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Saturday, October 17th, 2009
3:27 am - So hey, my penis, right?
My urine smells of corned beef, my cock smells of vagina - my not nearly enough, yeah kids? lol lol lol lol lol - and I managed to shave an unsightly chunk out of my left-side sideburn.

And I'm supposed to get a job? With all that going on? Pffh, get real, Granddad.

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Wednesday, October 7th, 2009
3:35 am
Christ I think I just put down a deposit on pussy.

Like, I could have just rented this bitch month-on-month. But now I gone paid up a whole wad up front, like I'm gonna have to keep the cash flowing so I don't have it taken from me by the bank. The fucking bank might steal my poontang! Like I could end up getting my pussy towed! By greasy foreign men! In overalls! Who wants to see their pussy all over overalls?

Fuck Paris. Fuck it in it's fucking Arc D'Triomphe.

Booked it packed it fucked oeuf.

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2:31 am
Smarter than you, better connected than you and sneakier than a lady. Consider your chips well and truly pissed upon sir. Revenge, like cucumber, is best served cold, and with a nice dip.

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Tuesday, October 6th, 2009
8:28 pm - Islamialal
If I was God - and we don't know one another so well, really, like we haven't kissed or taught one another to drive or been trapped in an elevator for ages whilst one of us gets uncomfortable holding in a fart and we make small talk that eventually slides into one of us sitting legs akimbo on the dirty elevator floor crying whilst the other pet pet consoles, so who are you to say I'm not God? What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? - so yeah if I were God and I wanted to communicate a very very very precise, lengthy message to mankind, what I'd do is I'd send a lackey to communicate that very very very precise, lengthy message, you know? Not take it personally like I did with Moses. Not even send my kid. I'd send a hired goon. And I'd chose, as recipient of this all important ethereal message, a wealthy, wise, but ultimately illiterate cloth salesman.

And then tell him to write it down, word for word, very very very precisely, and at great length.

That's what I'd do. Scribes are ten-a-penny. Just saying.

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Thursday, October 1st, 2009
4:00 am - WOW GREAT NEWS EVERYONE!
Can you believe it?!?! I'll be producing the next Lil' Wayne record! Amazing huh?

You know, he's kind of top of the world at the moment, like, he's probably the most famous person alive. Certainly the most famous black person alive. Well, at least in America he probably is. I think Shaq is second. So yeah, anyway, he's top of the pile ma, and wants to demonstrate his new God-like power by making a rock record. (Like, normally, he does raps). So yeah he calls me up, because I once left a note on the back of a betting slip, shoved down the side of a bar stool, in Bolton UK. I'd written 'I wrote all Andrew WKs best tunes' on it. And his handlers passed it to him, because they're always on the look out for freshhhhh skillz, and my freshhhh skillz are apparently certifiably mad. Anyway, so that's how I got the gig. Gonna be fun times, for deffo!

Don't doubt, haters. Don't doubt.

ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY LIL' WAYNE CAN'T READ? FUCKING RACISM ON TOAST.

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2:45 am - Top Five New Pet Names For My 'Junk'
5. KC & The Sunshine Band

4. The Munch Bunch

3. Phillip Pullman & His Dark Materials

2. Washstand & Hand Towels

1. The Extended Oxford English Reference Dictionary & Thesaurus

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Friday, August 28th, 2009
11:40 pm
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samlesbury_witches

"Lancashire, an English county which, at the end of the 16th century, was regarded by the authorities as a wild and lawless region, "fabled for its theft, violence and sexual laxity, where the church was honoured without much understanding of its doctrines by the common people".[11] Since the death of Queen Mary and the accession to the throne of her half-sister Elizabeth in 1558, Catholic priests had been forced into hiding, but in remote areas like Lancashire they continued to celebrate mass in secret.[12] In early 1612, the year of the trials, each justice of the peace (JP) in Lancashire was ordered to compile a list of the recusants in their area—those who refused to attend the services of the Church of England, a criminal offence at that time.[13]"

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Thursday, June 25th, 2009
9:50 pm - sweaty breasts
She's twenty, slender, pale. She learned to exploit her sex when other girls were still figuring out which fingers to stick in it. Stripper at 18, retired now. She's white; whiter than white, like White-Out white. She has a dirty laugh and she laughs at dirty jokes.

"You wanna see something disgusting," she says, from the top of the stairs.

She was mopping upstairs, I was mopping downstairs. Those aren't euphemisms.

"Oh man, don't get your flaps out," I said.

She said 'Ha no.' Like really, it was a 'ha' laugh and then a spoken 'no'.

"It's minging," she says.

I sludged up the stairs, thinking of new dirty jokes. I don't know any new dirty jokes, really. There aren't any. All dirty jokes are old. Though time & circumstance provide them all new play areas, every day.

"Check this out," she says, pointing to her breasts. Redundantly.

"Uh-huh."

"They're all minging and that," she says.

She pulls the 'U' of her vest top down further than I'd even dared to look. I can't see her nipples. There isn't much else I care to can't see.

"I'm sweating!" she says. I remember earlier, joking, calling her lazy, saying she never got a sweat on unless it was with a doorman. Now she has a sweat on. She's proving it.

"My boobs are all sweaty! In't that mingin'?"

"Yes," I agree, "A young woman with sweat glistening breasts is well minging."

It wasn't though. It wasn't minging one bit. It wasn't the Ark of the Covenant either, though.

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Friday, June 19th, 2009
1:49 am - TBC ...
Once dispersed, together we again come, coagulating. Like separate strands of jism in a full bathtub. We accumulate at the self-service check-out.

A basket full of booze, of chocolate, of booze, of chocolate flavoured ice cream bars, of booze. I stand above with a value pack of toilet rolls - a six pack, recycled, the earth means a great deal to me. Swish a pack of lagers into the carrier, I'll swipe a pack of bog roll. Swish a pack of Mars Ice Cream bars, I'll swipe a pack of bog roll. Swish a pack of expensive razor blades - yes the Wilkinson Sword ones, the ones where the blade costs more than the razor, yes, take those - I'll swipe a pack of bog rolls.

Roll.

Roll out.

We were even unwatched, if you can believe that. Unwatched, unheeded. Unfollowed. Unspected.

We wheeled our trolley simply straightly, no silliness, no trolley mess. Ready, ready ... that was the name of our driver. Not named so because he was, but because we warned him to be. Be ready, ready. Be ready ready.

TBC.

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Monday, June 8th, 2009
10:12 pm
Doing 90 in a 60 zone, we dropped gears like they were listed on the NASDAQ. Swung in left, and found a space. Tires burnt streaks in to the tarmac. Only five minutes left. Fuck, they were already dragging a train of trolleys in. A boy in a paper thin work shirt pulled a string of trolleys by their tail; like early hominids would drag their mates by the hair. He pulled them in, in to where the food was stored.

It's now. By now, there are only seconds left. I slam a foot into a stray trolley. It was instinctive, natural. My aim, today, is better than it ever was. The trolley jams the automatic doors. They were about to close, politely, the doors, but a kick from me, and a kick from the kerb, means the trolley spins horizontal. It leaves the doors gasping for one another; lovers held apart by a wheeled-cage. Such a shame. Brief Encounter, but for furniture.

We storm the doorway. I head east, basket-handed. He heads up the escalator.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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Sunday, June 7th, 2009
4:46 pm - The Episode With The One With The New Job
Day One:

Asked to attend at eight am. Director's apologize, we shan't meet for out 'direction & strategy' meeting until ten am.

Meet Frank, daytime chef, and a newly hired waitress, Adele.

Offer to do some prep work for Frank. Chop veggies.

Ten am comes and goes. No sign of 'direction & strategy' meeting.

Day Two:

Day off!

Day three:

Turn up at eight am. 'Direction & Strategy' meeting postponed till 3pm.

Prep, serve, wait tables, etc.

10am, head waitress turns up. Present: myself, daytime chef, head waitress, waitress. Number of customers: 2.

10.15 am: go for cigarette.

10.20 am: get told off by head waitress for not informing team of my whereabouts.

15.00 pm: close cafe. No sign of 'Direction & strategy' meeting.

Day four:

Turn up at eight am. 'Direction & strategy' meeting at 10am.

'Direction & strategy' meeting takes place (5pm).

Action: meet with night-time head chef.

Wait for night-time chef.

Leave venue, sans night-time chef (8pm).

Day five: opening night

Arrive 8pm.

Meet night-time chef & team.

Stock take: (0,0,0) - no alcohol stock on site.
Promotional materials: (none)

9pm - 6am: customers, 14; takings £158.00; expenditure on wages: £190.00

Day six:

Stock arrives
Promotional materials arrive

promote venue.

9pm - 6am: customers, 7; taking £58.00; expenditure on wages £190.00

Day seven:

finish at 6am / day off

Day eight:

in work at eight am.

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Monday, June 1st, 2009
4:47 pm - Advice For Citizens: Don't Panic!
1. There has been speculation and rumor mongering amongst the populace. Let me assure you: whilst it is unfortunately true that Mr David Copperfield can render the Statue Of Liberty momentarily invisible to the naked eye, he has received proper warning from the Aviation Authority that these 'disappearances' are not to be allowed to become permanent. Lady Liberty will reappear after a short interval. Should you notice a magician related failure to reflect ambient light, please contact your district commissioner.

2. Though most of our younger citizens are aware of the specific politico-geographic structure known universally as The Berlin Wall, still many of them are not familiar with the precise nature and significance of the now destroyed border.

To put 'The Wall' in to some kind of context, imagine an episode of Malcom In The Middle wherein Malcom or Dewey or the other one (not the one at military boot-camp) are in conflict. The brothers might create an arbitrary partition through their bedroom, allowing no traverse or commerce from one side to the other. The Berlin Wall was thus. It is important, though, to remember that the Berlin Wall did not span the entirety of the German Nation. The actual division occurred only locally, that is to say, through the centre of Berlin. As the name suggests.

Therefore, enchance your imaginings of those quarters belonging to Malcom et al to include a Wendy House. It would only be within the context of the Wendy House ensconsed in the bedroom of Malcom et al that division occurred.

All the best Wendy House appliances - Tiny Tots Stove, bucket & spade for adventures in sand, and both Walkie Talkies - would be found on the Western side of the barrier.

3. Crypto-Fascists are not fascists from the planet Krypton, as has been suggested.

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Saturday, May 30th, 2009
8:01 pm - Pretention Of The Day #32 of 60.
"This is what existence is. A perpetual emptiness, with a few good jokes thrown in the mix."

From the comical article:

Kafka At Camp: The Lost Diaries at the McSweeney's website.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2009/5/27barnosky.html

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Thursday, May 28th, 2009
11:05 pm - Jesus, Remember: Laces Front!
What must it be like to be an NFL kicker? You're necessary, of course, for you must start or restart the game. The entire game is contingent upon your boot. Without that initial kick, no game. Though of course, anyone with a pair of legs and a linked spinal column & brain can kick a football. No shit. Even I can do it (fun fact, honesty fans, I was a good rugby goal-kicker).

Anyone could do it, but it's your responsibility: it's your act, your schtick, your thing. So you're necessary. So what? Every atom is necessary, and equal. And every part of every atom is necessary, too. And equal, I suppose. Can you imagine a Million Man March of protons? Me neither, but hell, I'd like to see society function without properly recognising the role protons play in our every day lives.

So you're the kicker, almost by lottery. I mean, of course there's a skill to it. It isn't the easiest thing in the world for a person to do. But it's not the hardest, either. I can do it. Frano Botica can do it. The Queen could do it, given the correct ergonomic yet regal attire.

So really, you're a waiter. Not one who waits on, but someone who waits. As necessary as any other actor, but really, you're basic role could be fulfilled by any understudy. You wait for the time wherein your actions, your abilities, could become uniquely useful: when no-one else could kick quite like you do. No-one else has your nerveless sanity, your cold-browed sensibility, your choice of sports shoe, or particular alignment of sports trouser /genital cup.

But the game might pass without a decisive field goal being required. Games and games and games might pass with the regularity of a Steelers pass rush, and you might never be used.

The kicker is necessary, but not necessarily decisive. Perhaps a crisis will break out, one which only your own particular brand of overly-specialised sporting skill can resolve. But perhaps not.

It must be sad to be a kicker.

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Tuesday, May 26th, 2009
6:22 pm - Me & My Mouse
Poor mouse!

I thought you lovely, and still think you so.

You have a beautiful centrally centered roller nub. Your innards are illuminated with a rosy light, like dawn. It makes your translucent nub glow like a little pink clitty when you're turned on.

Your little pink nub, a the width of my index finger, is sided left and right with a shiny sleek silver plastic casing. It is like you stick the tip of your tongue from between 70's version of the future lips.

But each lip is now worn through to see through by my pawing. More on the left than the right, I see. Goddamn Microsoft. Soft, is the pink light that filters through your too-rubbed sheath.

My finger-bits have risen Mouse syphillis on your body.

Poor Mouse.

I made you come in to the internets with me. And it gave you sexual diseases.

Sorry, Mouse.

Sorry.

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Saturday, May 23rd, 2009
10:03 pm - satire
I like satire, it interests me.

I like how easy it is to begin with: it can be parodic, sarcastic, ironic.* Perhaps that is why satire dates back to ancient Egypt, coming to us through ancient Athens, Rome, the Arabian world, and the middle ages with Chaucer, and the Europe of Swift, Rabelais and Boccaccio. It's easier for these mentally inferior, pre-modern minds to grasp. Dante never threw a pie in someone's face, did he? (Or if he did, it was not to censure by means of ridicule or wit - perhaps he was just drunk, and the pie's recipient had written a rude limerick about Beatrice and posted it on the inside of a privy door).

What I don't like about satire is how it seems to be tiring. Satire used to race ahead of reality, ridiculing it by running it to it's logical conclusion. So we have mercantile, determinist bent of Britain in the 1700s, where mathematics, logic, business and cold rationality will ease all our ills, and then you have Swift's A Modest Proposal.

But now satire is as substantial and long standing as a fart bubble in a bathtub. Compare the television schedules with TvGoHome, or tabloid journalism with The Onion. Reality long since surpassed satire, and satirists have been unable to keep up since.

Not long ago, I noticed a trend in television police procedurals. I shan't have been the first to notice it, but hey. Anyway, I noticed that policemen and women, detectives, etc, were losing out to bizzarely gifted auxillaries. N3mbers used mathematics to solve crime, L&O: SVU used a crazy person to hunt out psychos, and CSI of course used Bunsen & Beaker from The Muppet Show. Actual police officers were marginalized to an extent not seen since inspired amateurs like Holmes, Marple and Angela Lansbury dominated the airwaves.

Now, however, the real detective work was being done not by rational intelligent people of understanding, but by unsociable idiot savants. Freaks. The point whereat CSI: Tunbridge Wells ends and Heroes begins had blurred. Here was a televisual development ripe for satire and mockery.

But with Tim Roth reading faces, and Simon Baker faking psychic abilities, there is a risk in satirizing police procedurals: it might get commissioned. I could, for instance, try and think up silly ideas for cop dramas - Special Police Intelligence Team, [or SPIT] starring Bob Carolgees and his canine partner, race against time to solve murders on the mean streets of Chicago using only Carolgee's brawn and Spit's ability to spit in the face of suspects. But then I'd risk rank hypocrisy when faced with executives from CBS, NBC and Fox, all engaged in a bidding war to make my pitched pilot.

I long since suspected that television - the media as a whole, perhaps - had gone beyond satire. This was confirmed for me with the commissioning of Hole In The Wall. An adaptation from a Japanese game-show, the only thing more surprising than the astonishingly unironic literalness of the title (it features celebrities climbing through holes in walls) is the fact that it is made by the BBC. The greatest, holiest, most venerable institution in human history. And they made that, for money, really, as a day-job, whilst largely sober.

So I guess what I'm saying is that much as I love television, and I do love it, lots and lots, I think the idea of media satire is ... well, something only an idiot would engage in.

I'd rather do a pie-gag.








* I'm not sure I ever had a clear grasp on the concept of irony. For instance, the Alanis Morrisette song 'Ironic' contains many purported examples of irony, none of which - ironically - are ironic; largely, they are anecdotes of inconsequential interest. And yet, I'd rather presume that the singer-song writer intended this to be so. So: a clever and witty person can point out that it is ironic that the song Ironic contains no irony, but ironically this is what Alanis intended to point out. Intellectual vanity: so often ironically undercut by the subtle swerve of circumstance.

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Wednesday, May 20th, 2009
7:15 pm - Things That Would Enhance Existence (part 18 of an ungoing series)
Spray On Seasoning

How often have you poured the vinegar, shaken the salt, or passed the pepper-mill across your chips? Invariably, you tip on too little seasoning, through virtue of care and delicacy. So you're required to make a second pass. And now you've over done it, you cack handed fool. The flavour of your chips has now been drowned, dehydrated or demolished.

The solution? Your seasoning of choice, sprayed evenly in a fine mist, from a perfume-container style contraption. It's so simple, I wonder why the Sultans of Seasoning haven't marketed it already. I suspect foul play and underhand means.

Miniature Paris Hilton

The very epitome, idol and eviscerated model of moral emptiness; the American Dream pissed on and held up as art. Foam rubber effigies of everyone's favourite nightvision cockgobbler and over-large sunglass manikin. Reduced to keyring handy stress toy, relieve your frustration at being unable to get a table at The Ivy because it's been booked out for a 21st birthday party for braying chinnless media dahlings, despite the fact that you promised your fiancee a night to remember, by squeezing the fucking pulp out of it. SQUEEZE. SQUEEZE! SQUEEZE!!!

USB liposuction fob

Plug in to anus, download fat and cholesterol, and dump into our 800gig online Conspicuous Unused Nutrition Terminal (C.U.N.T) System. Not Windows XP compatible.

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Sunday, May 17th, 2009
12:35 am - Crazy things that it's okay to love:
#1 The first 41 second of the Pixies Something Against You

Of course it's perfectly okay to love the entire song. Indeed, it's pretty much necessary to love the entire record (Surfer Rosa / Come On Pilgrim). But that 41 seconds, the start of track three, are just craziness, even by the crazy standards of a crazy record. It begins with an epilectic, jumpy, caffeine induced run of guitar strokes, before introducing what was soon to become typical Frank Black yelping. The man sounds like a huge black dog who just got his tail stepped on. The guitars sound like an army of wasps who've been waiting till just right now to sting you.

That's just the intro ... you're still four and a half minutes away from Gigantic

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Friday, May 15th, 2009
5:33 pm - nuisance at the libarary ... sorry, library
So, yes, I'm a jobless leisure-fiend. I am trying. I just can't lie enough to enthuse over a career in bargain home supplies or Pizza Hut management. I'm like, so, wow, unorthodox and existentially authentic. What are my career goals? Um, shoot an Arab on a beach and then get condemned to death for not crying at my own Mother's funeral?

Yeah. Edgy. Stick that, The Man. Edgy like I got no inside! Edgy like a one dimensional plane, yo!

But yeah, I did sober a little this week, and start applying myself, and some interviews are forthcoming. The only one's I'm really excited about are the shit-poor paying library jobs I went for. I didn't think I had a chance. But ...

So, being a regular person, I decided to go make photocopies of my full-of-lies library job applications. Now, unlike you Americans, I don't own my own photocopier, so I decided to use the one down the library. Librarian lady #1 was so helpful, pointing me in the right direction, fetching me change for the coin operated duplicitous fucker, giving me instructions, reading over my shoulder. Thank you.

Then I decided I'd reserve a book - The Infinite Jest by D F Wallace. Casual dude librarian dude nods approvingly, but unfortunately the book has been removed from the libraries catalogue. He doesn't know why, but goddamn, he fucken TRIED. HE FUCKEN TRIED GODDAMN HIS FUCKEN AWESOMENESS.

So anyway, I go back and envelope my copies and sort out the postage. Then I see a copy of Bukowski's The Most Beautiful Woman In Town and figure that'd kink my American author bent. But gosh darn damn and heck, I can't find my library card in my wallet!

I ask library lady #2 - goddamn she's young, for a librarian, and pretty too ... no, scratch that, she's hot. How did a librarian get so hot? - I ask her whether she can bring up my details and loan me the book, you know, if I give her my address, full name, loan history, date of birth, favourite colour, shoe size, number of teeth, etc.

No, she says.

Not unless you make sweet sweet love to my mouth right now, right here. She didn't add.

Okay then, I say, can I get a new card, 'cos if mine ain't in my wallet, then it ain't anywhere.

Um. Yeah ...

Okay, thanks, I say.

But I don't know how! she admits. She further admits: 'I've only worked here two weeks!'

She kind of squees and hides behind her fringe.

I'm thinking three things, simultaneously:

1) For fuck sake, woman. Do your job.
2) For fuck sake, woman. Are you flirting with me?
3) For fuck sake, woman. They hired you? THEY GOTS TO HIRE ME!

Anyway, a colleague filled out my new library card, and I got my book - it's shit, so far; complete wank - and I got out of there, and posted my application forms.

AND THAT IS WAT I DUN THIS ABTERNOON.

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Thursday, May 14th, 2009
6:20 am - Good news, everyone!
Automobologists Discover World's Oldest Car

Automobologists digging in the Southern region of Inner Mongolia today announced their most recent discovery: the remains of a seventy-five million year old car.

The dig, lead by Professor Richard Acer of the Bigfoot University, Illinois, was undertaken following the relative success of similar digs lead by Cambridge University scholars. Professor Acer and his team revealed that they have so far uncovered both the front and rear axle, steering column, exhaust system and front windshield of the automobile. Work at the dig site is expected to produce further examples of automobile parts, which will then be painstakingly recorded and incorporated into a museum display similar to those featured in hit Hollywood comedy Night At The Museum II starring Ben Stiller.

The previously unknown genus will likely be named R.Acer Carus, after it's discoverer. However, Professor Acer had indicated that his wife, fellow automobologist Francine Acer Phd, might be credited with the find.

As well as being the oldest automobile experts have discovered, it is also amongst the smallest. Estimates measure the automobile at no longer than six feet in length. Like other automobiles dating from the Cretaceous Period, the automobile was probably a herbivore, consuming hay, coal and Fanta. The earliest known carnivorous automobiles did not begin to evolve until at least Palæogenic period, approximately 65.5 million years ago.

Automobiles are known to have existed in the wild for tens of millions of years, and may not have been domesticated until as recently as 30,000 BCE.

source: Reuters

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