!
- Unless the job is all stroking models bums.
- Those bums can be striking, making it a struggle to stand rudeness in traffic, I mean pick a lane dick!

Once again, tragedy on Distract Street as Simon, a corn kernel, failed to pop.

Simon was survived by no one.

And he was attempted to be eaten anyway.

Then half his face got stuck between two of Jonathan’s teeth requiring him to be flossed out.

A floss advocate was heard exclaiming ‘wow, sweet’.

So I guess this was a happy story in the end.

Saturday, December 26, 2015

Hang on!

Doug always wanted to placate an angry coat hanger.
It had been a life long dream.
Ever since he was a child.
Unfortunately for him all the coat hangers he knew were calm, relaxed and extraordinarily swift to forgive both big and small slights against them. 
Over several decades of meeting as many coat hangers as possible, from the classic metal wire, to the fancy felts and fine woods, and never once finding one that had been angry, he decided it was time to take things into his own hands.
And MAKE a coat hanger angry. 
He spent months studying them, trying to spot their weaknesses, their flaws, their soft underbellies, and when he finally was sure he'd isolated their most tender vulnerabilities, he implemented an all out insult attack, with relentless strikes blowing out as viciously as he could spray them, yelling all sorts of vile, devastating and masterly crafted charges at the coat hangers, such as:

- 'Nice shape, ha ha, they didn't have any square bodies available?'
- 'I bet if you had a dick it'd be thin, cause ALL of you is thin!' 
- What did you go as at Halloween last year, Captain Hook!' 
- 'You're still in the closet, that's SO 1983'. 
- 'You're everyone's least favorite method of abortion!' 
- 'I didn't even PAY for you! You came free with my returned dry cleaning. I mean sure you were probably factored into the cost, but if I'd said that I didn't want you I wouldn't get the value of you off my bill, so sure, I'll take ya!' - And most vicious of all 
- 'The odd item in my wardrobe doesn't even look better on you than me!' 

Yet the replies came in just as relentlessly, but calm, cheerful and even full of praise, replies such as: 

- 'Ha ha good one'
- 'zing, you got me'
- 'I sure did!'
- 'And I rock a keyboard tie!' 
- 'Free is the fastest way to freedom!' 
- 'It's all good bro, I'm pro-choice' and most gleeful of all
- 'Aww, don't be like that, I know a guy holding a baby pink tuxedo that you'd look swell in!' 

It was painfully infuriating. 
And I'm sad to say that eventually he gave up, and just said out loud 'coat hangers are perfect, unflappable, and unable to control, and really, given that, and adding on my life long dream, well this means THEY control ME!'

Said out-loud to the cop that spotted him when he was using a coat hanger named Johnny to jimmy open a strangers car that is. 
The cop let him off too. 
You see, he knew ALL about disagreeable, manipulative and controlling coat hangers.
'1992 Super bowl motherfucker' he muttered as he ripped up the incident report and walked away 'my fucking ass a coat hanger can be used as television aerial, that screen was occasionally unfocused, UNFOCUSED for fucks sake!!!!'  

Friday, December 25, 2015

Finally time for some genius

I heard someone on the train today say 'If I was the richest person alive then sure, I'd have bought TWO bmx bikes for my grandmother for Christmas, but I'm only about the forty second richest person alive, so the old lady only gets one alright? I don't even know why you think she would want two anyway, she barely even uses the wheelchair we got her last year, she's always complaining that it's too hard to get into ever since that last botched spinal relocation, plus there are no good jumps anywhere near that home we locked her in, so that's it, one bmx bike only'. 

Now I know what your thinking - 'did she say 'IF' she were the richest person alive? Um, if she wanted to be the richest person alive she just would be, it's pretty easy, no one just dreams of it and doesn't achieve it'.

And I know, right? 

(Please hold for a moment) Oh ok, I'm being handed a note saying that some of you wouldn't find it easy to be the richest person alive, and may even find this slightly hard, to even medium hard, to achieve, so I guess I'll let you know how to achieve that really easily, finally some time for some genius:

Open a petting zoo with a 'you touched it you bought it' policy. 


Being the richest person alive guaranteed within weeks. 

There are literally zero obstacles in this plan. ZERO. Except for possibly the following:

- Some person will probably then come along and write a book called 'so you bought a baby goat, you weren't planning on it, but you've done it'. 
- And they'll start selling them outside of petting zoos. 
- And they'll discover sales are at their most outside of petting zoos, with a 'you touched it you bought it' policy. 
- Which will probably only be yours, because not many people actually read my genius suggestions. 
- And in some counties books sell for MORE than baby goats, so if you want to remain the richest person alive you may have to move your petting zoo to a different county.
- Which may be easier than you thought, if you'd forgotten to specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals, and you've ended up accidentally selling your fences too. 
- But it may be harder also if you've forgotten to specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals, because you may have inadvertently sold all your staff, whom would be valuable in a moving situation.
- Or as scape goats, if you've happened to have forgotten to specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals, and you've accidentally sold off a few strangers' kids.
- Then again, if you've sold your fences you'll probably have numerous escaped goats, and now you're looking for scape goats? Um, your going to need big pieces of paper to make sure the language on those flyers is substantial enough to be clear.
- And so you're probably going to need to hire a 'what's the difference between a scape goat and an escaped goat' expert. A specify that the 'if you touch it you bought it' rule only applies to the animals' specifier. And a 'did you bring that kid, cause if you didn't, they are NOT for sale, at least from us, you can talk to its parents directly though if you'd like' specialist. And that's three salaries that will come out of your most money of anyone alive!
- Where as the baby goat wholesaler that you get your baby goats from, only has one salary to pay, to his 'no no no, down, I know we're a baby goat wholesaler, but ain't no baby goats having sex here, it turns out the best baby goats strangely enough come from ADULT goats. So weird. So hoofs off each other got it!' Wrangler. And you'll be buying LOTS of baby goats, so this guy could well challenge you for the richest person alive.
- Someone else will come along along and write a book called 'bought a baby goat?' Which is a simpler title than the last one, so will steal that market, and will cost less ink to produce, and then THEY'LL become the richest person alive. 
- You'd have to buy some poor old lady you don't even know TWO bmx bikes, and when you decide to take one for a spin before you hand it over you'll discover NO good jumps near her home.
- You'll have to work at a petting zoo, and they sometimes smell bad. 
- No one will ever go to a petting zoo that only has baby goats, regardless
of your 'if you touch it you bought it' policy. 
- So you'll probably end up with just a bunch of baby goats to take care of, which will be horrible! 
- Basically buying baby goats would be bloody stupid stupid. 

So there you have it. It's EASY to be the richest person alive, with ZERO obstacles. In the mean time, if you run into the forty second richest person alive on the train this week, can you tell her off for me, she talks WAY too loud, and I need to relax, I've got a spinal relocation operation soon, and I've heard botched ones suck. 

Thursday, December 24, 2015

Santa - The real truthful gritty origin story - The Conclusion

When you think of Greenland today, and let's face it most of us are likely to do at least dozens of times today, because we're at this blog and Greenland is a hot topic of conversation, but even when you think of Greenland on days other than today, yesterday for example, or even two Thursdays from the next full moon that follows a week of barren wheat yields, or any other typical day, most of us will think of Greenland maybe eight to twelve times, thirteen if we have a flu, and when have such thoughts, Greenland conjures up a stream of beautiful feelings and mind pictures, of rolling hills, snow capped mountains, over the hill postal workers accidentally delivering their pet goldfish to realtor offices, lovely meals capped off with knife fights in alleys, snow haired rock stars plugging walruses into guitar amps and shredding a whisker solo, lone alley cats learning to use can openers and sneakily trying to keep the knowledge to themselves, people missing hitting pedestrians with their cars by mere whiskers and apologizing by shouting the near hit barrels of bacon grease rescued from hoarding underground wrestling leagues, and sipping Peña-Coladas by a hot spring spurting ten thousand year old sulfur out of cracks in glaciers which show off signs of disaster for the future of man kind, but even worse can leave smelly stains on our best glacier swimming trunks.

But Greenland wasn't always the land of wonder, beauty, laughter, intrigue, adventure, and inspiration that we all adore now, in fact as recently as the late 1800s it barely had 85% of these things, and as a result some of her citizens were not happy.

To be honest the country was awful, none of the alley cats knew how to use can openers, so they were always asking humans to do it for them, the hills hadn't discovered the wheel yet so we're motionless and decades from learning to roll, the Peña-Coladas at the local glacier hot spring were often mixed light on the Colada, most bacon fat wrestling leagues were above ground, and therefore hard to focus on without wondering if the sun would ever come out, and few rock stars could play a walrus whisker to me save their lives, and most were into electronic polar bear genital manipulation, which while sounded better than most modern music, sounded mostly like a large animal having its genitals manipulated. Yep the citizens hated life.

One such citizen was a man named Nick, or Santa to his school chums, most of whom were now dead, but for some reason chose to have their gravestones marked with 'don't forget to call Nick "Santa" ha ha, remember that picture of his mother's vagina, man it was gritty!'

It was hard to begrudge them, if you can't share a joke post death then why bother dying, that's why the worst people you ever meet seem to live forever. I mean when was the last time you met a really old person who was quick to crack a joke? I sure haven't for a while, and I've looked. I spend most Sunday's touring old folk homes and hospices, and I'll walk around slapping old folk awake with a fly swatter, or stepping on their oxygen tubes till they cough to consciousness, then I'll go 'quick, crack a joke' and hardly any of them do. Some of them will instead soil themselves and call a nurse to get out of it. Imagine being so reluctant to say something funny that you instead shit your bed! And I know what you're thinking 'old folk shitting their bed, what could be funnier than that?' And you're right, sure I'll laugh my ass off, but often they'll try and chuckle along with me and pretend it doesn't bother them, and it's just not funny unless they're horrified, disgusted at themselves, and clearly well past having lost the will to live.

So yeah, it was hard to begrudge these dead old guys who actually had a sense of humor. But one guy who could begrudge almost anyone, was Santa.

And it was hard to begrudge Santa for that. He had not had a happy past fifty years or so. Due to a number mess up in the front of his house he was regularly getting hit in the face with bricks. The scientist who was his next door neighbor had invented cheese, after a weird obsession with trying to get cows to go home earlier had led to him experimenting with making cows lighter by removing their milk, and then taunting them with products he made from it hoping it would make them run home to cry behind their sofas, and he was now living a life swimming in sharp-tasting cheese money, throwing thrilling soirees, with all the cheese you could eat, which attracted the most beautiful girls in all of Greenland, none of which would look at Santa twice, unless they came by asking 'can I borrow one of your mothers toys, I'm way too cheese bloated to have actual sex, oh not like I would with you anyway, you chubby freak, I'm mean with your neighbor, Dr Sciencewhattsy, wow, he had science in his surname, no wonder he turned out the be a scientist, my name is Sarah Bestblowjobimaginable, I wonder what I’ll do if I ever decide to get a job'? And then they'd use his toilet, leaving cheese turds so pungent they burned holes in the porcelain, and left smells so bad that the bricks thrown at him would disintegrate within days of smacking him in the face.

Oh plus Santa was unhappy because he had just remembered he had found a watch that could stop time, and he could have had the most amazing life imaginable, even by the most fertile of imaginative minds, but the day he found it he'd put it down to watch TV, and forget it was there.

Now that he remembered that he had it he needed to come up with a plan. He sat down to a delicious feast of Grit Dumplings, with a side of Gritty Scarpariello and a desert of Profiteroles La Grit, all with a frosty of mug of Grit Juice, and some things became clear to him - eating and drinking nothing but grit was fucking awesome, living in an gritty house made of grit was sweet, and bathing and sleeping in grit was the dream, following his mother's footsteps had been a great success, even if almost all of the rest of the country had switched to 'currency' for pay, and bathed in water and ate pizza, he wasn’t tempted to join them, because he was happy, and comfortable. And that was exactly what had been holding him back. He needed to delve towards discomfort if he was to achieve his life goals.

So he headed for the worst place he had ever heard of, a little place called  ‘slightly further south from where he was and still in Greenland. This was the worst place he'd ever heard of as he’d heard their fermented grit was sometimes out of season, and also because knowing about other places outside of Greenland had yet to be invented, and that what something Santa knew for sure, after many long conversations with foreign tourists that he'd run into at the local amusement park. So south is where he headed.

Unfortunately the bird he decided to follow south turned out to be retarded. And he ended up at the North Pole. Here he ran into a small society, where years of inbreeding and bestiality had lead to magic animals and elf like humans. It was really gross and freaky. Santa knew he was home.

From there the following took place:

- Santa told all the freaks he'd kidnap them and put them in a circus if they didn't become his slaves and make shit for him.
- He hooked up with the most 'normal' one, a little lady named Mrs, and he married her, and then blew a big sigh of relief when he discovered on their wedding night that her vagina was not gritty, nor a reindeer hoof.
- He put into action his decree that ‘One day when I grow up I'm going to spoil all the seemingly happy well off shitty assholes until they ALL disappear!'
- Likewise for his other decree ‘Coal for anyone with a unique spirit, that's my plan!’
- Using his watch that could stop time made it possible for him to play out his plan to every house in the world.
- He hoped that his third decree ‘I’ll never clean my ear without eating the wax again’! was forgotten, and not mentioned in his biography.
- When people started saying stuff like ‘yeah right, as if Santa could hit every house on earth in one night, instead of telling them about the watch, he’d snap-chat all their friends with a picture of his mothers vagina.
- The world embraced and became to adore Santa, and his methods, and not a single flaw in his system has ever been even noticed, let-alone discovered.
- A bunch of show off lying ass songwriters re-told his story, changing the facts for lame shit, and they torture people with them each year.
- The lazy rectum committee re-named their product ‘street vendor hotdogs’ and they actually took off.
-Greenland changed their name to Graceland for one day, and Elvis was so pissed off he shit himself to death.
- Coal eventually got a dirty name, after someone rubbed coal all over it, so Santa decided to just start giving the interesting people nothing at all, no one seemed to notice.
- People began to honor Santa’s history by eating grit pies on Christmas, although they call them ‘fruit cake’.
- And everyone lived happily ever after.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Santa - The real truthful gritty origin story - Pt 2

'With a tart burst, this delicacy demands its arrival to your taste buds be heard around the mouth, but it is no one trick pony*. No sirree, the soiree has only just begun, as moments after its grand entrance, a bitter tug of flavor tightens the inner cheeks, only to be followed by a grand stench of umami dreaming rancidity that roller coasters its presence like a butterfly caught in a tornado, until the upper tonsils serenade the sinuses with melodies of acidic robustness only to depart, with swiftness clearly not on the agenda, and with a discharge of crusty after burned relentless batteryesq aroma...

*unless the lazy rectum you are eating came from an actual pony^
^which most do, that's one lazy assed animal'

Is how the lazy rectum committee began to market their product in the early to mid 1800s. Although even with this poetic gift of taste arrousal it still failed to grab any sense of a regular station on the inner city transit network of regular eats for most Grasslandic households. Mostly because it was not actually tasty, but partly because it was also unimaginably disgusting. 

Still it sold enough to warrant a factory, and any asshole who worked there was paid enough product to feed just one person, and these selfish (or heroic) assholes rarely shared their bounty with family. Santa's father, a born lazy asshole, was no exception. But the truth was, as night after night young Santa sat down to some grit salad, or a delicious fondue de' grittay, he never once looked over to his father's plate of lazy rectum and coveted even a taste. 

Therefore when his father demanded he eat some one night, fed up with his son's dreams of a better life, better world, and better prime time television options, it was most certainly a punishment.

At this point in history, with grit being a beloved new entry to the cannon of modern convenience, those who worked within the industry and therefore had access to the product were considered most certainly upperclass, and they absolutely never fraternized with lazy assholes or their lazy rectum, so the two products had never been consumed by one person on the same day ever before. And as the chewed up lazy rectum meat entered young Santa's stomach and met the juices and fragments of grit already there, something truly remarkable happened, something magical, very magical....

He got a sore tummy. 

It was the first time this had ever happened to anyone ever, as the word 'tummy' had only been coined a few days earlier, and people before then had called them 'gut sores', and experiencing a brand new medical condition freaked Santa the fuck out.

He bolted from the house, ran to the local unstable nuclear power science emporium, broke into the spider testing area, flung the spiders aside, and made a fortress of solitude out of the rubble, where he built an iron suit, sold it for ten bucks, and used it to pay to have his parents killed, swore revenge, then remembered that would mean revenge on himself, said 'meh' to that, studied martial arts anyway, learned the ways of the force, and grabbed a shield painted with the beautiful colors of the nations flag, and declared himself Captain Grassland! It was a busy evening.

Then he went home, turned on the TV, discovered that in the last hour the nation had been re-named Greenland, threw out his shield, took a nap in his dead parents bed, felt weird about it, then found a watch in his mothers 'toy' bucket, and found a note on it saying:

'Can be used to stop time one day a year, and ONLY one day a year, don't even TRY it on other days, it'll be a total waste of finger pressing, which could be way better utilized to press on a bruise, which is weirdly fun, you know, I mean it hurts but you can't stop right? It's strange, because normally we try to AVOID pain right? Well I do. One time I fell off my skateboard and scrapped my right knee AND left elbow, I was in pain on BOTH sides, it SUCKED. So you know what I did? I stopped riding my skateboard anywhere but inside bouncy castles, sure occasionally I have to beat a couple of kids with my board so they nick off to the hospital and get their wheelchairs so I can have it to myself, but I don't hurt MYSELF anymore. So that's proof I'm pain adverse. And yet get me a bruise and I'll press it, ha ha, I'll press it till the cows come home. And I don't even own cows, so I have to call up my friends with cows and ask them if they're still out, and they always reply "if my cows were home would I be answering the fucking phone or having a gleeful time with my cows? I'd be playing with my cows wouldn't I, it'd be fucking gleeful. But I'm not having that glee, I'm talking to you asshole, and yet you want to remind me of the glee I'm missing because my cows aren't yet home?" And then I'll go back to the bruise. And then an hour or so later call my friend back and ask "how about now, any sign of those cows?" And they'll reply "did I or did I not fucking explain to you what I would do if the phone rang and my cows were also already home?" And this pattern will continue for a few hours until I have to stop pressing my bruise because for some reason there'll be a stranger throwing bricks at my house and they'll be yelling "do I seem gleeful motherfucker?" Ha ha. Bruises. Anyway, this watch. December 25th each year, click stop, do whatever the fuck you want, travel the world if you want, take as long as you want, then hit start again and the rest of the world will have experienced literally no time at all. Have fun. And keep it somewhere no one would ever dare look. Somewhere gross normally works'.

Did you notice? The words 'Nick off' were in there. This was the same thing young Nick would say whenever he'd finished pooping and climb off the toilet, he knew this was a sign. Also because the note was written on the same metal and in the same style as traffic signs, and the words were the same size and shape, so it was also literally a sign. His mother sure did have a big toy bucket. And all the toys were made from grit, so that also explained her vagina situation. 

Nick looked at the watch, looked at the toys, and then something hit his brain like a brick!

It was a stranger throwing a brick through the window while yelling 'Do I look like I'm having glee motherfucker!!!'

Nick ran to the window and yelled out 'hey man, has someone been asking about your cows?'
'Yeah' came the reply.
'I think you want next door, old man Dr Sciencetypeguy is always asking people if their cows are home. Oh and inventing things and patenting them. I really think those patents may be the wave of the future!' 
'Thanks man, and I agree, oh you mind throwing that brick back, I need to throw it next door' 
'No problem man' Santa yelled, as he threw the brick back, accidentally smashing his own car's window, and then yelling at himself 'I'm never getting a mode of fucking transportation with windows again, fucking fragile pieces of shit'.

Then he went and watched a game-show, and snap chatted with a few friends, ate some grit florentine, jerked off once or twice, tried to learn a new scale on his guitar, got wasted on fermented grit juice, and then suddenly seventy years had passed, when he suddenly bolted upright and yelled 'oh fuck, I forgot all about all my goals, my dreams, my future, oh and even that time stopping watch thing!'

And it would turn out that remembering all that would have a surprise magical effect, very magical, and we'll explore that tomorrow, when...

Santa - The real truthful gritty origin story 


Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Santa Clause - The Real Truthful Gritty Origin Story

The year was 1829, and the place was far north Greenland, which at the time was called Grassland, even though it had no grass, because the color green wasn't invented yet, and the founders had really wanted to name the place ‘g-something-land’.

I mean sure, there were prototypes out there for the color Green already, but nothing had been perfected yet, let alone patented, and there were several different master inventors working on their own varieties. Most notably, out of many, Cameron Bunford and Charles Ireland.

We all know this story of course, and this isn't the origin story of the color Green, but as we all know Charles got beaten to the patent, and then got swindled by a country near the UK who took a huge shipment of fresh new green and paid only by naming their nation after him, a nice, yet financially moronic decision for Ireland.
Had he known just how much money there would be in Green he never would have made the deal, but people couldn’t see into the future as yet.

Cameron, on the other hand, made a similar deal with a nation then known as Grassland. But when but he failed to come up with any real product, having spent all his capital on the patent and suing Ireland who seemed to be selling Green illegally, and then he went into huge debt after being counter-sued by Ireland the nation, after it turned out he’d sued the wrong Ireland.

Grassland then sued Bunford and were awarded Green in the settlement. They the renamed their country Greenland, to use as a marketing tool to sell the color Green which they began to export in earnest, mostly to rich countries around the world, and Green began to go for such a pretty penny that they didn't even keep any for themselves.

It was in this land, several years before all this took place, that a small baby boy to be named Nick, was born in a gritty hospital, in a gritty hospital bed, on a gritty weathered day, in a gritty part of town, and out of a vagina so gritty that there was never a doubt he'd be an only child.

His mother was a gritty woman who worked in the local grit factory, which was a new and coveted commodity in those days. His father was a revenge fucker, who only slept with Nick’s mother because the owner of the grit factory had outbid him on the newly invented pretty penny, which had already proven to be a massive blow to Father Clause.

As a result Nick grew up in a bitter household, with his parents forced to marry by the country's then romantic 'you stuffed it you bought it' law, in a gritty house, made from grit, and with nothing but grit to eat, as in those days people were only ever paid in the in the company they worked for's product. It was even worse for those who worked at the murder factory. Where a good month of working your bones to the nub breaking the factories murder record, was rewarded with the lovely pay of having yourself and all your family murdered. But at least that was a company that always seemed to have jobs going. Still, young Nick didn't think about his friends who's parents worked there, because they were shitty friends who always seemed to just stop returning his calls and texts out of the blue with no explanation. He hated those kids. 'Spoiled little shits' he'd think.

'One day when I grow up I'm going to spoil all the seemingly happy well off shitty assholes until they ALL disappear!' He'd yell at no one in particular, as he'd sit at dinner eating a warm bowl of grit and washing it down with an ice-cold can of diet grit.
'What, are you going to get a job at the spoil store?' His dad would reply laughing, 'they'd never hire you, you're too fair, they only hire people dedicated to unbalance, and karmaprovedwronganites, you stupid shit'
'At least I dream of having a job Dad, I'll never end up a lazy bum!' He'd yell back. But he always felt really empathetic right after, as his dad dug into his own dinner, a bowl of lazy rectum, the least clean type of rectum.

I mean seriously the pay structure back then was awful. That's probably why people always coveted patents now that I think about it.

As childhood rolled on, Nick developed school chums, and the chums developed a Nickname for Nick at school, it was the first one ever, and the term nickname was named after Nick. Nick on the other hand was nicknamed ‘Santa’, which was Grasslandish for 'came from a gritty vagina', and they'd begun to call him this after his father had accidentally snap-chatted a picture of his wife's hooch to a bunch of his sons friends.

This was yet another blow to his already fragile self-esteem, and as a result Santa began not to dream of working at the spoil factory. Those guys’ families all seemed too smug for him, too pompous and too highfalutin. And this last one was something he particularly disliked, as neither falutin nor height had been invented yet, and he found that too arrogant, too pretentious, and too grandiloquent. 

No the people he looked up to were the badasses. The misfits. The provocateurs. The Rebels. The Nirvanas. The Stone Temple Pilots. The Creedence Clear Water Rivals. The My Chemical Romances. The kids that rejected cool so much that they became way more cool than even the cool kids could dream of. And this was Grassland remember, so being cool was all anyone had. These were kids so cool that one-day band’s would name themselves after them. (And yet Grassland is almost forgotten in terms of the story of Rock n Roll, for shame).

But they did also influence Santa. Nope Santa did not seek the regular normal life most craved. He wanted to be his own man. Like the kids he looked up to. And by being so he wanted to inspire the people of the world to be better and cooler and more badass than they’d ever been before. And the kids who lived that way all seemed to come from families who worked at a very specific place…

The Coal Factory.

'Coal for anyone with a unique spirit, that's my plan!' he'd suddenly burst out with, after getting lost in daydreams.

But one day, his dad would overhear him, call him a tool, and punish him by making poor Santa finish his dad's dinner.

And it would turn out that lazy rectum and grit mixed together in a stomach would have a surprise magical effect, a very surprise magical effect. Well not so much a surprise, at least not in the long run, more very reliably routine, but at first in was a HUGE surprise, and we’ll explore that more tomorrow, when

Santa - The Real Truthful Gritty Origin Story


Monday, December 21, 2015

Fast attack

Do want a speed boat that only works on lakes???

I'm not kidding here, it will NOT work on oceans, in rivers, near billabongs, or in big puddles, it will not work AT ALL. 

Let's say that another way. You'll look like a dick if you try and use it somewhere other than a lake, and not the good kind of dick, but like a dick that makes people yell shit at you, shit like 'you look like a dick', or 'nice speed boat, looks like it doesn't work you dick', or 'nice boat dick', or even 'hey dick, you look like a dick'.

Let's put that another way, remember the first time you got caught staring at two birds fighting over a French fry, and everyone thought 'man, that dick thinks HE/SHE should be the one that gets to eat/ fight over that French fry, what a dick', and then to prove you weren't a dick, you ignored  the French fry and instead fought a an old man for use of his cane, yelling 'I'd look WAY cooler than you with this cane' as you struggled to wrestle him to the ground, and remember how you lost that fight, and as he was belting you in the face with his cane and saying 'smarten up dumbass' and someone walked past and said 'look at that dumb ass, what a dick!'? Remember? Well if you try and use this speed boat in a river, you'll look like even more of a dick than you did then. 

Let's put that another way - think of a green shoe. Any sort of green shoe. Could be a men's shoe, could be a lady shoe, could be a casual shoe, should be dress up shoe. It doesn't matter, just as long as it's a specific shoe. Got one in your mind? Now, remember that time that you thought of a specific green shoe just because someone told you to? Woah, man you looked like a dick! But not as much as a dick as you'd look if you tried to use this speed boat near a billabong. Wow, what a dick you'd look like.

Let's say this in a another way. Remember when you were looking at that person who was a dick, and you were like 'wow that guys a dick' and then you realized that you were actually looking in the mirror? And you were like 'wow. I am a dick'. Remember that? Well you get in this speed boat in a really big puddle, and you'll look like an even bigger dick than that time that even you thought you looked like a dick. And you're not someone who usually calls someone a dick unless they REALLY look like a dick. So man, you would look like a dick in this speed boat in a puddle. 

So do you STILL want this speed boat? Yes? Well I'm not giving it to you. Because a speed boat like doesn't exist. ALL speed boats work on oceans, in rivers, near billabongs, or in big puddles. So if you want one then why not invent one then, I can't do everything for you! You dick. 

YEP, this whole speed boat offer was a LIE, and it turns out therefore that it was not you, but me, who was the dick was this whole time! I'M the dick, and you're just a really nice person. Awww. Now don't you feel good about yourself. Yay.

Please note: throughout this blog the word 'dick' was intended to be used as a substitute in every case for 'literal penis'. If you read it any other way you're a total vagina.

Please note 2: throughout these notes the word 'vagina' was intended to be used as a substitute for 'awesome human', man I just can't stop making you feel great about yourselves! 

Please note 3: go me for making you feel awesome.