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

Continues....

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. 

No, NO, KNOW!!!

Look we all know a couple of things in life, and that's all. Just a couple of things, things we know for SURE.

And I'm not saying 'sure' in a -'go to the beach with you? Sure!' - way, when let's face it, by 'sure' you mean 'only if it's by the shore, I'm not going to no fucking lake beach motherfucker, oh also only if the weather is nice, sometimes it's windy and I get sand in my face, that's not very pleasant'. No I mean 'sure' like 'do something enjoyable with you which I personally have no exclusions or special need requirements? Sure!' way. And I'm talking when this unnamed person who is asking the questions you're responding 'sure', among other things, to is someone that the following could be an answer about them you'd say - 'do I think they're swell? Sure'! 

And those things we know are as follows:

- If you wanted to drink the entire ocean you'd want at LEAST a week.

- Buyer beware.... Of that cannon! Holy fuck, who brought a cannon into this juice kiosk? 

- There are many ways to skin a cat.

- Love, love is all you need (assuming they love you back, which they don't).

- Cynicism is swell. 

- The beaches are hard to swim at when the swell is too big.

- Fuck, why am I referencing the beach a lot today? I don't even like the beach.

- I wonder if it's because I got a lot of sun today?

- Maybe.

- I don't know.

- Who the fuck knows how my brain works.

- Lists are fun.

- If you really studied the fibers of your home carpet it'd probably end up looking really, really gross.

- Probably the same thing with the inside of a wetsuit.

- I bet if they DO love you back, at least one of you occasionally wears a wetsuit! Gross!

- Man you people make me sick.

- Jealousy is also swell. 

And that's it! That's all we know for sure. It's not a lot. It's a depressingly small amount of things that we know.

Well I say NO, we should all know more things to be able to say 'no, I don't need to know more about that, I already know enough, and no I won't go to the beach with you, and I think you know why I said no'.

THAT'S the sort of world I want to live in. And I'm going to make is so. So here is, something you may not already know, but should know: 

There is ALSO a lot of ways to RESKIN a cat! 

You know after it's been skinned. Which should be called deskinned shouldn't it. It started out with skin. You're not doubling its skin. You're removing skin. I mean if you 'scan' a document you're not removing the scan from it. Fucking language assholes, we're putting skin on a cat, so we're skinning a cat, why do the animal cruelty people get the cool word! (You know what, just for that grammar and word police, I'm not going to use flawless grammar and the like in today's blog, suck on that!) 

So here is, ways to RE-skin a cat:

1.  Buy some new skin at Cat Skin R Us, some cat skin glue at Skin Glue U Asked, and some cat skin glue applicators at Application Z Kt (kitty) Glue, and simply follow instructions.

2. Go to KFC, grab several huge buckets of original recipe chicken, take it to a party where every guest is a heavy subscriber to the carb free lifestyle, come by in the morning and collect all the skin they peeled off the chicken. Eat it (it IS the best bit) then repeat step 1.

3. Spend way too long at the beach, until your skin is all burned and peels off. Collect said skin. Put it in a small tub. Give it to a girl, saying 'this is the latest skin fad from Europe'. Watch her rub it into her skin. If her skin looks great the next few days then take out a patent on your new invention. If her skin looks awful then tell her what the product really was and laugh a lot. Then repeat number 1. 

4. Buy a life sized cat toy. Empty it out. Put your skinned cat inside. When it chews it's way out of this toy shell, then repeat step 1. 

5. Do nothing for an hour. Then repeat step 1.

6. Grow a new cat on the back of a rat, like they did with that ear that time. As it grows take bets on both when the rats back cat will turn on its

host rat and also whether the rat or the cat will win the fight. Use your vast winnings to repeat step 1.

So there you have it, six easy ways to reskin a cat. And now you know one more thing to add to your list of things you know. Now please don't make the rest of us look ignorant, you best be off to finish drinking the ocean, you've only got four more days! 

The Validity Of Worry

I'm worried, worried that I will never in my life figure out just the right amount of stanleaping to aspire for. 

Now I know what you're thinking ... There is no WRONG amount of stanleaping. How could there be? Stanleaping is good in both small and large quanties, so how could any amount be wrong? 

And you make valid points, but consider these three equally as valid points:

1. Carlotta is an awesome name for a car the mob use for transferring bodies, because they could say it out loud in public and no one would bat an eyelid - typical conversation. 

'Come with us!' 

'Why? No? Why? Where are you taking me?' 

'Let's m just say you'll soon be deep inside Carlotta'.

'Well that sounds swell, let's go'. 

2. Sewing bats to your eyes would be an awesome way to make a cheap costume for a costume party - typical conversation:

'What are you dressed as?'

'What? Who said that? Is someone talking to me? I'm in a lot of pain, I can't see anything, and these bats have chewed deep enough into my skull to now be nibbling on brain, please please help me!' 

'Ha ha, wow, committing to the costume, love it, you could be in for the running for best costume, well if it actually was a costume, we did specifically write on the invite that sewing an animal to your eyes would not count this year, you know after the "Panda Eyes" lady last year, it really was in poor taste, especially since they weren't organic Pandas, and we were trying to raise funds for a health food movement'

'No no, I didn't read that part of the invite, I probably got too enthusiastic as soon as I had the idea, it's Blind As Bat, you know, I'm blind now, because  I have bats sewed to my eyes, it's like art imitating life' 

'Oh oh, I thought it was Wouldn't Bat An Eyelid, demonstrated by showing exactly WHY you wouldn't bat an eyelid, in a life lesson demonstrated by art situation. Oh in that case your costume sucks, it's blind AS a bat, not blind DUE to a bat, you freaking idiot' 

3. Sewing is a dying art form, which is sad, typical conversation:

'Oh my god, we're officially trapped on this desert island, we're almost certainly going to die, unless...'

'Unless what???'

'Quickly, sew us up a boat'

'What? Do I look like I know how to sew? I'm not a fag!'

'Woah, woah, woah, bad word man. Oh shit. I don't think I can even be friends with you if you're going to use that word'

'I didn't mean it man, it just came out, I don't like that word either, I'm sorry, it's a scary situation, and my emotions were on high, I won't say it again, I swear'

'Don't give me this heightened emotions shit, that's not an excuse, heightened emotions might pull that word from your mouth, but they don't put that word in your heart for it to be available. I'm going to go die alone on the other side of the island, hope your death goes well'

'It is NOT in my heart, you shit face, you know what, my death will be awesome, because I'll just be fantasizing about you being deep in Carlotta!' 

'What? Seriously, what? Now that's just WEIRD!' 

'No no no, it's not a sexual thing, ha ha, nah I just heard that's what the mob call the car they ship bodies around in, ha ha, I'm going to be thinking about your bloodied corpse, not you getting laid!'

'Ha ha, that's hilarious, cause I thought you were going to be thinking about like my penis in a girl named Carlotta, ha ha, that's funny'

'Wait, can YOU sew us up a boat?' 

'Of course not? What do you take me for, some sort of queer?' 

See, all also very valid points, and yet these examples are full of unforgivable levels of bad language, death, and bad costumes.

So perhaps valid is not what we're seeking today. Hmmm, lots to ponder. Thankfully when questions arise there is an easy solution, stanleap the fuck out of them! 

Ha ha, I just realized that you might think stanleaping is when you leap on a wise giant named Stan and demand answers. Ha ha, that'd be weird. Nah man, it's just when you imagine a starving foe with his dick in a girl with bats sewed to her eyes, so it's not weird at all. 

But maybe there will be balloons!

Ronald, a well to do, high end of town, epic penthouse apartment owner, with a trendy haircut, designer clothes, and currently holding glass of expensive champagne, suddenly said 'you know what, I'm no longer throwing shindigs, from now on I'm only throwing shinburys, maybe fill the holes in all those shins, you know what I mean?' 

The last six of his guests, still there from what seemed to now be his last shindig, currently rolling around on the floor, drenched in blood, collecting up chunks of shin, were screaming 'we told you, we TOLD YOU! It's just a word, you weren't supposed to literally dig into all of our shins you psychopath!' 

But there was no deterring him, he went on to throw the best damn shinbury the town had ever seen! 

Some people left with more shin than they'd had even at the START of the shindig season! 

Where did this extra shin came from?

Well no body dared to ask.

No, the townsfolk were now too busy screaming in terror at what he meant when he said next he'd be throwing a 'regular party'. For this was positively petrifying prospect. An UNIMAGINABLY horrible possibility. An unquestionably AWFUL pronouncement. 

There was no WAY he could misinterpret 'regular party'.

And who could turn down a party in a sweet pad like this? 

Party season sure was stretching on an exhaustingly long time this year.

They're stinging to come

I think that if I was suddenly attacked by a swarm of human sized bees dressed as wasps at least fourteen thoughts would immediately go through my mind:

1. Maybe I should start wearing more yellow. Wait, do I currently wear any yellow? I don't think I do. So I can't wear MORE. Wow. That's interesting.

2. Why do I have a receipt from KFC in my pocket, I haven't eaten KFC in ages. 

3. I bet 'seven' would be an a fun word to yell in a hospital, perhaps even in a good hospital! 

4. I don't think people boast enough about their epic ability to do things in moderation 

5. Avoiding jail is all about creating confusion in your trial right, that's why If I was a thief I'd only ever steal things made of steel, that way at the trial there would bound to be some confusion! 

6. I'll tell you one thing about pens, not one of them has DEMANDED I stab someone with them, it's a polite request at best. 

7. A bowl of nuts and a nut of bowls are very different, VERY different, the 2nd one is just stupid, I mean you can't have multiple bowls. 

8. Have you ever noticed that the stirrer you get with coffee may seem like it's trying to destroy segregation and facilitate harmony by mixing everything together, then bam it stabs you in the eye! 

9. Turns out at the party is 'where's the party at' 

10. If I ever had a kid I'd name it 'I told you so' - it would GUARANTEE that really annoying people would say his name a lot. 

11. One day I'm going to spend an entire year wearing nothing but a white suit so I can prove once and for all a lot can be achieved in 'one day'.

12. Either that or wear jeans, whatever's easier 

13. Wait maybe yellow jeans! 

14. I could wear them to KFC, for some reason I currently feel like some. 

The point is I wouldn't pay them any attention, I mean seriously, wasp outfits? That's hardly even different from bees. If you're going to dress up have some fucking imagination you losers. 

Wet with curiosity - a poem

Kelly found a coffee mug, at the local park, deep into the notorious south-east wing, of the dark and constantly moist shrubs.

She also found a soiled adult diaper covered in seaman. 

But that's gross, so we're not going to talk about that.

The fact that she kept the mug is gross enough. 

I mean who keeps a shrub mug? 

That's disgusting. 

It's the one she uses at work too, which means that in reality the whole work uses it, because people in offices are assholes when it comes to other people's property.

I once came to work and found my 'word of the day' calendar already flicked to the new day! 

Flicking that was the highlight my entire day when I had that job. 

And by highlight I mean the only two seconds I didn't think about going to the bathroom and drinking all the drain cleaner. 

Of which there was a LOT, because people in offices are gross when it comes to office bathrooms. 

Fucking assholes. 

So hey look Kelly...

Maybe stay out of those shrubs. 

EVERYONE knows the reputation they have. 

And you have to poke around?

And grab a shrub mug? 

And now I'M thinking about a horrible memory. 

The word of that day was 'baroque', and now I STILL don't know what it means, because I accidentally flipped it not realizing as yet that some other asshole had already done it.

And now I've just realized I said 'flicked' earlier when I meant 'flipped'.

Your damn poking around has ruined my afternoon Kelly.

And to think that I was nice enough not to tell everyone what you did with that adult diaper! 

Sexy Ears

'More sets, I said bigger, more lavish and more elaborate SETS'! 

Stan Johnson, the Greek God of Television, Film and Advertisement, had recently returned to earth for the first time in forty-three years, and was sitting down to watch a montage put together to show how the industry had so proudly ran with the advice he'd given as he departed from his previous visit. 

'Can't you fucking assholes listen?' He screamed, right as the montage was reaching footage from the 80s 'I'm not a prude or anything, I just like well made sets' he added, whimpering. 

He now began to cry, as he jerked off to topless ladies in scenes from The Night Of The Living Dead. It was turning out to be one of his top five strangest earth visits ever. 

On The Wall Path

'Cheryl decided to see what would happen if she consumed nothing but pen ink' replied Sandra, when asked what the deal was with the blue blotches all over the walls.

'It's pretty' replied Johno.

Then they took large groin stretching  steps over the awkwardly splayed corpse and Sandra continued with the house tour. 

Deceased estate sales always had made Sandra feel like her morning yoga classes should be tax deductible.

'Fucking government' she whispered under her breath right before showing off the house's main attraction, a walk in closet the size of most people's living rooms. 

'Less pretty all over the shoes' Johno said. 

But he still bought the house. 

A bargain is a bargain. 

Secretopolously Special

I never planned to fork over a wad of cash for the chance to randomly and miscellaneously find myself one day being spat on. 

For one thing I usually prefer to know exactly when I'm going to be spat on, which is why I often hand homeless people wads of photo copies of cash, and then squat next to them till they realize their windfall is a lie. It's the only way I've really been able to make SURE most of the time I'm spat on I'm ready for it. I mean getting spat on is gross, why would you not want to be prepared for it? 

Also he made me literally fork over the cash with a kitchen fork, he said he found it delightfully literal. Which I found frightfully extraneous. Which he found frivolously monotonous. Which I found fundamentally preposterous. Which he found fellopatially carnivorous. Which I found fancifully scarlopolous. And then we needed a full twenty-nine minutes with a dictionary to find out what the hell our emotional state really was, made all the harder because we both harbored emotions that did not yet exist, requiring a further seventeen minutes to define them...

Fellopatially - a state of friction highlighted by a fundamental freedom for farfetched craning of factions undefinable by anyone but feeble minded fellows of the future. 

Scarlopolous - when you are born with Fallopian tubes on your face, and even though they were successfully removed you still feel self-conscious about the scaring.

Then we had a twelve minute argument over whether or not we'd gotten our definitions the wrong way around, which got so heated he ended up spitting in my face, leading to a forty-two minute discussion on whether or not that constituted a satisfactory delivery of services paid for, which it did NOT because I TOTALLY knew he was about to spit on me, and I'd specifically paid to NOT know. Although I did agree to pay a small fee for his time keeping skills which were excellent. 

So why did I pay to be spat on randomly and micelaneoisly? 

It's simple really, I'd read in the newspaper an editorial about a magazine article written in reply to a Sixty-minutes piece, referencing a murderer's love of a movie about a musician turned painter, who'd been inspired to change art careers after a chance encounter with a guru who did seminars to sell his book, about using memories to inspire thoughts about imaginations of scenarios to create arts that the people would talk about, leading to success and fame, that would turn into mentions in magazines and possibly leading to discussions hovering around comparisons to violinists and poets, when I suddenly had my eyes and ears drawn away from the page as the next eulogist at the funeral

I was at said the words 'survived by his girlfriend'.

'I want to survive!' I thought. So I did some research and found out that lots of people have tried these girlfriends, many of whom have not died, leading to a logical conclusion that survival is perhaps enhanced by access to one of these. Six months later with no luck acquiring one of these, despite many offers to purchase one at stores, and I saw an advertisement on a light pole saying 'want to be randomly and miscellaneously spat on?' And I thought 'a guy with a cool job like that is bound to have a daughter, and who could turn down a date with a guy who'd been spat on by her father?' 

The spitting itself turned out to be interesting, he had a mouth full of baby spiders, now THAT was a surprise.

The girl replied to my date offer with 'um, my dad has spat on thousands of men, it's what he does for a living, so yeah, you're not special' but I didn't mind, she turned out to be in her 80s, I guess having a 108 year old father can do that. Also being alive for 80 plus years can lead to that. 

I asked her what her secret was and she said 'I don't know, I've only ever been stabbed once?' 

The point is I'm looking for a stab guy, anyone know anyone? The closest I've had is a homeless man who clawed a chunk of flesh from my right cheek with his long ungroomed nails, but I'm not sure it counts. Although some people think the mark left is Scarlopolous, so that's pretty sweet. 

The Takeology Of Opportunology

After a long and detailed period of contemplation, meditation, Colbertnation, dedication, dictation, medication, train station and even thinking, I've decided to never cocoon myself in a massive envelope hoping that I'll come out as a German Baker. 

Now I know what you're thinking...

'You're NOT going to do it? But you have a chance to be a German Baker! And you're going to pass? Are you a fucking psycho?' 

Yes, I AM not going to do it. And yes I AM a psycho, but not a fucking one, in fact I take that to be a word with a lot of potential meanings, and I will not sit here and be told that I have a lot of potential. 

The reality is that I have some perfectly valid reasons for my decision, and they are as follows:

- Sure being a German a Baker is the dream for most, but, and this may shock some people, but from the research I have done, it turns out being cocooned in a massive envelope does NOT guarantee you'll become a German Baker. In fact all you CAN guarantee is that you'll end up as SOME sort of a baker, but the nationality of said baker is a lottery. Some people who have gone through this transformation have ended up Swiss or Austrian, and there was even a case of a French Baker who used to like to entertain his friends at parties with his prefect German accent. Um, no thanks, who on earth wants to entertain their friends? Those guys are assholes. 

- Again, based on some research I have done, it's come to my attention that this transformation can take WAY longer than I had anticipated, in some cases as long as 38 minutes. Sorry, I value my time, I could re-watch an old episode of Tile Wars in that time, and perhaps finally figure out why more people don't watch it. I means they tile bathroom floors, TO THE DEATH! 

- Turns out my local post office only sells the life sized massive envelopes with those little plastic windows for the address, and I REFUSE to have the address printed ON me, I never seem to be able to fold myself so that it sits in the right space in the envelope. 

- It turns out baking often happens in the early morning, which is a time I usually reserve for my research into real life truthful things people do that I am considering, so if I'm baking I may never decide whether or not I want to make a plastic mould of my inner lungs by inhaling enormous quantiles of steamed plastic, before getting someone to make me laugh while I'm drinking, so I cough so hard the mould comes out. 

- I don't like getting sizzling coal embers driven into my eyes, I find it to be both a waste of valuable sizzling coal embers, and a misuse of a vehicular motor powered automobiles. 

- I think walls are one of the top ten best sort of vertical building sides, maybe even top five! 

- Where as I think memories of clouds are probably only top fifteen. 

- Then again, by definition, in a top fifteen system, walls would also be a top fifteen ranked building side, making them equal, which makes me now question why we don't see more building sides made from memories of clouds? 

- I don't like German Baked goods. 

And when I stacked up all those reasons into a stack of reasons stacked up, I realize that it just wasn't for me. I mean what sort of walls do German Bakeries have? And do Germans even drive automobiles? There's no way to know. 

So that's it, it's off, and now I also must be off. I'm off to dig around my backyard, I heard that if you stick your head into the cavity of a dinosaurs tooth, you can come out as a Chilean garbage man, now THATS an opportunity not to miss.  

Screaming, SCREAMING!

Well if no one else dares to say it then I will!

'Highborn to the kaleidoscopic melodrama of the miracle circle of absolution in a eon of gravitational jousting for tyrannical bruise based theories of yearning for policing operated at the junction of query and lice spreads among the French like solitude gripping through the soda bubbles of tank noised hunger pangs screaming, SCREAMING, for a Scandinavian styled light beam raining upon the lousy purgatory of focus, until it is beaten into a small cube that wished it was a ball' 

Would make an AWESOME name for a program to encourage more youths to skip three lunches a week to spend time contemplating the sheeting of marsupial dreams into bite sized luggage-ware. An AWESOME NAME! 

Yet the Grand Valley board of school maintenance keep telling me year after year 'yeah, not bad, but naming valuable programs isn't our department, although when it happens, we may totally get to make a sign! That it'd be pretty cool. Wow, a sign, people would see it and stuff, maybe even read what it says! We could be like GIVE WAY or even YEILD! Wow'.

Not bad? You fucking animals. I'm looking out for the kids here, you bastards. Now I'll never get to say to airport security 'no you'd think leather, but it's actually sliced bite sized marsupial dreams? 

You know, assuming after all those contemplation session the kids would advance on to physical invention. 

Which they wouldn't, kids are so fucking lazy. They even left all this up to ME to dare to say! For shame. 

Are you pretty enough?

Let's face it, we all want flawless bodies, and most of us will achieve this, at least for six or seven minutes after falling asleep in a sauna for nine hours, but this wonderful time will be wasted trying to get things organized for our sudden need for a six month hospital visit. Then for the rest of the time we'll be a tad off our goal. And we'll know we are, because we have access to the media, and our eyes, and other people, and their use of the phrase 'eww'. 

Yet how would we even know if we were perfect, when there is one body part that, as yet, has been woefully unscrutinized to the point of us frequently panicking about our personal version of it, by the normally cruelly smothering and meticulous unrelenting media, and that's people's left middle to upper backs! 

This means that most people out there have little to no idea how they stack up on a pile of bodies ranked in order of left middle to upper back attractiveness (the organizational method preferred by most genocidal mass grave fillers). 

So, because I care about my readers, and the things they need and care about, and want to cleanse them from that horrific image I just conjured, here is a handy list of things to help you work out whether your left middle to upper back is gorgeous, or whether your left middle to upper back is so hideous that you should never wear backless clothes again (unless you put them on backwards). 

Signs your left middle to upper back is hideous: 

- You can see it in a mirror, and you're FACING the mirror. 

- You once had a left middle to upper lower back enhancement botched, by your local panel beater, and he even skimped on the silicone quality, which was particularly bad as you were actually trying to get 1968 ford mustang grill implant. 

- You're currently an half armadillo and half stonefish hybrid. 

- You're a Kardashian (zing). 

- You often hear people behind you saying 'oh look, they've installed one of those post feast of a human inside-out crocodile sculptures here, quick get a photo of me with it' before suddenly feeling an arm go over your shoulder.

- Due to a printing glitch, your personal version of the boardgame 'burn the witch' missed the words 'only ever PRETEND to burn the witch', and you play often, and regularly get declared 'the witch'.

-  It looks gross in pictures. 

- Whenever a nightclub bouncer asks you to take off your shirt and pirouette, they then never let you in. 

- When 'now boarding' is called at an airport, typically more than three people climb inside it.

- You once had a left middle to upper lower back enhancement done flawlessly, by your local panel beater, and you now successfully have a 1968 ford mustang grill implant. 

Signs your left middle to upper back is gorgeous:

- It's roughly similar to your right middle to upper back, and your right middle to upper back is gorgeous. 

So there you go? Is your left middle to upper back gorgeous or hideous? 

If you're lucky enough to be in the second category then congratulations! Worldwide fame and fortune shall be easy to find on the professional left middle to upper back beauty pageant circuit! 

(Although please be aware that in these tournaments they require you to cover up your right middle to upper backs, which many people, myself included, find barbaric, sexist, untoward, unfair, unassuming, unhinged, unaware, and often too warm, depending on what level the air-conditioner's thermostat was set, which usually makes at least the fame or fortune not worth it, and often both). 

If your in the second category then commiserations. And please put on a shirt, or at least turn around, the front may still be good, and that's regularly people's favorite bit anyway! Yay. 

Ps. If you ever enter yourself into a beauty pageant because you think you deserve to win, then you are probably a vapid, self-centered, vain as a heroin addicts veins, boring as a dried puddle, piece of shit (but if your pretty enough to be accepted, call me!)  

Pps. You wish you got the 1967 mustang grill implant now don't you? 1968! What the hell were you thinking? 

Ppps. Nine hours in a sauna only gets you a flawless body if you ACCIDENTALLY fall asleep in one. So if you're reading this on hour eight of an intentional stint then you're shit out of luck.