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[ February 2007 ] [ April 2007 ]
Equal and Opposite - March 2007
Filth
Tired of hearing filthy language?
With a dick in one ear and a pencil in the other, you won't.
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Fuck filters
Works like a hearing aid. One size fits all.
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Wordsmith
Birthday greetings
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Ads by Yahooooo
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Object and Subject
The physical and the spiritual are two opposite ends of the same stick. It’s a stick that we have been whipping ourselves since Cocky was a calcium footy. Science is the domain of the objective whip; a torturous lab of tea-totalling terry-towelling tamperers. Religion is the domain of the subjective whip; flagellations from fiery pulpits prevail. The synthesis is Politics. It lies in the middle and it’s practitioners always do. You can’t throw them as far as you can trust them. The futility of social uniformity is an embarrassment to masculinity. The padre of pants reeked with the ideas contained in this post. I mean no offence with this post. Art is a representation of the physical world as Science is. And Music is a representation of the spiritual world and Religion is too. They go about it in vastly different ways. I don't mean to sound bias but it's hard when you've fallen off your chair, as I have and will continue to. Art and Science: opposite; Music and Religion: opposite.
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Brain
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Look at funny squiggles. It really helps a perverted brain.
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Forgotten your own name?
You really should get that checked out. I recommend that you do. The brain is very important. I have one. It helps me to get around. I'd be lost without it. Where was I? Do things with the old grey bits. Don't think about genitals. You won’t know yourself!
www.braintrauma.com
How good is your brain?
Put a pencil in each nostril and bang down hard on the table.
www.pencilsinyournose.net
Are you too cerebral?
Unlikely if you’re reading this.
www.justsillynow.com
Don’t think about genitals.
It’s bad for you.
www.thinkwithyourdick.net
Have a brain in your head?
Better on the inside of the skull but whatever works for you. And please remember the thing about genitals. Don’t think about them.
www.pleasedont.com
Got bad brains?
Look at funny squiggles. It really helps a perverted brain.
www.funnysquiggles.net.au
Forgotten your own name?
You really should get that checked out. I recommend that you do. The brain is very important. I have one. It helps me to get around. I'd be lost without it. Where was I? Do things with the old grey bits. Don't think about genitals. You won’t know yourself!
www.braintrauma.com
How good is your brain?
Put a pencil in each nostril and bang down hard on the table.
www.pencilsinyournose.net
Are you too cerebral?
Unlikely if you’re reading this.
www.justsillynow.com
Don’t think about genitals.
It’s bad for you.
www.thinkwithyourdick.net
Have a brain in your head?
Better on the inside of the skull but whatever works for you. And please remember the thing about genitals. Don’t think about them.
www.pleasedont.com
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Money
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Got access to a computer?
Of course you do, how silly of me.
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Earn extra cash.
Put your hand in the till and just take it. It's a victimless crime. Don't even think about it.
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Work from home.
Move all your furniture to your office and start today!
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Earn Millions on the Stockmarket.
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Got access to a computer?
Of course you do, how silly of me.
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Earn extra cash.
Put your hand in the till and just take it. It's a victimless crime. Don't even think about it.
www.pettythefts.com
Work from home.
Move all your furniture to your office and start today!
www.thebosswontknow.gov.au
Earn Millions on the Stockmarket.
Starting with just one million dollars you can too!
www.filthyrich.com
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Prickly problems
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Remove your head from your arsehole today.
Pull yourself together this very minute.
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Saggy tits are a sign of the times.
Bounce back with the arse to chest transplant.
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Get your hand off it.
You can use your lips when we fracture your spine.
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Got Itchy Balls?
Have a scratch when they get itchy with digital art.
www.digitalnuts.com.au
Remove your head from your arsehole today.
Pull yourself together this very minute.
www.lookinthemirror.org.au/
Saggy tits are a sign of the times.
Bounce back with the arse to chest transplant.
www.cleavagelookslikeabum.com
Get your hand off it.
You can use your lips when we fracture your spine.
www.getyourcolumnsnapped.com
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Computerman and the Brain
Two testicles and a head like a monitor and the body of a keyboard and the heart of a processor, lets Computerman trudge the cyberstreets. It is not unusual for our hero to think highly of himself. His deeds back up his beliefs. It was online one day that Computerman went off his monitor with rage. A dodgy server and a case of the irrits was the cause. The unfortunate, but not undeserving, victim was the Brain. Mistaking the insignificant organ for a footy, our hero sunk the slipper in and sent the neuroned nasty into Enronland. The Brain is just a lump of grey bits with a cord. With his mighty processor, he made sliced cheese of the evil Brain. He ripped the cord form the column that it had perched itself on, and sent the organ to his boot in a kick that would have sent the Fev into drug-induced ecstasy. Big drug companies are always legal. The crowd roared because the Brain had been kicked; the Heart has things in it that the brain can never understand. In the race for the world, it is the Heart that reigns supreme. The grey mattered monitor is a mere masturbation manager. The pumping station is the heart. Thanks to Computerman: the brain and the heart: opposite.
TAKE THAT, EVIL BRAIN!
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Find trousers
Wear Trousers. I would. You should. Trousers go on one leg at a time. Wear them on your legs. One leg at a time. Leave your home in them. I would. Walk in them. One leg at a time. Left leg and right. Sit down in your trousers. Bend at the knees. One at a time. If you're going to have a crap? Take them off. Two legs together. Spread your legs. Lower yourself. I would. Do your business. Don't miss. Don't slap one on all over the sides. Be direct. Aim well. Shit in the water. Go plop. Wipe. Not with your trousers. Anything but your trousers. Your bare hands. Pull up your trousers. Two legs together. Do them up. Walk off as though nothing has happened. Don't forget to flush. Tell the world. I have done a good crap and now you know. I do. You should too. Wear trousers. Find a nice pair. They are out there waiting. The trousers will see you. Hanging on the rack. You'll be unsuspecting. The next thing you know. You're wearing trousers. You know all about it. Don't spill anything on them. They are trousers. Wear them well. Keep them clean. Keep them intact. Stains in the crotch region are inadvisable. They are suggestive of poor character. Wear underwear. Keep a hard-on hidden. Wear a hole in your trousers. Wear it well. Walk the streets with a hole. Try it. I would. Don't ever forget to wear trousers. Trousers: don't leave home without them. One leg at a time. Don't ever be short on trousers. Shorts and trousers: opposite.
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The unassailable adventures of Computerman
DA DADADA DA! IT'S COMPUTERMAN
MILD MANNERED NORM
NANNANANANANANANANANA - BARDMAN
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Tips for fat women on how to go about registering with an internet dating agency.
If you haven't been fat all of your life? Choose a photo from your less fat days. On second thoughts. It's hardly likely there was a time in your life you were slim now, is there? You probably blame food or something. Anything probably. If you have been fat all your life? Which is probably the case. Download a pic of an anorexic model. There's plenty around. No-one will know. Just blur the head if its Callista Fuckheart. If you are computer illiterate? Just tick the box that says Photos in private gallery. If you can't manage that? Just hit the keyboard anywhere and hope for the best. If you have a basic knowledge of computers? Which you probably would have. Most fat chicks have so much time on their hands after they realise no number of trips to the beauty salon or no amount of beauty products is ever going to make them attractive, so they develop their computer skills. Something solitary tends to help. Never grant anyone access to your private gallery. Pretend you're a real honey and the guy has to be really special and stop sending you dic pics before you'll let him see you naked. Or just pretend you do have something on offer, and just tell the guys you're a prick teaser and that's why you joined. Because you feel like the femininist movement isn't making as much progress as it should, and you're taking a stand against all the abused women out there. And since you can't take any revenge on your ex, you've joined this site to take revenge on every man because he turned gay on you. And how it had nothing to do with your looks or attitude to life. Don't think for a moment this will turn moronic men off. It will only make them desire you all the more. Until they see you that is. But don't ever meet anyone. Unless you want to end up in a dumpster. Or three of them, in your case. Don't under any circumstances put a real picture of yourself on an internet dating site profile. Even if you do have a wide-angled lens. You will only attract fat balding men who are as desperate as you are. Lie about your weight. Never tick the cuddly or voluptuous box. Any man whose ever been on an internet dating site knows that means one thing. You are fat. Don't tick the I choose not to answer this question box either. That's a dead giveway that you just might be the world's fattest woman. Just lie. All of the other women on dating sites do. Even the not so fat ones. If you can call them that. The only women who dont lie on internet dating sites are the ones who aren't on there. Fat women and women on internet dating sites? Equals.
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Ads for Singles
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Fancy yourself as a ladies man?
Stay away from my girlfriend or I'll break your legs and shove your dick up your arse.
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Find available singles in your cheese-section.
The ladies love cheese. Tissues are home to it. Get yours. Be your own friend. Love yourself. Long into the night. Smooch your hand.
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Handy wanking tips.
Learn new techniques to spice up your love life.
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Adding Sense to My Glooble (My Blog Doodle).
Dour Joan's Index finger? Shove it up my eogenous zone, Joan. Com Sex me off the graph. Show me where you truly EXCEL. Let's share. Stop dying your pink bits and spitting blue chips, and start mining me. I've got the tools and resources you need. Rate my interest in you a little higher. Think percentages and returns. Take stock of yourself. Don't play the whole market. I'll be a bull. I'll be a bear. I'll even be a Wolf. Invest in me. Don't trade our future in. Come play FTSEs with me. I've been self-managing my funds for too long now. Show me your hedge. I'll fund it. And give you the credit. Make more than a few deposits and withdrawals. I'll bend you over-the-counter. I'm into bondage. My last girlfriend? I broker, but you can handle the rises and falls. Take a risk on me. Those who play the stockmarket, and those who don't treat it as a game at all? Opposites.
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Cut the crap with a fork. Utensils are very good these days. Wear trousers. Eat and multiply. We recommend it. Buy something. Have a click. I'm desperate. I need this. Give me a break. I need it desperately. Do me favour. Eat and defecate. Life and work: opposite.www.poopants.com
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Sense and cents: opposite.
Make sense of any of this: good luck.
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Need to poo your pants?
An innovative way to defecate your duds, dutifully.
www. poopantaloonies.net
Cut the crap with a fork. Utensils are very good these days. Wear trousers. Eat and multiply. We recommend it. Buy something. Have a click. I'm desperate. I need this. Give me a break. I need it desperately. Do me favour. Eat and defecate. Life and work: opposite.www.poopants.com
Short on stature but big on temper?
We cure Little Man Syndrome with our gigantic facilities.
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Sense and cents: opposite.
Make sense of any of this: good luck.
www.nonsensicalshit.net
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Pot the piss
I can drink a shitload of piss. Piss my hardearned up against the wall weekly. Shit, it's hard to knockback piss. I can knock it back by the potload. Pots of piss are surely shit-hot. On a cold one even, a shitlot of shit-hot cold ones, I can knockback. On the odd occasion that I knockback a pot of piss you'll think that I'm shitting you. I shit you not, a shitlot of the shit-hot, I can't knockback. Stare at full jugs on a hot one on a lot of piss, or not. Knockback jugs never, not on a handful of nuts, anyway. Don't hold back on the nuts and I'll come across a little squirt, piss pullers. I can sit on a stool all bloody day; I'm just a regular Norm. Beer is not cause to have a nap in the prime of your life. Seeing your life flash before your eyes can take years through special goggles. This slab is dedicated to the first one that I ever sank. I certainly can sink a silly assortment of stubbies. Hopping beverages taste better in glass but cans are convenient. Store that in the old memory bank and then drink it to the deep recesses of your data processor. The pot is a receptacle for piss. It doesn't tickle to have one smashed over your melon. Nobody has ever glassed anyones melon with a jug. Don't go pissing on your jugs though; it's just not on. This slab has fallen; it's flat! What's a pot to me is a schooner to others no less me than me. Pot and schooner: equal.
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Cracking up
If you’re cracking up you’ll be cracking up when they crackdown on crack-down. Hair in the arsehole is a real drag, you dag. It’s laughable actually. There’s only so many ways to wear the hair down there. I recommend, highly, product. Natural product is a product of pooing in your pants, people. People pick their posterior pouters plentifully. Don’t get on here and tell me that you’ve never grabbed a handful of jobease and just buried your face in it, please. Please, having the wind rushing through your hair is a sensation we all know and love. Whisper sweet nothings in my arse, darling. That has a nice ring to it. I find it hard to believe, but believe it, I do, that wankers wax their dunny whackers. Whacks on the bum is what you want and whacks on the bum is what you’ll get. It’s a real bummer when dags hang about your heirs. Not that I have any. Sometimes offerings just don’t come out the ring properly. Arse-lickers are smoother than bum-sniffers. Arse-lickers are slicker. Having a face full of bumfluff is akin to face-fungus. In certain circles the hairier the hamburgerhatch the healthier the heathen. Aussie blokes are renowned for their crackdown. It’s nothing I’d put in my sleeping bag. I wouldn’t put down putting anything down my crack, normally. Cracking down and cracking up: opposite.
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Who bangs your drum?
Fisting is not for everyone. It's a lot of mumbo-jumbo to me. Let me grab my own stick and perforate your skin. Let me feel the beat within. The pulsations. The vibrations. The emanations. Bring on the tribal dance. Invite me into your brush hut. Cast your spell on me. Cast yourself on me. Throw and thrust yourself on me. I want to go beyond romance. I want to go all Voodoo on you. I want to bang your drum. I want you to twirl my stick. I'll even bang your bum. To the same beat. You're hard to beat. The music you make to the sound of my drum beating? It's not demonic. It's mesmonic. Your pace is frenetic when you're in Voodoo mode. I just want to explode. While you implode. Bang me Baby, bang me. Bang Bang Bang. Bite the head off my chicken if you like. Add it to your boiling cauldron. Sacrifice yourself for me, and I'll stab you to death. Humans and Animals? Equals when it comes to secret things.
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What does your destiny hold?
Destiny, it has been decided, is a determination delineated by devourers of deadhead descriptions. The course of our lives is beyond any of us. Why don’t you please play a ball sport on an autobahn. Death’s decisive deed is our common destination. Deadpan, I can deafeningly deal dearies debilitating decency. Decerebrate decorous decomposing debtors, deferentially. Being brainless might do heartless howlers wonders. Get your hand off it; the future is not in the palm of anybody’s hand. I’d like to see you read my palm: all the lines have been wanked out. Don’t get me started on tea-leaves; I’ll leave you straining for breath. Deriding deranged designers deserves decades of destitution. Life is long but death is longer. It’s a map that can’t be written with any precision. There’s no certainty in predicting what the road is like only that it goes to a deadend. If you could live forever you’d be so decrepit that you’d delight in deathknells. The door to understanding is deadbolted but there’s a catch: it’s not supported by walls and once you step through you can’t come back. The derision of the debauched is a devastatingly deluded decision. We’re all debauched so make with the merriment and pull your digital illusions out. Fate is fatal. I’ll leave you with some levity: literature, literally, is a load of lifeless letters. The denouement: destiny and death: equal.
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The problems associated with logging in and logging out.
Do you have problems logging in and logging out? I know I certainly do. I sleep like a log but where do the logs go? And what does a log sleep like? And what is a log? And when is a log in? And when is a log out? These are the questions I ask myself in my sleep when I'm sleeping like a log, and shitting my pants in my sleep. I have often been as crook as a dog. Even as crook a healthy one with straight legs. But I still don't know what a log sleeps like. I've slept with a few dogs, so I don't need an answer to that question. I've even stayed awake with a couple of dogs and gone the doggy. But the stink of the morning-after dogbreath is vile. Forget about what the dog looks like in your bed. Even a horse's head would be more appealing. So how does a log sleep? Only the toilet cistern, and the Sewerage Disposal Company can answer these questions. The toilet cistern wont speak to me. It just gushes and flushes in that porcelain way they all do. Unless it's a pit toilet and just goes plop. And I can't log in to the Sewerage Company's website. Even their phone lines are jammed. It's a conspiracy. Someone has shoved chocolate donuts down the lines. How do I login in to Blog? Log in, in Bill & Ben speak and just say Blog-a-log. And expect it all to happen? Logging in and loggin out? Intermediates.
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Global Warming. The Real Cause.
It's all the hot-air politicians release into the atmosphere when they speak. Take a close look at John Howard's head. Have a paper bag handy at the time. The type they put in the pocket on the back of aeroplane seats. If you spew into it? Send it to Kodak for processing. I do. It's no wonder John Howard emits so much toxic gas. His head is the shape of a hot-air balloon. Don't be surprised if, after he loses the election, he floats over your place. With Jeanette in his basket. He's already invaded our houses and workplaces with his policies. And those short blasts and rushes of fiery air? The ones that make a whooshing noise? Coming from the Little Johnny Blimp? They'll be as meaningful as anything he ever spoke during his political career. Hot Air and Politicians' Words? Equals. John Howard's head and a Hot-Air Balloon? Equals.
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If You Only Read Two Orble Posts This Year? Read This One Twice.
Why? No reason. Read it to find out. But you have to go beyond the title header. Oh it will be well worth it. Believe me. Trust me. I'm a Blogger. Where else on the net will you find such profundity or depth of thought? So what is the post about? Read on. You won't be disappointed. It is a bit saucy and raunchy. But some people like that sort of thing. I don't. I just write it to meet market demands. I want my 2c/month from AdSense. It's well worth the effort. So, what is this post really all about? You've just read it. Those who teach others how to Blog without knowing how to go about it, and those who just Blog? Opposites.
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Do You Doodle?
Do you Doodle? Try it without a pen and paper. It's a hobby for males and females alike. Unless you're a lesbian. Look at the squiggly patterns, even while the ink is not quite dry and crusty but still running all over the place. Don't try to make sense of the swirls and curls or sticky bits, or analyse them or criticise them or judge them. Just accept them for what they are. Enjoy them as an expression of your innner self coming out. Doodling may be played alone but it is not Solitaire. It does require patience, but buy a pack of cards if Solitaire is your thing. Grab a friend. Ring one even. And get him/her to join in. Do not ring a Lesbian. Hours of fun to be had. It might seem quite childish at first. The sort of thing only animals without reason, or children would do at kindy or lying on the floor at home in front of the tele. But once you release the inner child and go back to your primal nature? You'll enjoy it. Believe me. Trust me. I Doodle a lot. I'm a Doodle expert. Writers and Doodlers? Equals.
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If there's one thing you should read this year, this isn't it but have a little look anyway; maybe read it twice or once slowly or thrice upside down
Intelligence is no guarantee of security. The insecure are often fraught with perspicacity. It’s a surety, that frequently, intellectual dexterity has fraternity with uncertainty. In actuality, insecurity is a typicality of fatuity. It’s through spirituality that true security is gained in perpetuity. In perpetuity, it’s inevitability that dexterity is fallibility. Fallibility is, in a nut’s hell, humanity. Humanity, despite the attempts of the rank and file, is vile and rank. Simply put, put down your glasses. Life is a physical reality. In reality, it’s really an ability to hold onto equanimity, but hostility is not without manageability or validity. Safety in numbers is a reduction of probability but only if sagacity is combined with impetuosity. Sitting on the fence is really quite an offence. Balancing equanimity and volatility is feasibility of personality. High-minded console straddlers can’t escape their own mediocrity. You can’t drum it into yourself enough that you are a solid piddle. The earliest humanity was a cannibal, it’s probable. Societal equality is an absolute fucking furphy, far from feasible. Far from fine, it’s not an idea that is in any way mine. My ideas have the buoyancy of a sub but humanity can only scale to so many depths. There will always be darkness in the bottom. Turds float, you can’t refute that. In security I can say that we all have insecurity. Thought put into words without feeling is a hardened shit, doomed to float on the top. You’ll never see a bottom again. It’s where the truth lies. I already know that I’m a shit and so should you. In a nutshell: intellect and emotion: opposite.
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Pain and pleasure
Not many people know this but, pissing razorblades is really rather meaningless. It’s an absolute pleasure to apply ointment to open genital sores. The things I’ve seen. Sawing a bitching in half with a shoestring means nothing to me. As far as I know dogs know no suffering like being bifurcated up the nose. Know-all armed arse-robbers can wipe my arse with their face cactus. They make a real spectacle of themselves. Glasses require constant care, Constance. If anyone lends me their nasal windows I’ll put their eye in the pane. The monocle on my all-seeing one is not rose coloured. No, not that, anything but that. To people who know me well enough, I’m a right pain in the proverbial bog blaster. A pane in the arse is a window to the hole. Without consciousness we know none. I’ve known none. My habit is avoidance. There are beings, living, who are really having pokers pushed in their peepers. Hurt is the body telling the brain: this could be fucking fatal you walnut! I’ve never known excruciating insights into what the body can say. Plenty to look forward to. Fuck, don’t get in my face and tell me life’s a fucking picnic, basket cases. I’ll wrap your carcass in a blanky and roll you up and down the hill, up and down the hill. I’ll hamper your attempts at winging it, chickens. Once again, it’s been a pleasure. Pain and pleasure: opposite.
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Retreiving my mind from the toilet cistern.
How it got from the gutter into the toilet cistern, I'll never know.
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Bloggers. I need some serious assistance.
I never write Posts soliciting anything. I never have. I never will. Ask anyone who knows me well. They'll say. Mal's morality is beyond reproach. But I have a serious technical problem with my Blog. I just need someone to help me solve it. Someone who knows more about computers than I do. Even if all you know is how to turn it on, you'll know more than me. I have to ring a tech and get him/her to come around every time I log on. It costs me a fortune to have a computer. I'm half way towards my wit's end here. don't know what else to do but write a Post asking for help. You don't have to vote. This is not about increasing my Karma or popularity. Just help me out. I just want to know how to use a computer mouse. The damn thing keeps running away, with its tail between its thighs, opening the fridge and eating all the Coon cheese. And I was saving that up for a sandwich. Maybe I should buy a cat. People who read posts like this and me? Equally stupid.
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For the Term of My Unnatural Life. A book review by Mal.
I haven't read this book because it hasn't been written. All accounts indicate it will be a great read. If I ever do write it. And if my accounts of what it will be like are accurate prognonstications. I anticipate it will a compulsory text in every school. Globally. Translated into a thousand languages. And on the list of must have books at every university. Globally. Not just for literature degrees. Every discipline. IT, Psychology, Science et al, inter alia. CEOs of major corporations will downsize their libraries and just have one book. Mine. It will be the subject of every staff motivational meeting. Because it will be a book about life. My life. The life of Mal. It will be the topic of morning tea conversations. Commuters will wind down the windows of their cars on the way to work and yell out. Have you read Mal's book? Other commuters will just look at them disdainfully as if to say, Who hasn't? How about you stop big-noting yourself? And give all the credit and glory to Mal? People will stop using PCs just to read and reread my book. No-one will watch TV any more. I'll send everyone broke. No-one will have children. Procreation will become a thing of the past. Everyone will be too busy reading my book. And no-one else will be famous. I'll be the only famous and wealthy person in the world. I'll let people lick my feet but if anyone tries to lick or sniff my bum? I'll write another book. About the disadvantages of brown-nosing and cow-towing. I might call that one Moo Poo. But I really should start the book that's going to make me famous and wealthy first. If only I could think of where to start. Writers and Dreamers. Equals.
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Insulated from idiots
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Bryce Gibbs. (The Fifth Bee Gee).
I started a handball routine that got the whole AFL world non-kicking. (Words and Music by Ron Barassi - 1970 - MuchRoom For Improvement Records)
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Health & Economics Tips: How to Floss.
Don't waste money on dental floss. Use pubes.
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Noodle Slipping.
Slip the noodle through the colander of life but don’t strain yourself.
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Ruing the roost
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My goodbye post
There's a world outside this little white window that does not tolerate self-indulgent emotionalism. Whitened windows were whitened to keep out harmful radiating brilliance. Some poor saps can't take the poverty of their own spirit; you're barking up the wrong tree! Explosions from splitting cells, sell nonsense to eager buyers but farts from fluctuating fannies ferment. You've heard of Deep Throat; well, doctors diagnosed me with my larynx in my colon: not good. The noises in my arse reverberate around my gutless waste. Waste is just a real shit. Typical of poor writing is obscenity and vice versa. Typical of obscenity is my left testicle in the cup of my hand and my right in the cup of your tea. You only take one lump, don't you? I'll put some cream on your scone. If you can just open it up for me. Let me jam your saucer. Manners are frightfully appropriate for upright families. Sorry, I've got something in my larynx. I say goodbye to things that get stuck with a specially blunted post. I call it my goodbye post. That's better. I have had fun and I hope that I can do this again in a moon's time. I seem to have to use that post a terrible lot. I keep it in my cupboard and only use it when I have to. Deep down what I really want to write is that I hate colours. Porcelain is white for a reason and bitumen is black, it's a bitch, man. Would you like a cake? This goodbye post really makes some people say, Hello! Hell, I'd hate to go out with quiet dignity; I just don't think I could. It's most ill-mannered to just piss off without any fuss. Goodbye and Hello: opposite.
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Are you an expert tosser or wanker?
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A cold gull's eye in a cage
What is it that makes music and literature one of the highest callings that a lowly human can hear? Don't ask me, I'm only one of the lowly skin smothered smoothies that are only capable of stringing a few meaningful characters together into a meaningless surface. And of course my musical accompaniments are of the resoundingly hollow variety. I know everything there is to about vibrations that have been composed into some sort of concrete arrangement. One thing that I do know because the voices tell me is that if you listen very carefully, still your chattering mind, you'll probably go on a bender and stretch the elements. They told me, because I heard them, that the Bird and the Cage have two sets of testicles between them, that when weighed come out at equal measure. The scales of justice are imbalanced and they're in favour of the dicks. It's all just nuts! Despite the world's attempts to leave me without mine, my balls have flourished into a sack that looks like a cane-toad eating tic-tacs. Toe the line and I'll suit you to a piece of rope...so don't. Be your own type. Then you might know the value of your own dangling, if you are that way inclined. Our inclinations are not our own but if you are going to be totally up yourself, don't try to converse with me through the eye of your genitals, please. I simply won't have a bar of it. I'll wrap this little number up with an absolute irrefutable truth. John Cage and Samuel Beckett: equal.
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Malcolm Marshall
Malcom Marshall (Dirt on Skin) a few years ago now ...
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Scooping the Serious Silly Loop.
Knickers are easy to knot, but try twisting your tongue. Plucking figs gives pigs plucking the figs pink corkscrew penises and seedy snouts. Forget plucking pigeon flocks. Ask a sow how pigs pop their corks and screw. Squishy, sluicy, sloppy, scrunchy, squealy, slidy, slippy, slushy sorta shit. Sell she slaves, such as Shelly, Shelley, Chellie, Susan no-socks to she Shieks and she's by the sea shore. Surely a short Shirley somewhere, shortly. Serious and Silly? Opposite and Equal.
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The Joy of Being a Nobody.
So many people want to be someone. When they already are someone. Okay, so no-one else acknowledges you. Join the club. Or shall we form a club? The Nobody Club? Where we can all be Somebody's? Just because you are a nobody doesn't mean you're a nobody. You're a somebody. Even if you are a worthless piece of shit in your own estimation and everyone else's estimation. Even in mine. You need to pinch yourself. To convince yourself you are real. A real piece of shit. Yes, I realise it might hurt a bit the first time, but if you pinch yourself really hard enough times, you might realise that you are a living piece of shit.
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My Identity Crisis.
The Multifariousness of virtuality has bamboozled, befuddled and discombobulated single fairies, not just the Loch Ness Monster. Don't renew your passport, ring a travel agency, and book a trip to Scotland, hoping to have gay or lesbian sex with a transgender mythical beast. On a lighter note, today, I was thinking about what to write on my Blog, and I thought, 'Why not just write something that means nothing to anyone, not even me?' And so, I came up with this tripe.
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Tea or coffee?
Nothing refreshes like a mug of tea. Having a woman sucking on your scrotum is not something that I’d bag. Stop or I'll shoot! Romantic evenings are best capped off with a cuppa. Then she’ll take your nut sack in her slippery slope. Noses make excellent erection rests. She’ll give it a jiggle and a squeeze. Don’t spill any on your freshly pressed pants. In-grown hair on a ball bag is a particularly attractive thing. If you do find a hair in your tea, very discretely swallow it. Please don’t spit the contents of a lovely occasion across a room crowded with lovely furniture. You’ll come across as a little squirt. Sometimes I put the tea bag straight into the little pot, cosy. If ever there was a satisfying afternoon beverage it has to be coffee. The pleasure and satisfaction that these beans have been leaves leaves blowing. I’d never bag it, coffee. It’s nothing to sneeze at, coffee. Don't be a drip, fill. Tah. Certainly if you’re ever lucky enough to have a tea-bag don’t cream all over her face. She’ll be coughing, for sure, for sure. For putting a couple of lumps in she’ll be speechless. It’s very difficult to talk with a pair of testicles in your mouth, take it from me. If you like fluffy shit on your coffee then I’ll have nothing but dust from my chocolate shaker for you. I’ll give you the tip, there’s no way you can fit a bag of jigglies in a coffee-hole. It’s just too tight a squeeze. Tea and coffee: opposite.
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Scenes of maturity
The flowers are ludicrously lovely this time of year. Do go out into the fresh air and get a light waft of sweetly scented nostril steam into your relevant brain compartment. Maturity is all about speaking in an ever so refreshing lilt. I refrain from dirtying my tongue with the slightest hint of an obscenity. The obscene is a scene that I've seen and consider an eyesore. If your nostril cavity can bare it, won't you let the smell of freshly baked scones from the frying pan enter. They'll send the sweetest messages of joy and hope to the brain; your whole body will feel alive with the joys of nature. Computers are for the mature at heart and well-heeled travellers from prestigious universities enjoy the benefits of self-delusion. I had a dildo up my arse; sorry, that just slipped out. The freshly cut grass clippings in the shower plug hole remind one of the elastic fantasies of a youth staring to the high skies as the soft white fluffies pass through the same. Oh these joys of life send me into such fits of rapture the likes of which a litigious society can only sneer at. Freshly rotting carcasses adorn the pavement as the merest hint of perfumed breeze sings with the wealth of the sun's rays on a Summer morn. More's the pity that the carcasses can't appreciate the delights of being civilized and mature. I am content in my own. Form and content: opposite.
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What is it, you can't face?
In this life we lead we will invariably come across people who are, best and most elegantly put as, cunts. Now that’s not to put a real one down, because you can’t possibly, not in a pink fit. A pink fit is the best way to describe what can only harshly be called a cunt. Many cunts treat women as just cunts. One thing that I’ve learned over the years is to never underestimate one of those. One thing some unmentionables don’t know is that others can be just as much of a one of those as they can be. Moreso, there’s always a bigger arsehole just around the corner. Trust me, I’ve been there. Once. When push comes to shove, having a bit of mongrel about you is a jolly good thing. Absolutely wizard! These purists can sweep my floor with a broom jammed in their wind-jammer. Cripes, creativity should come from within. My dick sometimes does without. Going without is part of a life well lived. Having everything you want is to be fucking accursed. You’re liable to never be anything but unmentionable. Unmentionables are just that, fucking cunts. You see them everywhere. Where the fuck they come from and where they think that they’re going is not worth mentioning. It’s no wonder they bare the label they are given. Snatch the opportunities that life presents. People who go around spouting off can suck me off royally. I’ll go right off my nut one day, but for now I choose moderation. Not to put too fine a point on it, but any word said in a certain way can be nasty. You fucking scapulas! Cunts and unmentionables: equal.
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Normal
I come from down in the valley onto the hill where misses when you're young they beat you to a pulp with a newspaper. My testicles pack quite a punch. Spring-loaded progeny projectors. I'm cocked and ready to go. It's not just my fingers that get itchy. Just test me. You'll get up out of your seat and say shoosh I can hear something...a big clump of swimming little Norm's then land on the roof of your...house. You'll run for the toothbrush. Scrub away, I can't help but reproduce with anything. It's no good; you've been impregnated with the norm. I'm in your ear. I'm that voice in your head saying grab the wheel and send the vehicle off into a post. Resist if you will. I'll never leave you; I'm swimming in your downpipes. Turn the taps on and there I am. HELLo!!! Hell, oh, did I mention my purple hat? It's purple like a grape. You'll get a bunch. I'll tie you to a steak and pound you into the dirt. Spy on you from my little eye. Something beginning with an erection is civilization. It's the biggest joke known to man. Whatever makes you happy. Even if that includes putting pigs through hell. That's civilization for you. All the bad shit is very hush hush. I scream from your sprog saturated roof. Pretty please and a cherry on top. Really, I'm so vanilla yoghurt. I'm a man of culture, not very ususal. Just as normal as two bastards with fathers sharing one word: Normal. Come and go: opposite.
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Sexual Frustration. (Pet Peeves).
Starve a male dog or a female cat? They'll both get Blogs. One will be 'I Hate Pussies.' The other? 'I Hate Mongrels.' The Posts and Comments sections will read like this: WOOF! MIAOW! BARK! HISS! GROWL! SCRATCH! Feed your pets, before they start Blogs.
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Fan and Can
Not under any circumstances is it viable to square off and then squat over a fully flying fan and let nature takes its course with humanure. Humanure comes in many hues from mocha to ochre. You don’t want a red hot poker in your dunny-soaker. Does this toilet look painted on? Fans make excellent odour evacuators but poor excrement eradicators. Take it from one who knows, my shit is delicious. Ochre is best appreciated on a clean palate, that’s why I drink turps. Unfortunate is the one who takes refuge from the murderous mercury with the aid of a hand-held loo. I can go potty now. Machinery that makes a lot of noise and blows a lot of air can only be described as a fan. Fanatical throne straddling despots pot balls of brown in their top pockets. It’s no wonder I felt that they stink. Fangled fans are flushed and should be; they push the sanguine past smoke and into ashes. Killing for a cause is always preferable to taking a life needlessly. Murder is consistent with our way of life. It’s never easy to unplug a fanatic; they run on power. People padded in power are plainly pathetic. It’s considered most unladylike to wipe your backside with your face. If you can, do. Standing in front of a faecal fracturing fan will render you likewise. Come to think of it, shitting on a fan is a good thing. Like cans they’re full of shit. Fanaticism is fucked. So is the penal system. Can and fan: equal.
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A week in a vice: LUST
I’ll fuck any pedestrian. Leave me alone with your kiddies at their peril. I’ll give them a jolly rogering. You’ll never find their skull and bones. Only vital organs strewn about my person like fashion accessories. Accessorise, people. It’s pedestrians and paedo that get me going. There’s nothing that I will stop at. I’ve fucked myself too many times. I can’t come at that any more, my arsehole contracting. To feel responsible for suffering is cause for enjoyment. It’s meant to be. You’ll understand this when I’m showing you the loss of your illusions. Freedom is a furphy. You’ll know this when I keep you. You’ll be kept like never before. Before I fuck you with a toaster, I’ll butter you up. You’ll be the toast of my dick. Your lies will be dismantled; I’ll put you on the mantle. Your plasticity will melt. The reality of reality will have you reeling. I’ll thread your nipples on hooks and send you out as my hooker. You’ll be giving favours, experience new flavours; I’ll savour your cadaver. I’ll cut you into steaks and pound you, smother you in special sauce. Your delicacies will be my delicacies. You’ll be the source of much delight. It’s an ending you’ve prayed for after the realism I’ve shown. I’ll fuck your shit up. I’ll fuck you up, and down. Every artifice you’ve constructed will be fucked up. I’ll knock your teeth out and turn you into a double header. Face the facts, you’re fucked. You’ll do anything. The things you do set your tongue wagging. I put my dick in your tail. You give me a big tick and want to flee. I’ll dog you all your days. You will always be chased. Lust and chastity: opposite.
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A week in a vice: ENVY
If there’s one thing that I envy women for it’s childbirth. Fostering a foetus in your fanny must be fucking fantastic. Passing a semi through a straw would feel like a bit of a labour. If I see something that I like, I simply take it. The sight of a man with a wombed embryo hanging out the back of his dacks is something my neighbours get used to. You have to. I tolerate your eccentricities. I used to suck on tried and true tampons but now I eat plates of placenta. When it rains I wear a woman on my head, pulled on tight, and a pair of babies on my feet, gum boots. Teeth terrorise tinea. I have my inadequacies, if you can believe it. If you can believe that, then you might find it hard to believe that I’m only one gender. The deliverer said return to sender. I’ve made suits of all kinds of people, when it suits me. Jealousy is a cur, see? If I see you with something that threatens my sense of myself, expect me to lose it and then you will...lose it. Your uterus will be my shopping bag and your scrote my boat. It’ll be your good fortune when your severed head is stuffed in your genitals. I respect you for this. I’ll steal your body. Bring you to my level. You’ll give me all that you have. I’ll eat your pussy while my dog is in your arsehole. I’ll take what’s mine – all that’s yours. You’ll wish your came without. Within you’ll face the emptiness of your vessel. The structure of yourself will crash with the external circumstances. I’ll use your nipples as ear plugs as you scream for less. You’ll envy those who don’t have anything, yourself. I admire you for that. Envy and admiration: opposite.
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A week in a vice: SLOTH
Norm requested that I write this post for him and I couldn’t really say no because he wouldn’t hear it. He was already asleep before worded-breath had parted my lips. He wasn’t really asleep, he was merely faking it. Shit, he’s a lazy shit. He does fuck all, sweet. It’s why he’s so quiet; talking is too much exertion he tells me by holding up one of three signs. Piss off and shut up are the other two. He makes me type out all his shit and it is shit. He doesn’t give one though and all I get is the middle sign. Cunt that he is. Fuck, he is. A lazy sack of koala carcasses has more vim than that excuse for a person. Bed sores on his bottom have intertwined with his pyjama bottoms making him shit his pants and the bed. He does it with a zeal that he never exhibits for anything else. He leaves his writing on the curtains. He shits at the window and then with a stick scratches the words in, he leaves me to punctuate. Excuse any errors there. I’ve had to read all his shit and not many can say that. He never reads. His eyelids have grown into his face. To see where he’s shitting he has to look down his nose. He got me to write this one of my own accord and I don’t know why he bothers writing at all it’s just a waste. A waste, pure and simple. Shit, I’ve got heaps of shit to do and this is the normal length of one of these. The punctuation is in place. The numbers are too. And Norm has the shits up, again. Sloth and diligence: opposite
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