It's infinite because there will always be an
infinite amount of assholes to shop at one. I went to one today, and
forgot that we are in the middle of a school break. Lo and behold,
fifteen thousand children, off from school and spending their hard
earned pocket money, that their parent just seem to give them in
abundance. When I was a kid, I was given enough money for a bag of
lollies, and a kick up the arse. These kids are buying $50 brand name
label clothes, and parading around like show-ponies.I ventured into the
Food Court, to get something mildly edible, and was confronted with an
unwashed sea of filth, all vying for their allowance of fucking
McDonalds and KFC, stuffing their children with the grease of ages like
it's a fucking family tradition.
Having
bought a reasonably healthy salad roll, I began my hunt for a seat
amidst the crowd. Motioning to my fiancee that I had found an adequate
abode for our eating, I was beaten by some fat, whore-like mother and
her fat, fucking hateful children to my selected seat. She was like a
vulture swooping in on it's prey. It was truly horrendous, the way her
fat ass squeezed into the seat I had selected, and her kids tore asunder
the film surrounding their greasy prize.I spat on them, and selected
another seat.
I spent the rest of the
day in 'man-stance', which is the position assumed by men in women's
fashion stores while waiting for their other half. It consists of
standing in one spot, arms crossed, and eyeing the other women in the
store, and gauging how fat they are, or, how likely they are to take up
the offer of a quick one in the change rooms.
Thursday, 5 September 2013
Dreams. (Originally published 01/07/2005.)
Last night, I had a dream where my father owned a
large bookstore. I would help him out from time to time, and on the
particular day of my dream, there was a single mother browsing the
shelves, while her 2 year old kid toddled around breaking shit and
wiping snot onto expensive books.The majority of the dream played out
like a cheap-ass Disney film, filled with pissweak hijinks as I ran
around the store, trying to catch the kid, as the little shit would
always surprise me by magically appearing on top of a book shelf and
comically pissing on my head while I shook my fist in anger.
The odd part started when my father, the owner, started shouting at people to 'get the fuck out of the store', and ushering people to the exit with a steel cricket bat. He was angry because no one was buying books, and that only paying customers could stay. This left the aisles empty, but a cafe full of pretentious wankers drinking decaf choco-mocha-chacha-fucking-lattes and all agreeing that women's rights were shot to all hell in China.That's when the kid popped up on a table, and I lunged to grab it. It cackled maniacally at me, but I moved forward too fast, and knocked it off the table. It fell directly onto it's face, into a bowl of yoghurt. I picked the kid up, and removed the bowl. The yoghurt was gone, and the kids head had twisted into a fucking demon visage. It had massive fangs, and screamed at me. It yanked the bowl out of my hands, which now had holes in it, and stuck it on it's face.
The little bastard now looked like Jason Fucking Voorhees, and I ran for my life, while it cut at people's shins with a bread knife. I seem to recall most people fleeing in all directions, and one bright spark leaping through a plate glass window. It started to chase me, and the the dream suddenly changed, and I was in a bikini, standing on top of some sewerage pipes, which were suspended 50 feet above a river.
Hmmm.
The odd part started when my father, the owner, started shouting at people to 'get the fuck out of the store', and ushering people to the exit with a steel cricket bat. He was angry because no one was buying books, and that only paying customers could stay. This left the aisles empty, but a cafe full of pretentious wankers drinking decaf choco-mocha-chacha-fucking-lattes and all agreeing that women's rights were shot to all hell in China.That's when the kid popped up on a table, and I lunged to grab it. It cackled maniacally at me, but I moved forward too fast, and knocked it off the table. It fell directly onto it's face, into a bowl of yoghurt. I picked the kid up, and removed the bowl. The yoghurt was gone, and the kids head had twisted into a fucking demon visage. It had massive fangs, and screamed at me. It yanked the bowl out of my hands, which now had holes in it, and stuck it on it's face.
The little bastard now looked like Jason Fucking Voorhees, and I ran for my life, while it cut at people's shins with a bread knife. I seem to recall most people fleeing in all directions, and one bright spark leaping through a plate glass window. It started to chase me, and the the dream suddenly changed, and I was in a bikini, standing on top of some sewerage pipes, which were suspended 50 feet above a river.
Hmmm.
Where Did You Get Those Scars?
Is a question I get asked on a semi-regular basis. My forearms are cris-crossed with scars, most a pink-red colour. The majority of people are to embarrassed to ask, but some people have no such qualms. Frankly, I don't really care if they ask or not.
However, the old saying that you should 'never let the truth get in the way of a good story' is too hard to resist, so when people ask 'where did you get those scars', I often just make up a story on the spot. A nice, simple answer is 'From Target. They were 25% off', but it's more enjoyable to see their expression when I tell them some utter bullshit. Here, then, is a recent story I made up.
'When I was a kid, I grew up in a small Dorset village called Tillsbury, in the south of England. It was pretty rural, I guess, at least as rural as you can be in Britain these days. I wasn't very popular with the local kids, I think mainly because of my French accent. Anyway, one day, I was at the park, and some kids came over and asked if I wanted to play a game. Always eager to be accepted, I hastily agreed, and we went down to Caemlyn River, which was really just a large stream.
There were more kids there, and one of them said that his father had recently been to Mexico on a business trip, and had brought him back a capybara. I said that that was pretty awesome, even though I had no idea what a capybara was. The kid went on and said that it had escaped from its cage and was hiding in the trunk of an oak, a few hundred feet downstream.
Apparently, most of the other kids had been to scared to try and fish it out, and would I be interested in having a go?
Naturally, I jumped at the chance, and they led me down to a massive tree by the side of the water. Bored into the trunk was a hole, the interior made dark by the canopy of leaves above us. As forbidding as it seemed, I was so desperate to be one of the gang, I instantly shoved my hands in, to try and find whatever this capybara creature was.
Of course, there was no such thing, and the kids had simply filled the hole with dog shit, which my searching hands found rather quickly. The smell hit me instantly, but I put on a brave face and kept my hands in the hole, while the kids began to laugh.
As they stood there laughing and jeering, I wondered how I was going to get out of this situation with any kind of dignity. That's when the pain started. I remember screaming and trying to pull my hands out of the trunk, the smell of dog shit invading my nostrils. My hands were held fast, however. It felt like something was trying to eat my arms, and my attempts to pull free only caused more pain.
After what seemed like an eternity, whatever creature hid inside that dark hole released me, and I pulled out my tattered arms, blood running like a river onto the ground around me. I held my arms out for help, towards the gathered kids, but they just screamed and ran. I must have passed out then, because the next time I awoke, I was in the hospital. And these scars are what remain of that day'.
However, the old saying that you should 'never let the truth get in the way of a good story' is too hard to resist, so when people ask 'where did you get those scars', I often just make up a story on the spot. A nice, simple answer is 'From Target. They were 25% off', but it's more enjoyable to see their expression when I tell them some utter bullshit. Here, then, is a recent story I made up.
'When I was a kid, I grew up in a small Dorset village called Tillsbury, in the south of England. It was pretty rural, I guess, at least as rural as you can be in Britain these days. I wasn't very popular with the local kids, I think mainly because of my French accent. Anyway, one day, I was at the park, and some kids came over and asked if I wanted to play a game. Always eager to be accepted, I hastily agreed, and we went down to Caemlyn River, which was really just a large stream.
There were more kids there, and one of them said that his father had recently been to Mexico on a business trip, and had brought him back a capybara. I said that that was pretty awesome, even though I had no idea what a capybara was. The kid went on and said that it had escaped from its cage and was hiding in the trunk of an oak, a few hundred feet downstream.
Apparently, most of the other kids had been to scared to try and fish it out, and would I be interested in having a go?
Naturally, I jumped at the chance, and they led me down to a massive tree by the side of the water. Bored into the trunk was a hole, the interior made dark by the canopy of leaves above us. As forbidding as it seemed, I was so desperate to be one of the gang, I instantly shoved my hands in, to try and find whatever this capybara creature was.
Of course, there was no such thing, and the kids had simply filled the hole with dog shit, which my searching hands found rather quickly. The smell hit me instantly, but I put on a brave face and kept my hands in the hole, while the kids began to laugh.
As they stood there laughing and jeering, I wondered how I was going to get out of this situation with any kind of dignity. That's when the pain started. I remember screaming and trying to pull my hands out of the trunk, the smell of dog shit invading my nostrils. My hands were held fast, however. It felt like something was trying to eat my arms, and my attempts to pull free only caused more pain.
After what seemed like an eternity, whatever creature hid inside that dark hole released me, and I pulled out my tattered arms, blood running like a river onto the ground around me. I held my arms out for help, towards the gathered kids, but they just screamed and ran. I must have passed out then, because the next time I awoke, I was in the hospital. And these scars are what remain of that day'.
Monday, 17 June 2013
Insightful YouTube Comments.
"I'll Let People Know So I'm Safe I'll Let People Know So I'm Safe. so i
or humans don't die and loss everything that humanity created people
could fight back if express and they have ideas of the mind that. it
could be done secretly now we are aware of that. same as the china could
drop bombs on us in 2015 due to world population and asylum seekers on
the 7 news no 6 billion kills we will lose tv because people are
heartless and feel nothing and all they do is have goes"
Thursday, 21 March 2013
Quick, before you forget. Vol.1
Possibly one of my earliest memories?
Seated in an amphitheater, with my grandparents, waiting for motherfucking BIG BIRD and Snuffleupugus to hit the stage. These are snapshots of memory, nothing so vivid as a video replay, as much as I can wish. But in my desire to catalogue early memories, this one stands out.
Seated in an amphitheater, with my grandparents, waiting for motherfucking BIG BIRD and Snuffleupugus to hit the stage. These are snapshots of memory, nothing so vivid as a video replay, as much as I can wish. But in my desire to catalogue early memories, this one stands out.
Tuesday, 21 February 2012
A deep, dark chasm.
The only way out of hell, is through it. Morbid, maybe? Morose?
After a decade and more of being an alcoholic, I ended up in the hospital over the weekend, after booze, depression and imminent unemployment all conspired for me to do something drastic (though not suicidally so).
My parents, my brother and my wife all sat down today and had a meeting. I call it a meeting and not an intervention, because an intervention is for people who insist they don't have a problem, where as I've admitted being dependent on alcohol many times through my life.
The outcome of that meeting is that, under my own direction, I no longer drink alcohol. Should I fall off the wagon, then my wife will not hesitate to enter me into rehab.
I'm unsure of my future going forward into an alcohol free life. I don't believe I need to drink, but when I do, I can drink a fucking pirate under the table. There used to be an off switch, but the off switch got snapped off, and I can drink myself into oblivion.
Having said that, I'm not a violent drunk, and never have been. I'm a happy, carefree drunk, one who likes to make people laugh.
But I'm not laughing anymore, because my situation just isn't funny. My wife's father is a chronic alcoholic who has danced with death intimately, nearly shuffling off his mortal coil twice. My stepbrother's maternal mother drank herself to death. My stepsister's father is a chronic alcoholic who is the same colour as margarine.
Some of my best friends are fellow alcoholics. I don't whether they care to admit that, but it's true. I love the drink, but I honestly feel that I have no option but to become completely straightedge. Not that I'll shove that in other people's faces, like those hardcore straightedge guys do, but I'm either straightedge, or I drink myself to death. Slowly; my body collapsing under the years of punishment and regret.
I have already completed 24 hours as a sober person. This is day 2.
Will there be a day 200? 2000?
Well, that's up to me.
After a decade and more of being an alcoholic, I ended up in the hospital over the weekend, after booze, depression and imminent unemployment all conspired for me to do something drastic (though not suicidally so).
My parents, my brother and my wife all sat down today and had a meeting. I call it a meeting and not an intervention, because an intervention is for people who insist they don't have a problem, where as I've admitted being dependent on alcohol many times through my life.
The outcome of that meeting is that, under my own direction, I no longer drink alcohol. Should I fall off the wagon, then my wife will not hesitate to enter me into rehab.
I'm unsure of my future going forward into an alcohol free life. I don't believe I need to drink, but when I do, I can drink a fucking pirate under the table. There used to be an off switch, but the off switch got snapped off, and I can drink myself into oblivion.
Having said that, I'm not a violent drunk, and never have been. I'm a happy, carefree drunk, one who likes to make people laugh.
But I'm not laughing anymore, because my situation just isn't funny. My wife's father is a chronic alcoholic who has danced with death intimately, nearly shuffling off his mortal coil twice. My stepbrother's maternal mother drank herself to death. My stepsister's father is a chronic alcoholic who is the same colour as margarine.
Some of my best friends are fellow alcoholics. I don't whether they care to admit that, but it's true. I love the drink, but I honestly feel that I have no option but to become completely straightedge. Not that I'll shove that in other people's faces, like those hardcore straightedge guys do, but I'm either straightedge, or I drink myself to death. Slowly; my body collapsing under the years of punishment and regret.
I have already completed 24 hours as a sober person. This is day 2.
Will there be a day 200? 2000?
Well, that's up to me.
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