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octobre 10, 2007 - mercredi 

I was in my local on Friday night, diligently working my way through a number of beverages (that may or may not have had dealings with hops and barley at some point in their manufacture) when I overheard a conversation happening behind me between two females. These two foul-mouthed miscreants, as they turned out to be, were discussing one of their female acquaintances. The word "slut" was used liberally and with venom.

Apparently the female subject in question had managed to work her way through six different blokes in four weeks. That, of course, is one and a half men a week. And that, in my opinion anyway, is an impressive rate of success. If, in my days of being single and on the prowl, I had achieved those stats, I may have considered firing up my own pirate radio station to advertise the fact. But I am a male. And that, in modern society, makes prolific sexual interaction with multiple partners not only acceptable, but hugely desirable.

So I began thinking about female friends and acquaintances, past and present. I can safely say that I'm one of those blokes that have always had more female than male friends, particularly as a teenager. You see, I've never been what anyone this side of padded cell would describe as a macho kind of a guy, and there is so much macho bullshit that is part and parcel of being a teen male. Besides, if one is patient and hangs around a large and drunk enough group of female friends for any respectable length of time, one tends to passively inherit sex. So there is that to consider. But I digress. So - I hung around with the girls, although, in retrospect, the girls that I befriended tended to be the types of girls that had, almost exclusively, a male friend base. They themselves chose to befriend boys because they didn't interact very well with girly girls. Instead of listening to Pink they would listen to Metallica. Come to think of it, instead of wearing pink they would wear metal. And leather. I digress.

So. Sluts. Slutty sluts. Slutty sluts slutfully slutting around sluttish Slutville. I digress, once more.

Slut   (slut)  

n. A person, especially a woman, considered sexually promiscuous.

I think most people would agree that this American Heritage Dictionary definition of the word is a fairly accurate one. And if this is the case then nearly all the ungirly female friends I've had the pleasure of knowing, and who have always been very good to me and enriched my life with friendship and warmth all the way through my teens and tweens fall foul of this description. I, in other words, feel more comfortable around sluts than…hmmm…than what exactly? Normals? Non-sluts? Non-sluts. That'll serve for now.

Yes. I (proudly) display a traceable track record of befriending females that polite (female) society would refer to as sluts. And why shouldn't I be proud of this? For starters I think there is a certain honesty that goes along with being a promiscuous, single female. I expect I will explain my reasons for saying this near the end of this blog, if I remember or can be bothered.

Let's face it; the vast majority of people like/crave a lot of sex, girls as much as boys. The vast majority of people are curious enough about sex to want to discover what sex is like with different partners, again, I believe, girls and boys in equal measure. Most boys, directly or indirectly, diligently dedicate every second of their 13 – 30 year old lives to achieving these ends. After 30, I imagine the amount of time spent on this filth-quest probably drops by a full quarter of a second per minute per decade of life exhausted. A male will, given the right circumstances (Alive and awake. A quart of Jack an optional extra.), almost certainly fuck on the first date.

But not so with girls. Even though we know for a fact that they want sex as much as we do, most girls would shy away from having sex with someone that they, for instance, met for the first time that night. And you don't have to look very far back in history to understand how this state of affairs has evolved.

Right up until the year 1919, which saw the advent of the first truly reliable condom - the latex condom - even the safest of sex could potentially kill. The next big date in the chronicles of the slut would have undoubtedly been 1945 when penicillin was not only becoming affordable to your average joe in Europe and the U.S., but starting to be produced in large enough quantities to be available to those in need – again, to those lucky to live in the right parts of the world.  However, the threat of sexually transmitted diseases, although being a significant factor, doesn't really go a long way to explaining why girls and not guys tend to shy away from "first night sex". That honour, of course, traditionally belongs to that most heinous of species, the Unwanted Pregnancy (Ohphucus knoctupus despicabalis).

Throughout history a premarital pregnancy, in many parts of the world, ruined the marital value of the female concerned. This would often result in the ostracization of the female from her family, forcing her into either begging or prostitution in order to support herself and the child. Depending on the culture concerned, it wasn't uncommon for the girl, and sometimes the male, to be put to death. "Put to death". Ha. It's such a polite way of saying "getting one's skull caved-in by a fast moving and rather big fucking rock". Assuming that the male wasn't put to death, he would almost certainly be capable of earning a reasonable living on a playing field as level as that of the next man, despite his indiscretion/s. But this, of course, was not the case for the single mum. I'm fairly sure there are exceptions to the rules stated thus far in this paragraph, but to research those exceptions would require a level of dedication to this blog that I am unwilling to even consider. So piss off, square. Suffice to say that life for a promiscuous female back in the day was risky. Any girl that partook in pre/extramarital sex displayed the sort of inconsideration towards herself, her family and any resultant child that, from the beginning of civilisation, was always going to evolve social taboos and thus derogatory names, "slut" being one of these.  

The next big date in a twentieth century slut's diary would have been the good ol' sixties. Birth control pills. Acid. Long hair. Mick Jagger. San Francisco. Anti-war protests. An' a whole lotta conscience-free, mind-expandin' fuckin'. That last sentence just works better if you imagine Bill Hicks saying it. For the first time in the history of our species you could spread it around a bit without fear of pregnancy or death by s.t.d. However, a vaccination had yet to be developed that would impart immunity on the user from the afore-mentioned flying rocks, which were still a factor for some. Thus, the sixties brought with them the dilution of the social taboos that have dogged promiscuity and pre/extramarital sex throughout recorded time. It was no longer inconsiderate, assuming the relevant precautions were taken, to throw it around a little. But the word "slut" persists and is alive and well today, and, to my annoyance, was finding extensive employment with the two previously-mentioned reprobates at the table behind me in my local on Friday night.

I continued to tune in to the conversation for some time until they eventually changed the topic to Christmas shopping. By that point I had established a number of salient facts regarding the origins of their distaste for the sexually-accomplished girl's actions. It seemed that the two girls whose conversation I had tapped in to both had boyfriends, neither of whom had previously slept with the slut or cheated on their girlfriends. Both girls had made their current boyfriends wait a while before bedding them, one of them for a week and the other for three weeks, all the while accepting free meals, movies and gifts from their prospective partners. From what I could tell, the blokes that had been bedded by the slut were unknown or not very well known to the pair behind me.

As this pair of idiots had not suffered any harm to themselves as a result of their female acquaintance's promiscuity, I can only surmise then that the main reason their having anything against the girl being discussed was not actually the number of blokes she had bedded over a given period of time, but rather that she didn't get anything for it! She wasn't after the benefits that come with being in a stable relationship, assumedly she didn't receive any free meals other than, perhaps, breakfast, and there wouldn't have been any gifts apart from, at best, a free drink or two! I assume the condom was on the house. As for free movies, perhaps a post-sex viewing of The Sixth Sense may have occurred, but, equally, may not have occurred. Put simply, She had  sold her love at cost price and therefore lowered the market value for girls everywhere – that is how the bitches sitting at my six o' clock perceived the situation, whether they realised it or not. The only other reason I can possibly fathom for this hostility towards the girl and her actions was perhaps some residual jealousy of the single life.

And that is why I say there is a certain honesty that goes along with being a slut. Sluts tend to value sex for its physical pleasure rather than the additional benefits it can provide if you play your cards right. And in this day and age of reliable condoms and birth control pills, their promiscuity should not affect anyone's life but their own. Sure, there are exceptions to every rule – religious objections to promiscuity are a definite factor. This, however, should only become a factor at the discretion of the parties involved and is nobody else's business. Besides, I live in Western Europe. Almost nobody I know believes in or serves any god. In fact, the only valid reason I can think of for not engaging in "sluttery" as a single female, is perhaps the issue of physical safety. It isn't, after all, the wisest idea to be going home with a complete stranger, in whose power you intend to place yourself completely upon arrival at their place of residence. But assuming you are reasonably assured that your choice of single-serving shag is not in fact a violent weirdo who intends to steal your feet once you're asleep, why not take a page out of Nike's book and just do it? For the pleasure of it.

So, I suppose it's just about time for the oh-so-important moral of the story. Time for closure. Hmmm…

Ok. Here it is.

Single Women.

Go forth and Slut It Up. With single men. Let's see more sluts slutfully slutting around sluttish Slutville. Safely. And stop using the word "slut" (It's easy for me to say – I've just used a lifetime's supply of the word in one sentence!).  Rid yourselves of this ridiculous social stigma for once and for all.

Ha. I wonder if the government is looking for anyone to author some pamphlets for family-planning clinics…

       

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octobre 10, 2007 - mercredi 

I recently heard a story about a friend of a friend (urban myth? I sincerely hope so.) that left my face completely bloodless and made me die a little inside. Ok, die a lot inside. But only temporarily. And my internal organs do seem to make a full recovery providing I don't think about this incident for too long. I would urge you to do the same.

Betty. The person concerned shall be called Betty. And, no. Betty is not the same Betty who features in my previous blog. That Betty is, in fact, a Japanese Macaque monkey. This Betty is a human female, of Irish descent, apparently. Enough.

Betty was enjoying a boozy girl's night out when she met a nice man. George. Much hilarity and tipple was shared over the course of the evening at the end of which George enquired whether Betty might like to have a nightcap at his place. Betty, who had decided she rather liked George and didn't wish the eve to end just then, graciously accepted George's kind offer.

So, back at George's abode, one thing lead to another, that "another" lead to something else, which, in turn, lead to something completely different, which, itself, lead to them copulating like monkey-rabbits. George fell asleep. So did Betty. Betty, however, awoke some time later, needing to answer a rather urgent call of nature. She tiptoed off to the loo and, quietly, completed the transaction with the porcelain. Betty was about to creep back in to the bedroom when she noticed that parcel she had deposited had not budged an inch. Clearly a re-flush was required. A re-flush ensued, but to no avail. Re-flush followed re-flush followed exasperated reflush. No joy. The offending matter wasn't going anywhere soon, and, in my imagination anyway, was looking rather proud of itself and more solid than ever. Apparently the turd then survived multiple attempts by Betty to break it up with the toilet brush. Clearly desperate measures were required.

Betty crept back in to the bedroom and got dressed. She then went in to the kitchen, found a plastic bag and re-entered the bathroom where she proceeded to retrieve the terrible one from the loo. After carefully wrapping the poo-parcel in the bag, Betty then went back in to the kitchen and left a note to George on the kitchen table explaining that unforeseen circumstances had arisen that had required her immediate departure. She assured George that she had had a wonderful evening and that she would call the following day. With that, she quietly left the apartment and called herself a cab.

It is uncertain at which point Betty became aware that she had left the turd-parcel next to the note on the kitchen table, but what is certain is that she never did, as promised, call George back.

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octobre 10, 2007 - mercredi 

I was listening to an episode of "The Ricky Gervais Show" a few days back when a certain topic was raised by Ricky in the "Monkey News" feature which, much to my annoyance, has been mercilessly occupying my every waking thought. And some of my sleeping one's too, but I'm ok with those. After all, driving articulated lorries made of pickled onions seems to come naturally to Japanese Macaques, and despite some early unfortunate incidents involving animal-rights protestors armed with cocktail sticks and hearts of pure malice, I'm pleased to report that the monkeys are settling in to their chosen vocation nicely, and have developed quite excellent road-awareness skills. Yes. You heard it here first.

 

So my life has begun to suffer because I cannot stop thinking about this latest development in the monkey world. And it really is becoming rather tedious. For instance, I began work on a prototype ham, cheese and chutney sandwich which, my stomach is sorry to report, never went in to full-scale production due to a last minute withdrawal of cognitive funding. I'm losing weight rapidly and I can't be certain (because I'm too scared to ask), but I think a Croatian family may have moved in to my bathroom late yesterday afternoon. Around five o'clock.

So, what is this bit of Monkey News that has reduced the rest of my life to one-dimensional imagery and white noise, I hear (all three of you who are still reading this horseshit) ask. Allow me.

Like all primates, Japanese Macaques love to be groomed, and one particular member (to whom we shall allocate the nom de plume "George") of a troop of Japanese Macaques (the main body of this troop wish to remain anonymous due to the fear of inspiring jealousy in, and thus reprisals from, neighbouring troops) was no different on the day in question. George decided that he wished to be groomed by his mate, "Betty", who wanted absolutely no part of it. George meticulously followed the guidelines laid out in the revised version of "How to Get Groomed Immediately - For Dummies", but was no less the recipient of a silent, but undeniable "fuck you" from Betty. So, realising that Standard Operating Procedure had broken down, George decided to improvise. This is what he did.

He marched over to a proximal Sika deer (who did not wish to remain anonymous – quite the opposite. In fact, this deer was hoping to become famous off the back of this blog and use the fame to promote his international spoken word tour. But I'm no fucking charity. So he shall remain nameless, just to piss him off. Actually, no! He's getting a girl's name) called Gertrude, jumped on the deer's back and searched through Gertrude's fur until he found a parasite (whom shall remain nameless in accordance with the wishes of its family). George picked the parasite off Gertrude's back, reached behind his head and deposited the parasite on to his own back. He promptly got off Gertrude (filthy bitch) and marched back over to, and seated himself in front of, Betty. Betty, of course, immediately noticed the wriggling creepy-crawly on George's back, reached for it, ate it and then proceeded to groom George in the hope of discovering more food. And that's it. That's the bit of Monkey News that has had me absent-mindedly picking my nose in supermarkets (usually in front of the cheese counter. You know the one. Past the sausage fridge and take a right) and leaving the house without trousers on.

Now if you have read all of this so far and are of the opinion that the event that I have just described to you does not warrant the life-destroying amount of thought that I have heaped its way, then I urge you to reconsider. Let's analyse this together.

First off, let's discuss what is currently believed to be the reasons behind the evolution of grooming. Grooming exists in many species for a number of reasons. The chief motivation for the groomer is the acquisition of protein that goes along with eating parasites. Typically, in a troop of monkeys, it is much more likely to be the dominant males and females that receive the majority of the grooming. The main reason for this is that the monkey of lesser status that administers the grooming strengthens his/her social bond with a dominant monkey and thus inherits a transient elevation of social status. Being the groomed, of course, has its advantages too. Having your mate rifling through your fur for parasites obviously has the advantage of ridding yourself of parasites that you yourself cannot reach. In the process you shed loose hair and dead skin cells, it promotes the flow of blood through the capillaries which helps in the reparation of damaged cells. And as previously mentioned, it strengthens social bonds and reinforces hierarchal order within the troop. The process of grooming also lowers heart rates and stress levels in both animals. I just made that last bit up, but it's probably true. Grooming probably also leads to some monkey-love every now and then, but I'll save that for another blog. That and monkey-wanking. Bring popcorn. And a date. God I hate myself for writing this drivel.

I've just had a thought. I wonder in which chronological order these reasons for grooming were realised as being advantageous, and thus evolved in. Any takers? Enough of that.

So George wanted a grooming. Betty wasn't having it. So George devises a plan! George walks up to a member of a different, much bigger species than his own and jumps on its back! And Gertrude is okay with this? Apparently so. Then George does a remarkable thing. George then displays an extraordinary degree of restraint (that I feel is impressive, even by human standards) by not eating food which is right there, wriggling away in his hand. He then gives up the food and, in so doing, he brings to fruition his five point plan!

You see, possibly the biggest reason for humans having evolved in to the dominant species on this planet is our ability to perform abstract thinking, to plan ahead. We can shape our future. We are not limited by being only capable of reacting to environmental events – we can actually shape our environment. A lizard, for instance, doesn't sit there thinking 'Hmmmm, I think I'll have roast pheasant, broccoli and new potatoes tomorrow night. With a white wine sauce, naturally.' A lizard is all about the EATFUCKDONTDIE. No abstract thought. George the Japanese Macaque, on the other hand, formulated a five point plan to achieve a desired outcome. Walk over to deer. Find food. Put food on own back. Return to that frigid bitch Betty. Get groomed. Give Betty a good kicking and walk out on her for good. Six point plan – even more impressive.

And that sequence of events has had me burning toast and misplacing keys for days now. To say I'm impressed is a grave understatement.

Anyway, one final thing before I go. Believe it or not this is the second time within two days that I've posted this blog. The first time I posted it I was forced to retract it due to a call I received from Gertrude the deer's lawyer in ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Osaka. My having given Jake (Jake is the deer's name, by the way. Jake) a false name and a girl's one at that and then gone on to imply that Jake the deer received a shagging off George the Macaque is libellous, apparently. So in order to avoid legal proceedings I am required to say the following:

Jake is neither a girl nor gay. Jake does not partake in inter-species sexual activity. This is not because Jake is a speciest. Jake simply does not find any species, other than his own, attractive. And then only the young women. Jake is currently preparing to travel the world as a part of his momentous and ground-breaking "spoken word" tour. Ladies and gents, this show is just wonderful! It's educational. It's funny. It's thought-provoking. It's Jake the Sika deer. Coming soon to a theatre near you. Enjoy Coca-Cola.

 

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mars 30, 2007 - vendredi 

I went to an amateur comedy night last night. The headline act, an Irish feller, offered a decidedly insightful opinion regarding air-freshener in toilets.

"Given the choice of my bathroom smelling like shit, or smelling like a basket of roses that someone has had a shit in, I'll take the former every time."

Have a good weekend all.

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décembre 18, 2006 - lundi 

The engineering world's take on the Father Christmas legend...

1) No known species of reindeer can fly. BUT there are 300,000 species of
living organisms yet to be classified, and while most of these are insects
and germs, this does not COMPLETELY rule out flying reindeer which only
Santa has ever seen.

2) There are 2 billion children (persons under 18) in the world. BUT since
Santa doesn't (appear) to handle the Muslim, Hindu, Jewish and Buddhist
children, that reduces the workload to 15% of the total - 378 million
according to Population Reference Bureau. At an average (census) rate of 3.5 children per household, that's 91.8 million homes. One presumes there's at least one good child in each.

3) Santa has 31 hours of Christmas to work with, thanks to the different
time zones and the rotation of the earth, assuming he travels east to west
(which seems logical). This works out to 822.6 visits per second. This is to
say that for each Christian household with good children, Santa has 1/1000th of a second to park, hop our of the sleigh, jump down the chimney, fill the stockings, distribute the remaining presents under the tree, eat whatever snacks have been left, get back up the chimney, get back into the sleigh and move on to the next house. Assuming that each of these 91.8 million stops are evenly distributed around the earth (which, of course, we know to be false but for the purpose of our calculations we will accept), we are now talking about .78 miles per household, a total trip of 75< million miles, not counting stops to do what most of us must do at least once every 31 hours, plus feeding, etc.

This means that Santa's sleigh is moving at 650 miles per second, 3,000 times the speed of sound. For purposes of comparison, the fastest man-made vehicle on earth, the Ulysses space probe, moves at a poky 27.4 miles per second - a conventional reindeer can run, tops, 15 miles per hour.

4) The payload on the sleigh adds another interesting element. Assuming that each child gets nothing more than a medium-sized lego set (2 pounds), the sleigh is carrying 321,300 tons, not counting Santa, who is often described as overweight. On land, the conventional reindeer can pull no more than 300 pounds. Even granting the "flying reindeer" (see point #1) could pull TEN TIMES the normal amount, we cannot do the job with eight, or even nine. We need 214,200 reindeer. This increases the payload -not even counting the weight of the sleigh - to 353,430 tons. Again, for comparison - this is four times the weight of the Queen Elizabeth II.

5) 353,000 tons travelling at 650 miles per second creates enormous air
resistance - this will heat the reindeer up in the same fashion as
spacecraft re-entering the earth's atmosphere. The lead pair of reindeer
will absorb 14.3 QUINTILLION joules of energy. Per second. Each. In short,
they will burst into flame almost instantaneously, exposing the reindeer
behind them, and create deafening sonic booms in their wake. The entire
reindeer team will be vaporized within 4.26 thousandths of a second. Santa,
meanwhile, will be subjected to centrifugal forces 17,500.06 times greater
than gravity. A 250-pound Santa (which seems ludicrously slim) would be
pinned to the back of his sleigh by 4,315,015 pounds of force.

In conclusion, if Santa ever DID deliver presents on Christmas Eve, he's dead now.

Merry Christmas!

4:36  
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novembre 8, 2006 - mercredi 

When queried about the possibility/wisdom of fucking the admin/payroll department of her current employer as a means to possible career advancement, my friend Becky replied thus:

"I am the admin.  Jeez.  It's not true.

I work with hundreds of balding, swollen bellied men, full of beef steak
and cheap french wine and having lost the spirit of anarchy years ago
are resigned to a life of bizarre and self-demoralising mediocrity, in a
purple tie cracking bad anecdotes about their experience which they
actually think helps to quantify them as good golfers and fathers in
equal measure.

They have this idea that this is the best that it gets, and one day
we'll all be as lucky as they are.

Luckier still when they're trying to look up the skirts of their
harrowed administrational staff, and insinuating affairs, all the while
their cholesterol laden god-given living moments drip through their
precious fat fingers.

So, no.  We won't f*ck payroll.  Not until they stop reading the Sun.

Any other ideas?"

Er, yeah. Write a book; immediately. About anything. Doesn't matter what.

Shrewd observational skills and powers of interpretation second to None.

We're waiting. Deliver. Capital "D" used for emphasis, not as a sentence beginner.

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octobre 17, 2006 - mardi 

Humeur actuelle :Heart broken

I returned home from town today bearing five (for a pound) of the finest scones that mankind has yet produced. They had the appearance of delicious, golden moon rocks, their fire-hardened sultanas standing proudly above the buttery crust like dark volcanic domes whist their deep crevices stared boldly back at you, lewdly goading you on with silent promises of unimaginable exotic orgiastic pythonry. I reluctantly placed the bag of Whore-Scones on the kitchen counter and began to rummage through cupboard and drawer for accoutrement and accompaniment. Only after my head had been buried in the fridge's innards for some time, did the first shadow of suspicion that something was amiss begin to permeate my mind. But what can it be, why this sudden sense of imminent doom? Why do I feel sick with worry? Time for a little stock taking...

Whore-scones, JAWOHL! Irish butter, JAWOHL! Channel Island Extra Thick Double Cream From Guernsey And Jersey Cows - Perfect With Indulgent Desserts, JAWOHL! Robertson's Raspberry Jam That I Bought A Couple Of Months Ago For An Occasion Much Like This One, Even Though, At The Time Of Purchase, I Had No Occasion For Its Use...? Nought – just a chilling silence. Or if it is present, it certainly aint "sounding off like it's got a pair." So I mount an organised and thorough search effort, but my Jam is gone. Gone! Exiled, perhaps, to another world, but no. It's been stolen. I feel it in my heart. There are no other explanations. Some insidious snake with a heart of 24-carat malice and a head full of deception and a golden tongue has smoothed his/her way into my last homely house and made off with my raspberry jam.

 But which terrible cunt would do such a deed? And I never use That Word. The perpetration of any lesser crime might very well result in my calling the perpetrator a "horrible cunt" or, if I had a little more time, "that horrible cunt". But jamthievery by someone you call "friend" is the rape of benevolence and must invoke the "terrible".  

I have replaced the Jam now with jam of inferior workmanship. I cannot weather another loss like that one. I am a broken man now. NO! I'm not even a man, I'm just a broken. An eater of Spar thick-cut marmalade and toast. An appreciator of spreads.

 

5:53  
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octobre 9, 2006 - lundi 

Back by popular demand....

 

And on the fourth day He chiseled off a dirty great big steaming turd. And he saw that It was good. Well "good" may be a little strong, but It was certainly alright. Well It wasn't bad anyway. Not too bad. Quite bad, undoubtedly, but It could have been a lot worse as well. Well not a lot worse, I suppose, as It was actually rather terrible. But not terribly terrible. But definitely within the realms of terribleness, none the less. It was, after all, a terrible, terrible turd. But surely not the worst EVER turd. Okay, possibly the worst ever turd of the fourth day. Which I suppose means the worst ever turd up to that point as He had not, as yet, made stool during the Creation. So Yes, I suppose It was the worst ever turd. Yet HE thought It was good. With this in mind, you have to ask yourself: 'Is this really someone I want to serve?'

Actuellement j'écoute:
Real Gone
Par Tom Waits
Date de publication : 05 October, 2004
5:33  
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octobre 5, 2006 - jeudi 

Here is an excerpt from Hunter S. Thompson's book "Kingdom Of Fear", in which he voices his opinion in his own, er, eloquent way, regarding the shortcomings of the current American leadership.

 

"We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world - a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us… No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we'll kill you.

Well shit on that dumbness. George W. Bush does not speak for me or my son or my mother or my friends or the people I respect in this world. We didn't vote for these cheap, greedy killers who speak for America today – and we will not vote for them in 2002. Or 2004. Or ever.

Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush?

They are the ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us – they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis.

And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them"

 

 

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octobre 3, 2006 - mardi 

In my previous blog, titled "Like Goldunce", I think my reasons for becoming angry with the trolley lady may be a little unclear. Let's recap.

Whilst searching for a trolley at Tesco, I approached a rough-looking middle-aged lady who had was obviously about to clear her trolley of goods, and asked if  I might use it after her. She answered 'They're like gold dust these little 'uns, got a mind of there own.' This made me angry. I'm not proud of it, but it did happen. Here is why:

She obviously, on short notice, frantically searched her mind for something to say that was applicable to the situation and, as we all know, trolley's can be a little unpredictable when in motion. So she went with that one, the most obvious one, the one that everyone knows, the one that everyone avoids giving voice to  lest they get branded "dullard" and possibly even take a beating off their friends. And the knowing way in which she said it seemed to suggest that the relaying of this little diamond of truth to me was bound to instill a sense of solidarity between us, if only for a moment - us two down-on-our-luck wobbly-wheeled trolley users, fighting the eternal battle between noble man and lawless shopping trolley.

 

Of course, this wasn't even her whole sentence. Her sentence in its entirety seemed to suggest that the unpredictable nature of a half-sized trolley could somehow be attributed to its rarity. In so doing she mixed a tired old simile with a tired old personification. Badly.

 

This made me very angry.

 

What she should have done is answered "yes" to my question, silently removed her shopping from the trolley and caught the bus back  across the tracks to her cramped council flat.

3:05  
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