He hated being called a crook. Even from a young age when other kids would want to play cops and robbers Ol’ Kennedy would be all like 'I'll play cops and robbers, but anyone calls me a crook I'll bash their faces in, I hate being called a crook'.
'Ol’ Kennedy the weird violent crook guy' the other kids used to call him behind his back. 'If only they'd learn that I just don't like being called a crook' he would think as he bashed their faces in when he found out the nick name ‘Ol’ Kennedy the violent guy would be fine' he'd think 'but they throw in that crook and I have to bash their faces in, I just don't like being called a crook is the reason' he'd think, with face blood dripping off his hands.
And so life went on for Ol’ Kennedy, he'd make friends here and there, and most people would think he was a supper nice guy, but then the inevitable would happen, his new friend would watch a prohibition themed movie and start talking like a 1920s wise guy 'oh look at this crook' he'd adlib and it'd cost him three teeth, from having his face bashed in. Another new friend would be joking about Ol’ Kennedy stealing yet another ladies heart and say 'she loves you, you heart stealing crook' and get a broken jaw. And of course everywhere Ol’ Kennedy would go lively games of cops and robbers would break out, as they do pretty much everywhere and with every group of acquaintances, especially in Texas, Arkansas, and Beijing, three places Ol’ Kennedy drifted to regularly, and during a spirited session of cops and robbers that word would come out, and Ol’ Kennedy would be forced to fracture cheek bones, and cause brain hemorrhages as he bashed in people's faces all while thinking 'why do they have to call me a crook, I play cops and robbers at least weekly but I can do it with a civil, don't call anyone a crook, fun loving attitude, and yet here I am again, bashing another persons face in.'
The thing with Ol’ Kennedy was that he didn't like being called a crook. It stemmed from childhood when someone had thought he'd stolen a honey and butter sandwich and called him a crook, and then when he rightly said he didn't do it a scuffle broke out and he bashed in the guys face. Later on he was telling someone else the story and told them how weird it was, seeing as he HAD stolen a honey and margarine sandwich that but that no one had ever even noticed that missing. His friend had said 'maybe what you thought was honey and margarine was actually honey and butter' and Ol’ Kennedy had thought 'wow, maybe you’re right' and from that day on anyone who called him a crook would remind him of the day he bashed in a guys face who didn't deserve it, and he vowed to bash in ANY persons face who would remind him of that awful day, and since then he really hated being called a crook, because it reminded him of that awful day.
Yep life ambled on sadly for Ol’ Kennedy. He'd drift around, making new friends, building a new life wherever he could, but he’d keep finding himself forced to leave when people wouldn't understand why he'd bashed some ladies face in for calling him a crook during a thunderous game of cops and robbers and he'd be forced to drift on once again.
Then his hearing started to fail him. He started to bash people's faces in who hadn’t even called him a crook. There was the chiropractor who had asked if Ol’ Kennedy's neck was crook. There was the waiter who had told him that he could 'ask the cook', and there was the hotel clerk who'd told him 'I'll look in the book.' All three had their faces bashed in, and three more times he had to drift on again. He hated being called a crook you see, and sometimes he would hear a different work or the same word in a different context and think he’d been called a crook and have to bash their faces in, because he hated being called a crook.
Then came that fateful day last week, when Ol’ Kennedy accidentally walked into the farmers auction for chooks. As you all know he tried to bash in a lot of people's faces that day. So many that it gave Ol’ Kennedy a heart attack and he sadly passed on.
Sure we can all take comfort in his final words 'why can't people understand that I don't like being called a crook? Also is that brain on my knuckles?' But I for one will never forgive the diary industry; make it easier to tell the difference between butter and margarine you murderous bastards!
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Monday, March 19, 2012
Truely magnificant
Dear readers,
I am a wonderful man. A pure example of the definition of awesome. If I were a painting I'd hang on a huge white wall that was stained from the saliva of an endless gaggle of gasping observers.
'Brilliant' is the word used by some. Ha ha 'some' when did people start using the word 'some' when they mean 'all'? If I were a beverage I'd taste like lemonade after a hard days work in the hot sun. Only this lemonade renders its drinker into a state of bliss rarely seen outside of a two hour continuous orgasm. Also, ha ha 'some'. Occasionally my modesty kills me. If by 'kill' you mean to say 'reminds me how brilliant "all" think I am'.
And wow, I sure am handsome. One day my handsomeness will cure cancer, inspire world peace, and turn everyone into lovers of the arts. Yes I am THAT beautiful. Wow, One day photos of me will be worth millions of dollars, and yet I am so generous that I give them away for free. That makes me the most generous man in history. If a were a car I'd actually be a bus, and the biggest bus on earth, and it would be able to fly, and on it you'd be able to watch movies, and then you would get to far away lands inside of me, and those lands would be brilliant and yet not as awesome as me. Ha ha, 'far away lands' why would anyone want to see anything other than a photo of me? Something I give away for free.
Interesting? Ha ha, I put a question mark, that's how beautiful my sense of humor is. If my sense of humor was a sport it would be a sport where everyone wins and yet the drama would still be so high that soccer riots would turn into cuddlefests as opponents commiserated with each other at missing my wit as they had instead congregated to fight. 'We missed Dave's brilliant handsome wit to be HERE' they would say into each other’s tear soaked shoulders. 'We should have watched the brilliant sport that is the metaphors for Dave's sense of humor instead'. Yep, that's how brilliant my sense of humor would be if it were a sport.
Dear readers,
By reading my work, above is how you make me feel about myself!
I am a wonderful man. A pure example of the definition of awesome. If I were a painting I'd hang on a huge white wall that was stained from the saliva of an endless gaggle of gasping observers.
'Brilliant' is the word used by some. Ha ha 'some' when did people start using the word 'some' when they mean 'all'? If I were a beverage I'd taste like lemonade after a hard days work in the hot sun. Only this lemonade renders its drinker into a state of bliss rarely seen outside of a two hour continuous orgasm. Also, ha ha 'some'. Occasionally my modesty kills me. If by 'kill' you mean to say 'reminds me how brilliant "all" think I am'.
And wow, I sure am handsome. One day my handsomeness will cure cancer, inspire world peace, and turn everyone into lovers of the arts. Yes I am THAT beautiful. Wow, One day photos of me will be worth millions of dollars, and yet I am so generous that I give them away for free. That makes me the most generous man in history. If a were a car I'd actually be a bus, and the biggest bus on earth, and it would be able to fly, and on it you'd be able to watch movies, and then you would get to far away lands inside of me, and those lands would be brilliant and yet not as awesome as me. Ha ha, 'far away lands' why would anyone want to see anything other than a photo of me? Something I give away for free.
Interesting? Ha ha, I put a question mark, that's how beautiful my sense of humor is. If my sense of humor was a sport it would be a sport where everyone wins and yet the drama would still be so high that soccer riots would turn into cuddlefests as opponents commiserated with each other at missing my wit as they had instead congregated to fight. 'We missed Dave's brilliant handsome wit to be HERE' they would say into each other’s tear soaked shoulders. 'We should have watched the brilliant sport that is the metaphors for Dave's sense of humor instead'. Yep, that's how brilliant my sense of humor would be if it were a sport.
Dear readers,
By reading my work, above is how you make me feel about myself!
Thursday, March 15, 2012
I want to get into those pants 2: Even Pantier
The great jean adventure continues.
I went to the exact same store today with a plan of buying the exact same jeans as I bought two days ago, only without the permanent urine looking darkening around the crotch area when a great conspiracy raised it’s dirty little head.
And no, that is not a penis euphemism, and just for thinking that I am taking you on a quick detour that I was planning on doing regardless of your filthy minds. I couldn’t return my jeans because I had already ‘altered’ them before discovering their flaw. In this case I had put a couple of small holes in them, which may or may not have been the end of that. I like making my own changes to my clothes so I am unique. That’s basically the end of this detour. It wasn’t the scenic route, but we avoided all the construction work noise. Are you ready to hear about the conspiracy now?
Here is the thing, I was looking for my size when a staff member came and asked ‘what size am I looking for’ which is a question I hate, because they then take over the job of looking for your size, starting again from the top of the pile, re-checking the fifty items you’ve already established ARE NOT MY FUCKING SIZE!!!!! Sorry. But here is the thing, today the girl looked through the rack and said these words
‘Oh those jeans don’t come in the 31-32, but you can try the 30-32, the way our sizes work that’s essentially the same’.
‘Um, I am pretty sure you do make that size’ I replied ‘I am currently wearing jeans I bought at your store that ARE that size’.
She then looked down at my jeans, noticed they were a different color and said ‘oh we do make that size, just not in this wash’.
Now what I should have said was ‘I know you do, I bought some two days ago from this very store in that very size, of this very wash, from this very pile’. What I did instead was think ‘did I mess up my own size the other day, and if so what size did I buy, and how did I mess that up, because I was very adamant that this was my size, especially seeing as I needed to buy them specifically because the one size up of jeans in this store became too big, so there is no way I would have bought that size, and apart from the fly always feeling open, and the crotch looking like it is always being soaked in urine, they fit perfectly, fuck I am a tool, how can I get such simple things right, I can’t even buy a pair of jeans without drama, hassle, and looking like an idiot, maybe later today if I write a blog I will take a really uninteresting detour just to see what happens, that’s if I have any pants to wear, what size could I possibly of accidently bought?’
The sales lady obviously saw the quizzical look on my face and rather than reading it accurately as going down dark paths of teenage regression ‘this is just like high school you idiot, where you built up the horror of buying new school pants to suck extremities that you never got any and ended up wearing pants so tight that you now literally have nerve damage in your hips, that results in your left upper thigh being permanently numb, which was actually the result of your backpack from your backpacking trip, and why are you talking to yourself in this second person thing, or whatever person this is, your supposed to be a writer, you should know these things you idiot, just get some pants for Christ sake’.
‘I could have someone check for you’ she said, interrupting my lovely train of thought. Then she talked into her walky-talky and explained the wash of jean I was looking for and asked if they came in a 31-32. I am not sure who is on the other end of that walky-talky, I assume either god, someone at a computer somewhere who can look up stuff, or most likely no one at all.
A few minutes passed while I checked the stack of jeans one more time before the answer came back ‘no they don’t make that wash in that size’.
I was now convinced. I am such a loser that when I tried to specifically buy a very specific size of jeans I failed to get those two simple numbers correct, and I had no idea how, or in what direction. Feeling stupid and like an annoying customer who made this poor sales lady look shit up for me and talk to god, only for my ‘knowledge’ to turn out to be mere myth, I did what I had to do. I tried on the one size up and the one size down.
Low and behold the one size down fit, so I bought them, and slinked away into the night. Then I got home. I think you know where this is going.
Yes. The sales lady was there waiting for me. ‘Sorry, I looked up your address on the computer, I’m sorry for the hassle today, I just really wanted to get into your pants, and this was the only way I could figure out how to do so’ she said. And we made sweet, pantless love.
No wait, I mean I checked the pants I bought two days ago – 31-32 DAMN IT! They DO exist. Man at computer/ no one/ god LIED TO ME. I doubted myself for nothing. The most perplexing thing of course is - why lie? This is a conspiracy of the dirtiest kind, and I can only think of seven possibly explanations:
1. God thinks I need to be even skinnier
2. They really don’t like it when you cut holes in their jeans
3. All computers have now broken in a way that randomly throws out minor, yet significant, mistakes and will continue to do so until all hell breaks loose
4. Some sales clerks are idiots
5. Sometimes I buy trail mix instead of nuts, and then end up not eating the raisins because I don’t like them, and wish I had simply bought nuts
6. This clothes chain monitors all internet conversation about jeans, pants and getting into those pants, and having read my post from yesterday sent out a memo to all employees to make sure I suffer for saying that this store that I never named, and never will, sometimes sells jeans that feel like the fly is always open and have a unique colorization that makes it look like the wearer has always just peed his pants
7. American Eagle Outfitter just wanted to sell me more jeans, and rightfully thought this lie would help
I can’t figure out which one it might be, all seven seem equally as likely, so I don’t know how to get my comeuppance. One thing I do know for sure is this – now that I again have new jeans the next time I go out of the house with my groin looking like I have just urinated in my pants I will have ACTUALLY just urinated in my pants! Yay, New Jeans!
I went to the exact same store today with a plan of buying the exact same jeans as I bought two days ago, only without the permanent urine looking darkening around the crotch area when a great conspiracy raised it’s dirty little head.
And no, that is not a penis euphemism, and just for thinking that I am taking you on a quick detour that I was planning on doing regardless of your filthy minds. I couldn’t return my jeans because I had already ‘altered’ them before discovering their flaw. In this case I had put a couple of small holes in them, which may or may not have been the end of that. I like making my own changes to my clothes so I am unique. That’s basically the end of this detour. It wasn’t the scenic route, but we avoided all the construction work noise. Are you ready to hear about the conspiracy now?
Here is the thing, I was looking for my size when a staff member came and asked ‘what size am I looking for’ which is a question I hate, because they then take over the job of looking for your size, starting again from the top of the pile, re-checking the fifty items you’ve already established ARE NOT MY FUCKING SIZE!!!!! Sorry. But here is the thing, today the girl looked through the rack and said these words
‘Oh those jeans don’t come in the 31-32, but you can try the 30-32, the way our sizes work that’s essentially the same’.
‘Um, I am pretty sure you do make that size’ I replied ‘I am currently wearing jeans I bought at your store that ARE that size’.
She then looked down at my jeans, noticed they were a different color and said ‘oh we do make that size, just not in this wash’.
Now what I should have said was ‘I know you do, I bought some two days ago from this very store in that very size, of this very wash, from this very pile’. What I did instead was think ‘did I mess up my own size the other day, and if so what size did I buy, and how did I mess that up, because I was very adamant that this was my size, especially seeing as I needed to buy them specifically because the one size up of jeans in this store became too big, so there is no way I would have bought that size, and apart from the fly always feeling open, and the crotch looking like it is always being soaked in urine, they fit perfectly, fuck I am a tool, how can I get such simple things right, I can’t even buy a pair of jeans without drama, hassle, and looking like an idiot, maybe later today if I write a blog I will take a really uninteresting detour just to see what happens, that’s if I have any pants to wear, what size could I possibly of accidently bought?’
The sales lady obviously saw the quizzical look on my face and rather than reading it accurately as going down dark paths of teenage regression ‘this is just like high school you idiot, where you built up the horror of buying new school pants to suck extremities that you never got any and ended up wearing pants so tight that you now literally have nerve damage in your hips, that results in your left upper thigh being permanently numb, which was actually the result of your backpack from your backpacking trip, and why are you talking to yourself in this second person thing, or whatever person this is, your supposed to be a writer, you should know these things you idiot, just get some pants for Christ sake’.
‘I could have someone check for you’ she said, interrupting my lovely train of thought. Then she talked into her walky-talky and explained the wash of jean I was looking for and asked if they came in a 31-32. I am not sure who is on the other end of that walky-talky, I assume either god, someone at a computer somewhere who can look up stuff, or most likely no one at all.
A few minutes passed while I checked the stack of jeans one more time before the answer came back ‘no they don’t make that wash in that size’.
I was now convinced. I am such a loser that when I tried to specifically buy a very specific size of jeans I failed to get those two simple numbers correct, and I had no idea how, or in what direction. Feeling stupid and like an annoying customer who made this poor sales lady look shit up for me and talk to god, only for my ‘knowledge’ to turn out to be mere myth, I did what I had to do. I tried on the one size up and the one size down.
Low and behold the one size down fit, so I bought them, and slinked away into the night. Then I got home. I think you know where this is going.
Yes. The sales lady was there waiting for me. ‘Sorry, I looked up your address on the computer, I’m sorry for the hassle today, I just really wanted to get into your pants, and this was the only way I could figure out how to do so’ she said. And we made sweet, pantless love.
No wait, I mean I checked the pants I bought two days ago – 31-32 DAMN IT! They DO exist. Man at computer/ no one/ god LIED TO ME. I doubted myself for nothing. The most perplexing thing of course is - why lie? This is a conspiracy of the dirtiest kind, and I can only think of seven possibly explanations:
1. God thinks I need to be even skinnier
2. They really don’t like it when you cut holes in their jeans
3. All computers have now broken in a way that randomly throws out minor, yet significant, mistakes and will continue to do so until all hell breaks loose
4. Some sales clerks are idiots
5. Sometimes I buy trail mix instead of nuts, and then end up not eating the raisins because I don’t like them, and wish I had simply bought nuts
6. This clothes chain monitors all internet conversation about jeans, pants and getting into those pants, and having read my post from yesterday sent out a memo to all employees to make sure I suffer for saying that this store that I never named, and never will, sometimes sells jeans that feel like the fly is always open and have a unique colorization that makes it look like the wearer has always just peed his pants
7. American Eagle Outfitter just wanted to sell me more jeans, and rightfully thought this lie would help
I can’t figure out which one it might be, all seven seem equally as likely, so I don’t know how to get my comeuppance. One thing I do know for sure is this – now that I again have new jeans the next time I go out of the house with my groin looking like I have just urinated in my pants I will have ACTUALLY just urinated in my pants! Yay, New Jeans!
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
I wanna get into those pants
It's been a long and adventuresome journey but today I literally bought new jeans. I know what your thinking 'I want to get into those jeans.... Would have been a more literal title for this blog.... Especially seeing as I want to get into your pants bad, and I've been led to believe they may currently be jeans'
Well calm down, no one should ever 'get into someone's pants' without first hearing a story about those pants, and I want you in my jeans, so here is the story.
Its a bit of a roller coaster so hang on to something. A year or so ago I bought two pairs of new jeans. I needed them because I'd recently gotten so fat the one last pair of pants I could squeeze into burst around the groin region. Which is a bitter sweet day, on the one hand you get to show your underwear to strangers, but on the other hand your fat sucks your confidence to the point where your not sure strangers in Mcdonalds even want to see your underwear.
I was traveling at the time and I tend to walk a lot when traveling which can result in weight loss. And I was super excited you guys as my new fat guy jeans got looser and looser on me. So much so that by the end of the trip I needed to buy new jeans again to fit my sexy slim new body. Which is a bitter sweet day, on the one hand your once again comfortable but on the other hand now your pants no longer fall down in McDonald's and so strangers miss out on seeing your underwear.
Upon returning home I got fat again and reverted back to my still newish fat guy jeans. Then I got so fat that I ripped the groin in one of these pairs. This inspired me to diet and exercise till I fit back into my skinny guy jeans. Which is bitter sweet because my diet was so weird and inconsistent my underpants now smelled of bacon grease sweat.
Then I came over here to Canada where I am now, and I purposely only brought that one pair of skinny man jeans so I couldn't afford to gain weight. But I needed new jeans so I could have a second pair and eat the delicious gravy covered poutine fries every day without worrying I'd spill all over myself and end up walking around pantless. The good news is now I can eat without fear and so should be too fat for these jeans within weeks.
The point is, these new jeans, while definitely super sexy, have one small problem. The fly always feels open. This is reverting me to my awkward high-school self where I had pants that always felt like the fly was open. Sardonically this meant I was constantly touching my groin in public to check, drawing people's eyes to my groin, the one place I wanted no one to see, because at the time instead of wearing underpants I just dipped my balls in boiling bacon grease.
No in truth I actually wore the same stinking pair of school pants every day for 4 years, only getting them washed 3 times in that entire period.
Why? Because i was too scared to buy new pants. That would require me going to the school uniform shop and potentially, gasp, both have to talk to a sales clerk for as long as it took to measure me up, and talking to a human for me was a truly mortifying thought AND I'd have to be measured up, something so potentially humiliating I'd rather of cut off my own legs, or even talk to someone.
And I didn't wash them because some strange voice in my head suggested my social skills weren't up to meeting girls so who cares of I stink.
The point is, see how far I've come? I may still have no social skills but now when I need new pants I now GET new pants! Hell yeah!
Also see how much more you want into my pants now that you've heard the story about them? I say make your move now, or you may end up just hanging out in McDonald's waiting for my groin to burst.
Also I wrote all that's above last night. Today I found a very specific colorization on my chosen jeans. A dark patch of denim right at my balls. Wearing these jeans makes me look like I've always just peed myself. The point is I need new jeans.
Well calm down, no one should ever 'get into someone's pants' without first hearing a story about those pants, and I want you in my jeans, so here is the story.
Its a bit of a roller coaster so hang on to something. A year or so ago I bought two pairs of new jeans. I needed them because I'd recently gotten so fat the one last pair of pants I could squeeze into burst around the groin region. Which is a bitter sweet day, on the one hand you get to show your underwear to strangers, but on the other hand your fat sucks your confidence to the point where your not sure strangers in Mcdonalds even want to see your underwear.
I was traveling at the time and I tend to walk a lot when traveling which can result in weight loss. And I was super excited you guys as my new fat guy jeans got looser and looser on me. So much so that by the end of the trip I needed to buy new jeans again to fit my sexy slim new body. Which is a bitter sweet day, on the one hand your once again comfortable but on the other hand now your pants no longer fall down in McDonald's and so strangers miss out on seeing your underwear.
Upon returning home I got fat again and reverted back to my still newish fat guy jeans. Then I got so fat that I ripped the groin in one of these pairs. This inspired me to diet and exercise till I fit back into my skinny guy jeans. Which is bitter sweet because my diet was so weird and inconsistent my underpants now smelled of bacon grease sweat.
Then I came over here to Canada where I am now, and I purposely only brought that one pair of skinny man jeans so I couldn't afford to gain weight. But I needed new jeans so I could have a second pair and eat the delicious gravy covered poutine fries every day without worrying I'd spill all over myself and end up walking around pantless. The good news is now I can eat without fear and so should be too fat for these jeans within weeks.
The point is, these new jeans, while definitely super sexy, have one small problem. The fly always feels open. This is reverting me to my awkward high-school self where I had pants that always felt like the fly was open. Sardonically this meant I was constantly touching my groin in public to check, drawing people's eyes to my groin, the one place I wanted no one to see, because at the time instead of wearing underpants I just dipped my balls in boiling bacon grease.
No in truth I actually wore the same stinking pair of school pants every day for 4 years, only getting them washed 3 times in that entire period.
Why? Because i was too scared to buy new pants. That would require me going to the school uniform shop and potentially, gasp, both have to talk to a sales clerk for as long as it took to measure me up, and talking to a human for me was a truly mortifying thought AND I'd have to be measured up, something so potentially humiliating I'd rather of cut off my own legs, or even talk to someone.
And I didn't wash them because some strange voice in my head suggested my social skills weren't up to meeting girls so who cares of I stink.
The point is, see how far I've come? I may still have no social skills but now when I need new pants I now GET new pants! Hell yeah!
Also see how much more you want into my pants now that you've heard the story about them? I say make your move now, or you may end up just hanging out in McDonald's waiting for my groin to burst.
Also I wrote all that's above last night. Today I found a very specific colorization on my chosen jeans. A dark patch of denim right at my balls. Wearing these jeans makes me look like I've always just peed myself. The point is I need new jeans.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
A word from a Dictator’s son
Pre Blog Warning: I'm taking a break from humor today to bring you something sad. Please prepare tissues for yourself before attempting to read the following story as written by a Dictator’s son:
"I walked into the bar just as the band ended their set. My Heated Jetty business closed down today so I’m really sad. I sunk like all my money into that business and it’s all gone! I still don't get it. People love hovercrafts right? But who wants to leave their warm ocean side mansion and walk on a cold jetty to get to their heated hovercraft? I'm right, right? Those two minutes walking in the cold can be almost unbearable! So buy a Heated Jetty, what’s the problem? It just makes no sense. I don’t know anyone else who sells Heated Jetties, so where are people getting them?
Fuck I hate the West, that's the third one of my businesses that's failed here so far. I barely had a single customer at my camel diaper store. 'The female circumcision business didn't take off.
They don't like my ideas either. They didn't take to my ‘bring your lion to your friend's amusement park day’ idea. And they never even listened when I told the local fire fighters they'd have more work if they used bazookas on retirement villages.
I'm down to my last 3 billion in allowance now, if I don't turn things around soon I'm going to have to ask dad to take over another country again soon, you have no idea how hard those calls are to make, there are like so many international phone codes, it takes up like ten minutes to dial them all, it's the worst, you just can not imagine, seriously. I shouldn't have to live like this.
I can't believe Pops sent me here to Oklahoma. 'Get to know the enemy' he said 'learn to live on your own'. Fuck you pops, your dad never made you 'get to know the enemy'. You got to start shooting children in the face when you were twelve too, but you made me wait till I was fourteen, just to be superior. You asshole.
I just wanted to hear some music playing tonight but the band said they were going on a break. Couldn't they have their slaves play in their absence? If those were my slaves I’d have caned them for making me look this bad.
Who am I kidding?’ I’d cane them regardless! Ha ha, at least I haven’t lost my sense of humor yet! Oh man, I miss my slaves. Anyway I've had a few drinks here, and the band hasn't restarted, there are no cute skinny Muslim virgins here, and my onion rings are taking forever! I'm just not in a good mood. I might just go home and snuggle up in bed with my lion".
Asmid got run over by a drunk driver later that night while stumbling back to his house and died a long painful death in a pile of dirty snow next to a dead skunk that had been run over a few weeks earlier. It's sad isn’t it? Hard to take really. I mean international phone codes are STILL hard to use and annoying people! I mean my god, when will the world learn. When damn it, when?
"I walked into the bar just as the band ended their set. My Heated Jetty business closed down today so I’m really sad. I sunk like all my money into that business and it’s all gone! I still don't get it. People love hovercrafts right? But who wants to leave their warm ocean side mansion and walk on a cold jetty to get to their heated hovercraft? I'm right, right? Those two minutes walking in the cold can be almost unbearable! So buy a Heated Jetty, what’s the problem? It just makes no sense. I don’t know anyone else who sells Heated Jetties, so where are people getting them?
Fuck I hate the West, that's the third one of my businesses that's failed here so far. I barely had a single customer at my camel diaper store. 'The female circumcision business didn't take off.
They don't like my ideas either. They didn't take to my ‘bring your lion to your friend's amusement park day’ idea. And they never even listened when I told the local fire fighters they'd have more work if they used bazookas on retirement villages.
I'm down to my last 3 billion in allowance now, if I don't turn things around soon I'm going to have to ask dad to take over another country again soon, you have no idea how hard those calls are to make, there are like so many international phone codes, it takes up like ten minutes to dial them all, it's the worst, you just can not imagine, seriously. I shouldn't have to live like this.
I can't believe Pops sent me here to Oklahoma. 'Get to know the enemy' he said 'learn to live on your own'. Fuck you pops, your dad never made you 'get to know the enemy'. You got to start shooting children in the face when you were twelve too, but you made me wait till I was fourteen, just to be superior. You asshole.
I just wanted to hear some music playing tonight but the band said they were going on a break. Couldn't they have their slaves play in their absence? If those were my slaves I’d have caned them for making me look this bad.
Who am I kidding?’ I’d cane them regardless! Ha ha, at least I haven’t lost my sense of humor yet! Oh man, I miss my slaves. Anyway I've had a few drinks here, and the band hasn't restarted, there are no cute skinny Muslim virgins here, and my onion rings are taking forever! I'm just not in a good mood. I might just go home and snuggle up in bed with my lion".
Asmid got run over by a drunk driver later that night while stumbling back to his house and died a long painful death in a pile of dirty snow next to a dead skunk that had been run over a few weeks earlier. It's sad isn’t it? Hard to take really. I mean international phone codes are STILL hard to use and annoying people! I mean my god, when will the world learn. When damn it, when?
Friday, March 9, 2012
A New Era is upon us
It’s here, it’s finally here! The new incarnation of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ is upon us.
There will be no more ‘opening and yet not actually opening’ the well-known modus operandi of the proponents of the past era of the ‘New Era Adventure club. Thank god.
And, ha ha, of course no more orange shorts, the ill-fated theme of the original movement of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ who of course proceeded the founders of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ which itself was an offshoot of the ‘staring at rock adventure club’, that was developed by a bunch of rock climbers when they realized that that if you just put a rock in front of your face you basically get the same experience as you get from rock climbing, only without the need to pack yourself a lunch, which can easily waste ten minutes of your morning, or even fourteen, depending on your peanut butter spreading techniques.
Wow, look who I am telling this too, you guys, as if you don’t know the history of the ‘New Era Adventure club’. I mean at least a dozen of you guys have personally gifted me all twenty-seven volumes of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ encyclopedia. I mean, sure none of you were kind enough to fork out for the not super crappy twenty nine volume version, which I mean is a bit of a backhanded gift ‘here’s a gift, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t consider you worth a nice gift, but here’s a gift anyway’. But still they have the same information, so I know you know it all, even if you don’t think I am worth the beautiful font the twenty nine volume version comes in, that is far easier to read, and therefore crucial to my continued eye health. So what, we’re the new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ and if some of us go blind who cares?
It’s not like there is no precedent to here to worry about. Oh wait, volume twenty two of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ which states ‘in the old era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ there was a new era who were based on experimenting with a new era of peanut butter spreading technique, who called themselves the ‘new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ based on experimenting with a new era of peanut butter spreading technique’. This new era incarnation the ‘New Era Adventure club’ was disbanded after only one week after a member was left with a really sore wrist after attempting a ludicrous left handed spread’.
Well I FOR ONE am not going to ALLOW us to go back down those hellish paths. Not in my era of running the ‘New Era Adventure club’. In my era we eat our peanut butter with spoons, you got that right? OK? And I mean orange shorts? Seriously guys? You really thought we’d bring back them? They did not match our burnt sienna shirts, ripening tomato socks, and our carrot colored hats, just stick with the mandarin colored shorts like was written in the original by laws for Christ sake! We don’t need to add this fancy ‘orange’ color just out of the blue. I don’t care that they are easier to find! Plus ‘no goddamn opening something without really opening it, got that?
Now for the reason I was writing to you. We need to pick a new font. Something EASY TO THE EYE PLEASE. I want at least ten ideas from each of you with detailed reasoning by tomorrow please. Cause I mean seriously, if as the ‘New Era Adventure club’ we can’t stop arguing, especially in this new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ then one of these days we may even get around to going on some adventures, and who can be fucked with that shit?
There will be no more ‘opening and yet not actually opening’ the well-known modus operandi of the proponents of the past era of the ‘New Era Adventure club. Thank god.
And, ha ha, of course no more orange shorts, the ill-fated theme of the original movement of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ who of course proceeded the founders of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ which itself was an offshoot of the ‘staring at rock adventure club’, that was developed by a bunch of rock climbers when they realized that that if you just put a rock in front of your face you basically get the same experience as you get from rock climbing, only without the need to pack yourself a lunch, which can easily waste ten minutes of your morning, or even fourteen, depending on your peanut butter spreading techniques.
Wow, look who I am telling this too, you guys, as if you don’t know the history of the ‘New Era Adventure club’. I mean at least a dozen of you guys have personally gifted me all twenty-seven volumes of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ encyclopedia. I mean, sure none of you were kind enough to fork out for the not super crappy twenty nine volume version, which I mean is a bit of a backhanded gift ‘here’s a gift, I just wanted to let you know that I don’t consider you worth a nice gift, but here’s a gift anyway’. But still they have the same information, so I know you know it all, even if you don’t think I am worth the beautiful font the twenty nine volume version comes in, that is far easier to read, and therefore crucial to my continued eye health. So what, we’re the new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ and if some of us go blind who cares?
It’s not like there is no precedent to here to worry about. Oh wait, volume twenty two of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ which states ‘in the old era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ there was a new era who were based on experimenting with a new era of peanut butter spreading technique, who called themselves the ‘new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ based on experimenting with a new era of peanut butter spreading technique’. This new era incarnation the ‘New Era Adventure club’ was disbanded after only one week after a member was left with a really sore wrist after attempting a ludicrous left handed spread’.
Well I FOR ONE am not going to ALLOW us to go back down those hellish paths. Not in my era of running the ‘New Era Adventure club’. In my era we eat our peanut butter with spoons, you got that right? OK? And I mean orange shorts? Seriously guys? You really thought we’d bring back them? They did not match our burnt sienna shirts, ripening tomato socks, and our carrot colored hats, just stick with the mandarin colored shorts like was written in the original by laws for Christ sake! We don’t need to add this fancy ‘orange’ color just out of the blue. I don’t care that they are easier to find! Plus ‘no goddamn opening something without really opening it, got that?
Now for the reason I was writing to you. We need to pick a new font. Something EASY TO THE EYE PLEASE. I want at least ten ideas from each of you with detailed reasoning by tomorrow please. Cause I mean seriously, if as the ‘New Era Adventure club’ we can’t stop arguing, especially in this new era of the ‘New Era Adventure club’ then one of these days we may even get around to going on some adventures, and who can be fucked with that shit?
Thursday, March 8, 2012
That’s more like it
‘It’s been delayed a week’ she said to me on the phone.
And with those words, profound and powerful, yet unfortunately true. I was left with nothing else to do, but attempt to do something profound and powerful, and hopefully true, but not necessarily, because truth is so fucking overrated. I mean consider this:
Hitler? - TRUE
Globes made of helium that tastes like victory? - NOT TRUE
Erectile Dysfunction? - TRUE
Donkey wizards that visit children with boo boos and give them bottomless coasters? - NOT TRUE
Deadly spiders that sometimes live under toilet seats in Australia? - TRUE
True Love? - NOT TRUE
See! ‘NOT TRUE’ can be better than ‘TRUE’, or worse, depending on your relationship status and how that affects your need for coasters.
I for one am guessing that if you’re in a loving long term relationship you need MORE coasters than if you’re sad and alone. Because there are two of you to use coasters. And because you’re probably trying to impress each other with your coaster skills.
Yet kids with boo boos are never in loving long term relationships because for some reason that is creepy (the ‘some reason’ is that it is ‘really creepy’, and ‘immoral’, or both, up to you). And kids are the very ones in possession of bottomless piles of coasters in this scenario, which is PROOF once and for all that ‘TRUE’ love is not just a myth but a genuine impossibility.
But this is not a story about my flawless ability to prove things once and for all in profound and powerful, and unfortunately true yet undebatable ways, no this is a story about something being delayed for a week. Yes, A WEEK!
A week when I could have used this thing, or even ignored it finding myself too lazy to cut the box open after it became clear after two seconds of looking that once again I could not find my goddamn scissors! That’s how profound and powerful and unfortunately true this story is.
When that sentence was said to me ‘it’s been delayed a week’ I was like ‘awww man’ and then I was off like a rocket! By which I mean my feat were on fire because the room had been flooded with lighter fluid and someone had just dropped a match that had been lit on FIRE!
I guess in hindsight this made the delay of the package a blessing in disguise because had my thing been delivered it would have burned in the fire that burned my house down that some bastard did to me merely because I convinced his wife there was no such thing as true love causing her to divorce him and bang his brother and father and uncle and son, which frankly says more about her than me if you ask me.
The point is my box of coasters didn’t show up this week and I was going to put a glass of beer on one of those and without them I had to go to a bar to put a glass of beer on a square of sponsored cardboard, and a bar is the most likely place a person will meet the person they will fall in true love with.
Not fuck that, it’s the ONLY place you can fall in TRUE love, from what I have been told, and yet this did not happen to me. Goddam it.
My plan is to go out and comfort myself by going out and purchasing a globe filled with helium that smells like victory. They better not fucking be ‘sold out’ or even worse ‘not exist’ or I’m going to really fuck up some marriages.
And with those words, profound and powerful, yet unfortunately true. I was left with nothing else to do, but attempt to do something profound and powerful, and hopefully true, but not necessarily, because truth is so fucking overrated. I mean consider this:
Hitler? - TRUE
Globes made of helium that tastes like victory? - NOT TRUE
Erectile Dysfunction? - TRUE
Donkey wizards that visit children with boo boos and give them bottomless coasters? - NOT TRUE
Deadly spiders that sometimes live under toilet seats in Australia? - TRUE
True Love? - NOT TRUE
See! ‘NOT TRUE’ can be better than ‘TRUE’, or worse, depending on your relationship status and how that affects your need for coasters.
I for one am guessing that if you’re in a loving long term relationship you need MORE coasters than if you’re sad and alone. Because there are two of you to use coasters. And because you’re probably trying to impress each other with your coaster skills.
Yet kids with boo boos are never in loving long term relationships because for some reason that is creepy (the ‘some reason’ is that it is ‘really creepy’, and ‘immoral’, or both, up to you). And kids are the very ones in possession of bottomless piles of coasters in this scenario, which is PROOF once and for all that ‘TRUE’ love is not just a myth but a genuine impossibility.
But this is not a story about my flawless ability to prove things once and for all in profound and powerful, and unfortunately true yet undebatable ways, no this is a story about something being delayed for a week. Yes, A WEEK!
A week when I could have used this thing, or even ignored it finding myself too lazy to cut the box open after it became clear after two seconds of looking that once again I could not find my goddamn scissors! That’s how profound and powerful and unfortunately true this story is.
When that sentence was said to me ‘it’s been delayed a week’ I was like ‘awww man’ and then I was off like a rocket! By which I mean my feat were on fire because the room had been flooded with lighter fluid and someone had just dropped a match that had been lit on FIRE!
I guess in hindsight this made the delay of the package a blessing in disguise because had my thing been delivered it would have burned in the fire that burned my house down that some bastard did to me merely because I convinced his wife there was no such thing as true love causing her to divorce him and bang his brother and father and uncle and son, which frankly says more about her than me if you ask me.
The point is my box of coasters didn’t show up this week and I was going to put a glass of beer on one of those and without them I had to go to a bar to put a glass of beer on a square of sponsored cardboard, and a bar is the most likely place a person will meet the person they will fall in true love with.
Not fuck that, it’s the ONLY place you can fall in TRUE love, from what I have been told, and yet this did not happen to me. Goddam it.
My plan is to go out and comfort myself by going out and purchasing a globe filled with helium that smells like victory. They better not fucking be ‘sold out’ or even worse ‘not exist’ or I’m going to really fuck up some marriages.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
And now in really simple riddles
What is the gender of the author of the following quote?
'Reece Witherspoon has only gotten more beautiful since having children'
a. A man
b. A woman
c. You are a sexist douche-bag for writing this blog
d. She never was beautiful, let alone now MORE beautiful
e. Chocolate and peanut butter should never make love
f. A transgender
g. I'm too busy masturbating at pictures of her from that time she went topless before she was famous to answer this question
h. I think she is gorgeous, and I'm a man, and my boyfriend agrees
i. With a spoon, more like with my penis, am I right?
j. Isn't a multiple choice supposed to have four answers at most?
k. A multiple choice can have as many answers as you want you asshole
l. Maybe I'll keep adding more just to fuck with you people
m. I just realized that I was completely messing up the alphabet here
n. That's pretty pathetic, even if you have fixed it
o. If you fixed it then why are you still mentioning it
p. An alien that looks like a woman
q. If 'Q' is always followed by 'U' then why doesn't the alphabet reflect that
r. I hope he doesn't try and drag this out to 'Z'
s. Hermaphrodite
If you chose A, K, Q, or U you are correct.
If you have noticed there was no U then you are also correct
If you think chocolate and peanut butter shouldn't be friends then I agree
If you can hook me up with her please do so
If you can't then who can you hook me up with, I am horny and lonely, please help!
'Reece Witherspoon has only gotten more beautiful since having children'
a. A man
b. A woman
c. You are a sexist douche-bag for writing this blog
d. She never was beautiful, let alone now MORE beautiful
e. Chocolate and peanut butter should never make love
f. A transgender
g. I'm too busy masturbating at pictures of her from that time she went topless before she was famous to answer this question
h. I think she is gorgeous, and I'm a man, and my boyfriend agrees
i. With a spoon, more like with my penis, am I right?
j. Isn't a multiple choice supposed to have four answers at most?
k. A multiple choice can have as many answers as you want you asshole
l. Maybe I'll keep adding more just to fuck with you people
m. I just realized that I was completely messing up the alphabet here
n. That's pretty pathetic, even if you have fixed it
o. If you fixed it then why are you still mentioning it
p. An alien that looks like a woman
q. If 'Q' is always followed by 'U' then why doesn't the alphabet reflect that
r. I hope he doesn't try and drag this out to 'Z'
s. Hermaphrodite
If you chose A, K, Q, or U you are correct.
If you have noticed there was no U then you are also correct
If you think chocolate and peanut butter shouldn't be friends then I agree
If you can hook me up with her please do so
If you can't then who can you hook me up with, I am horny and lonely, please help!
Friday, February 17, 2012
Lesbians are beautiful
I had long hair for about six long years.
HAD long hair.
In the middle of the night, around a ten days ago, I was feeling inspired by a beautiful two month long insomnia bout, mixed together with watching lots of Californication while thinking 'I'm a writer too, if I had that haircut would I get all those women throwing themselves at me?' It was a perfect storm.
It was around 4am when I thought to myself ‘why not try a little trim, and see if I like it?’ then I could just keep trimming a bit more every day or two until I'm no longer inspired to continue. Just see how short may suit me. It was a perfect plan.
It took about two or three nights of dawn trimming before I realized that I had made a big mistake. I have cut my own hair maybe a hundred times in my life. On at least a hundred of those occasions I have thought to myself after ‘I really, really should never ever do that again’. I am the perfect example of stupidity.
The first couple of nights I thought it was looking alright, and so I was motivated to continue. Yet the shorter it became the more obvious it was that I had left huge imbalances of length and texture, almost as if I was both not an expert at this, can’t look at my own head from above, and was cutting with blurry insomnia eyes. So I kept trimming away hoping to even it out, always thinking ‘evening out wont make it seem shorter, it’s just evening it out, right?’
For the next ten nights my insomnia continued, now fueled by what was becoming a clear obsession. I have a huge mirror next to my bed and I kept studying my hair and then running back to the bathroom and trimming more…….. and more and more and more. And it wasn’t looking good, no matter how many people told me it was, so I thought simply 'this looks AWFUL, maybe if I trim more I can fix it'.
With my hair mania reaching the point of pure paranoia to the point that every laugh I heard anywhere near me was a group of people pointing at me saying 'look at that guys stupid hair' I knew it was time to let a professional have a look. I figured the professionals eventually fixed that BP oil leak, so there is an outside chance they could do something with the even worse disaster that is my head.
Now, I have a love hate relationship with hairdressers.
I love the massage chair while my hair is being washed, and the feel of another humans hands in my hair.
I hate hate the small talk, and I am always petrified that I'll raise all the cliché topics they're sick of talking about all day everyday, so I sit there half mute with a weird ‘thinking’ look on my face’.
I love love love watching people work creativity with their hands; it gives me shivers down my back with a feeling of pleasure that surpasses any sexual encounter I've ever had.
I hate hate fucking hate making small talk, especially when I'm having orgasm like shivers and I'm talking to the one male hairdresser after all the cute girls got allocated to the heads around me.
I love that there are cute girls who often have unique and funky look.s
I hate that no matter where I go or what I ask them to do to my hair they only hear one thing
‘Lesbian’
'just a trim and tidy up please' I say
'No worries’ they reply ‘hey this is my mind talking it’s so nice to find a client I can communicate with telepathically! So just so were clear, you just told me with your voice for a trim but with your mind you said to do everything humanly possible to make you look like a lesbian right? If so look straight ahead with a weird ‘thinking’ look on your face’ they think.
So I went along. And I asked for ‘not too much length off, just tidy up the mess I made of this head o’ mine please’ and you know what? She cut almost all my hair off. It turns out ‘not too much length off’ means ‘all of it off please’ I really need to work on my accidental telepathy.
Anyway I think it looks pretty good, because people keep saying to me ‘it looks pretty good’. Actually people keep telling me ‘wow, that’s so much better, so glad you got rid of that long hair, all this time you looked so awful but I never wanted to tell you, even though, in my opinion, you basically looked like a homeless bum with that messy shit and I am surprised I let myself be seen in public with you’. It turns out I was not the perfect friend.
Oh also I was walking around the other day and I heard a lady turn to another lady and say ‘that’s a really cute beard on that lesbian’.
Now for some sleep.
HAD long hair.
In the middle of the night, around a ten days ago, I was feeling inspired by a beautiful two month long insomnia bout, mixed together with watching lots of Californication while thinking 'I'm a writer too, if I had that haircut would I get all those women throwing themselves at me?' It was a perfect storm.
It was around 4am when I thought to myself ‘why not try a little trim, and see if I like it?’ then I could just keep trimming a bit more every day or two until I'm no longer inspired to continue. Just see how short may suit me. It was a perfect plan.
It took about two or three nights of dawn trimming before I realized that I had made a big mistake. I have cut my own hair maybe a hundred times in my life. On at least a hundred of those occasions I have thought to myself after ‘I really, really should never ever do that again’. I am the perfect example of stupidity.
The first couple of nights I thought it was looking alright, and so I was motivated to continue. Yet the shorter it became the more obvious it was that I had left huge imbalances of length and texture, almost as if I was both not an expert at this, can’t look at my own head from above, and was cutting with blurry insomnia eyes. So I kept trimming away hoping to even it out, always thinking ‘evening out wont make it seem shorter, it’s just evening it out, right?’
For the next ten nights my insomnia continued, now fueled by what was becoming a clear obsession. I have a huge mirror next to my bed and I kept studying my hair and then running back to the bathroom and trimming more…….. and more and more and more. And it wasn’t looking good, no matter how many people told me it was, so I thought simply 'this looks AWFUL, maybe if I trim more I can fix it'.
With my hair mania reaching the point of pure paranoia to the point that every laugh I heard anywhere near me was a group of people pointing at me saying 'look at that guys stupid hair' I knew it was time to let a professional have a look. I figured the professionals eventually fixed that BP oil leak, so there is an outside chance they could do something with the even worse disaster that is my head.
Now, I have a love hate relationship with hairdressers.
I love the massage chair while my hair is being washed, and the feel of another humans hands in my hair.
I hate hate the small talk, and I am always petrified that I'll raise all the cliché topics they're sick of talking about all day everyday, so I sit there half mute with a weird ‘thinking’ look on my face’.
I love love love watching people work creativity with their hands; it gives me shivers down my back with a feeling of pleasure that surpasses any sexual encounter I've ever had.
I hate hate fucking hate making small talk, especially when I'm having orgasm like shivers and I'm talking to the one male hairdresser after all the cute girls got allocated to the heads around me.
I love that there are cute girls who often have unique and funky look.s
I hate that no matter where I go or what I ask them to do to my hair they only hear one thing
‘Lesbian’
'just a trim and tidy up please' I say
'No worries’ they reply ‘hey this is my mind talking it’s so nice to find a client I can communicate with telepathically! So just so were clear, you just told me with your voice for a trim but with your mind you said to do everything humanly possible to make you look like a lesbian right? If so look straight ahead with a weird ‘thinking’ look on your face’ they think.
So I went along. And I asked for ‘not too much length off, just tidy up the mess I made of this head o’ mine please’ and you know what? She cut almost all my hair off. It turns out ‘not too much length off’ means ‘all of it off please’ I really need to work on my accidental telepathy.
Anyway I think it looks pretty good, because people keep saying to me ‘it looks pretty good’. Actually people keep telling me ‘wow, that’s so much better, so glad you got rid of that long hair, all this time you looked so awful but I never wanted to tell you, even though, in my opinion, you basically looked like a homeless bum with that messy shit and I am surprised I let myself be seen in public with you’. It turns out I was not the perfect friend.
Oh also I was walking around the other day and I heard a lady turn to another lady and say ‘that’s a really cute beard on that lesbian’.
Now for some sleep.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
Dear Expert
I'm glad I don't write a 'Dear Abby' advice column because then even the birthday song becomes a request for advice:
'Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Dear Abby'
'Wait wait wait, seriously you’re going to throw one of those at me now? Give me a break for fucks sake, how dare you try to make me work in the middle of my birthday song!''
'No no, it’s nothing, it's just the song'
‘Oh it’s just the song, it’s just the song, now help me, right?
‘No, not at all’
'So why do you have to include ‘Dear Abby’? It's supposed to be my day off!'
'That’s just how it goes, I swear, everyone gets 'dear' and then their name’
‘So you're saying everyone is trying to take my job now, ‘Dear Steve’, ‘Dear Phillip’, ‘Dear Dramquilla’ and you're telling me this on my birthday, very classy, thank you, and I'll remember this every year too, because you told me during my birthday song, thanks a lot you cunt'
'Um Abby? Are you sure you're qualified to give 'advice' to people?'
No sir, not for me one little bit. I guess what I am really asking is this - is your name really ‘Expert’?
'Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Dear Abby'
'Wait wait wait, seriously you’re going to throw one of those at me now? Give me a break for fucks sake, how dare you try to make me work in the middle of my birthday song!''
'No no, it’s nothing, it's just the song'
‘Oh it’s just the song, it’s just the song, now help me, right?
‘No, not at all’
'So why do you have to include ‘Dear Abby’? It's supposed to be my day off!'
'That’s just how it goes, I swear, everyone gets 'dear' and then their name’
‘So you're saying everyone is trying to take my job now, ‘Dear Steve’, ‘Dear Phillip’, ‘Dear Dramquilla’ and you're telling me this on my birthday, very classy, thank you, and I'll remember this every year too, because you told me during my birthday song, thanks a lot you cunt'
'Um Abby? Are you sure you're qualified to give 'advice' to people?'
No sir, not for me one little bit. I guess what I am really asking is this - is your name really ‘Expert’?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Some very good advice
On how to….. Wait for the excitement….. Fix a fridge!
Cricket, for those who don't know, is an awesome game. In its best variety, known as ‘test cricket’, a match lasts for five days. Some of the awesome elements included in this sport during these five days are:
- Long periods where seemingly nothing happens
- Heavy drama that to many looks like people just standing around
- The daily tea break
- Ducks (seriously)
- A player position known as ‘silly mid off’ (also ‘silly mid on’!)
- Another known as ‘the night watchman’ (that sounds like a superhero!)
Don’t you just love it? Ha ha, I put a question mark as if you may not!
One way to put it is that if sex is a super fast-paced game that lasts for 90 odd minutes, then test cricket is like spending five days in bed with a beautiful new lover mixing up long periods of cuddling and staring into each others eyes with regular unplanned moments of passion. Plus cool helmets.
A less erotic (and therefore less awesome) way to describe cricket is that it’s just like baseball only with way different rules and tactics and with way cooler helmets (cricket ones have face masks!)
So you can imagine my frustration, anger and desire to rip heads off little girls dollies when yesterday I was lying in bed, alone, watching the cricket, smack bang during one of the mesmerizing long period of seemingly nothing happening, when abruptly my electricity went out! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
First thing first - locate the problem (some of you may have already guessed that it will end up being the fridge). I made a quick guess that it was probably the fridge, but only after I had made sure that no power points were overloaded, that nothing was on fire, that I had scratched my head until I had blood under my fingernails, and had looked around. Looking around of course being a euphemism for fifty times looking past your houseguest's chest who is wearing a see-through singlet and no bra, all the while pretending to be checking all the lights and appliances that are located behind her. And eventually making the discovery that her breasts are lovely and your other houseguest has actually checked the appliances, and god bless braless boobs in see-through singlets. That may in fact be the best sentence in the English language.
Note to self: write a book named ‘god bless braless boobs in see-though singlets’.
Having played around with the fuse box (note to self: next time don’t use a wet coat hanger) I came to the expert opinion that the problem was either the fridge or some other unknown problem. I had to pull the fridge out of its cupboard to confirm; horribly this required finding screwdriver.
If you're like me you have several tools in your house, consisting of a tool set given as a gift ten years ago that is always missing the exact parts you need for whatever you need to fix, and a screw driver you've had since stealing it from your dad 22 years ago to fix a skateboard.
I have a special 'tool draw' where I personally put the tools after every use, so my tool draw was full of plastic bags, light bulbs for lights I no longer own, and indistinguishable bits of moldy food scraps that I’ve been promising to clean out for years and will eventually do so the day I ultimately decide to sell the place, upon when I’ll think 'that's much better, I should have cleaned that 17 years ago'.
I found the toolbox in the spice cupboard and went to grab the screwdriver set. Last time I needed tools the much-needed wrench was missing from my toolbox but it was back today, laying uncomfortably in the spot the much needed screwdriver should have been. The other screwdriver was discovered after literally a five-hour search, conveniently in the cutlery draw under 12 forks.
It was finally time to unplug the fridge and it turns out (and this may surprise some of you) but it WAS the fridge that was the problem. It is now sitting on my balcony and I am hoping that it drying out may stop what ever was shorting out the electricity. It’s the best repair idea I can come up with.
The lessons are:
- I probably need a new fridge
- This cricket game is going along awesomely but
- I would actually prefer five days in bed with a new lover
Cricket, for those who don't know, is an awesome game. In its best variety, known as ‘test cricket’, a match lasts for five days. Some of the awesome elements included in this sport during these five days are:
- Long periods where seemingly nothing happens
- Heavy drama that to many looks like people just standing around
- The daily tea break
- Ducks (seriously)
- A player position known as ‘silly mid off’ (also ‘silly mid on’!)
- Another known as ‘the night watchman’ (that sounds like a superhero!)
Don’t you just love it? Ha ha, I put a question mark as if you may not!
One way to put it is that if sex is a super fast-paced game that lasts for 90 odd minutes, then test cricket is like spending five days in bed with a beautiful new lover mixing up long periods of cuddling and staring into each others eyes with regular unplanned moments of passion. Plus cool helmets.
A less erotic (and therefore less awesome) way to describe cricket is that it’s just like baseball only with way different rules and tactics and with way cooler helmets (cricket ones have face masks!)
So you can imagine my frustration, anger and desire to rip heads off little girls dollies when yesterday I was lying in bed, alone, watching the cricket, smack bang during one of the mesmerizing long period of seemingly nothing happening, when abruptly my electricity went out! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
First thing first - locate the problem (some of you may have already guessed that it will end up being the fridge). I made a quick guess that it was probably the fridge, but only after I had made sure that no power points were overloaded, that nothing was on fire, that I had scratched my head until I had blood under my fingernails, and had looked around. Looking around of course being a euphemism for fifty times looking past your houseguest's chest who is wearing a see-through singlet and no bra, all the while pretending to be checking all the lights and appliances that are located behind her. And eventually making the discovery that her breasts are lovely and your other houseguest has actually checked the appliances, and god bless braless boobs in see-through singlets. That may in fact be the best sentence in the English language.
Note to self: write a book named ‘god bless braless boobs in see-though singlets’.
Having played around with the fuse box (note to self: next time don’t use a wet coat hanger) I came to the expert opinion that the problem was either the fridge or some other unknown problem. I had to pull the fridge out of its cupboard to confirm; horribly this required finding screwdriver.
If you're like me you have several tools in your house, consisting of a tool set given as a gift ten years ago that is always missing the exact parts you need for whatever you need to fix, and a screw driver you've had since stealing it from your dad 22 years ago to fix a skateboard.
I have a special 'tool draw' where I personally put the tools after every use, so my tool draw was full of plastic bags, light bulbs for lights I no longer own, and indistinguishable bits of moldy food scraps that I’ve been promising to clean out for years and will eventually do so the day I ultimately decide to sell the place, upon when I’ll think 'that's much better, I should have cleaned that 17 years ago'.
I found the toolbox in the spice cupboard and went to grab the screwdriver set. Last time I needed tools the much-needed wrench was missing from my toolbox but it was back today, laying uncomfortably in the spot the much needed screwdriver should have been. The other screwdriver was discovered after literally a five-hour search, conveniently in the cutlery draw under 12 forks.
It was finally time to unplug the fridge and it turns out (and this may surprise some of you) but it WAS the fridge that was the problem. It is now sitting on my balcony and I am hoping that it drying out may stop what ever was shorting out the electricity. It’s the best repair idea I can come up with.
The lessons are:
- I probably need a new fridge
- This cricket game is going along awesomely but
- I would actually prefer five days in bed with a new lover
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
For need
I'm feeling perfect
Like a horrible concoction of lies
My glass full of past mistakes
The tambourine in rhythm
Yet not my hand clapping
Where has all my effort gone
A deception of my long planned undoing
I need nourishment for my truth
A positivity revolution
Just jam
Sing in my alcohol taunting voice
Any distraction from reality please
And listen to the ruthless crunch of insanity
At least I'm not a hypocrite
Just another thing I hate myself for
As always
Forever
My own regrettable choice
Like a horrible concoction of lies
My glass full of past mistakes
The tambourine in rhythm
Yet not my hand clapping
Where has all my effort gone
A deception of my long planned undoing
I need nourishment for my truth
A positivity revolution
Just jam
Sing in my alcohol taunting voice
Any distraction from reality please
And listen to the ruthless crunch of insanity
At least I'm not a hypocrite
Just another thing I hate myself for
As always
Forever
My own regrettable choice
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