Norm
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[ June 2007 ] [ August 2007 ]
Equal and Opposite - July 2007
I'd never smear pap (LINK)
It's very apparent that the quality of writing in most blogs is of a very high standard. Gladly for me, I've found it very hard to produce any work that is even remotely comparable to the sheer vibrancy of so much of this kind of writing. I'd be beside myself with despair if I felt that writing that was of a lesser standard than my own had a larger number of readers than my own. It's not an insult to me when work that is so clearly of greater value than my own desperate attempts to understand reality is seen as of greater value. Fortunately for me, my understanding of the world as it really is is not as precise as I would like to think it is. Clearly, there is great value in taking the world for all it seems to be. I have to admit the value of taking current events as of greater importance than studying in some vaguely spritual fashion the vast ocean of past events. If the sea is the past then history is a boat. If and only if. I'm not for a minute suggesting that history is some kind of human construction. I'd never do that. The past is not just some vast body of salty water with fish in it. I'd never go trawling the past in some vain attempt to find some meaningful comprehension of my own life that didn't include some reference to a current issue or individual. My top priority is the strategic placement of this blog and variuos other serious endeavours, such as monstrous scottish trousers. To my dear readers, why can't you all go forth and multiply, so that I can get to the top the easy way? Forget I asked; I have. My course has been delineated for me by divine authority. I shouldn't have said that. What I meant to say was, Britney John Howard Spears. Never let it be said that the author of this piece is suffering a mild case of self-pity. Pap and clap: opposite.
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An important issue we all must care about
I've written worse things than this. Although it's hard to argue, people tell me I am argumentative. It's hard to argue with that, but they know me too well. To well up tears in my eyes, you'll have to hit me with a pretty nice 'uppercut'. Uppercrust people are not fond of arguing in public. It is most undignified to pick your nose with a plate of salmon snacks. While having an argument(I don't call that arguing) I can get rather heated. I've never written anything worse than this. You can't argue with the bare facts. If I was to bare my sole self in your sight, or in my own, I'd probably say that I am beyond help. To spell everything out is simple arithmatic. I can count the number of times I've had problems on one finger. On one finger I can do a hand stand while whistling my worth. My sight is worth another look and, I simply love reading all about everyones problems - you have no idea how much I do. This post is hard to argue with - and has just the right amount of fluff in it to soar stategically to the top of the ladder and look down from the gutter. Spouting off a little now. The point of all this, to be blunt, is just to let loos a little. Let me have my little indulgences. Argue with it if you will. Agree and argue: opposite.
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A ton of fluff and a ton of pricks
Certain things have greater weight than others, we all know this, but what we don't know is contained in the four walls of a blog. Certain things are more inclined to rise than others and fluff is one of those things. Finding out interesting bits of information to fill an otherwise meaningless life is just so much wallpaper over a crack. I'm not having a crack, but pull your finger out. Actually, it's virtually impossible to find any fluff on the internet and bloggers opinions have so much weight it's laughable. I laugh out loud to myself when I find myself with a ton of pricks and I'm in the wheelbarrow. Being in the wheelbarrow is no way to travel. You have to build a community prick by prick. Getting around on the back of my little mouse makes me feel like a knight of the realm. Around these parts, one has to ride pretty high in the saddle to avoid all the dangerous logs and snags. They'll take your head right off. It's simply so exciting that I can barely contain myself sometimes. Some would have you believe that pricks go in and out of fluff like trains in tunnels. I must say that I have to agree, that's the whole point. The pricks are out there and they are peddling fluff. Pricks and fluff: equal.
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Work things out
Rest assured that rest is assured even when the rest would have you believe that the rest is silence except that the chattering mind is never quiet even in rest. Now, I'm not one to go blowing smoke up your arseholes but, in this day and age where else is one to go exhaling but up a virtual arsehole. Virtually every arsehole that has ever drawn breath has blown a lot of hot air. Not to say that the odd tapered waste dispenser hasn't actually delivered more than a little crap. A little crap has come and gone and will continue to do so in age old fashion. Work is just so much effort and it doesn't seem to go unnoticed in this day and age. Arseholes have grown smaller in number as we, the human race, have progressed to out current state of enlightened being. By the time this post is posted I'll be hard at work somewhere, wherever that may be. Wherever it may be that my work takes me, I'll always rest. For the remaining periods, I'm sure, that I'll be playing a little tune on my portable piano to the delight of all. I love nothing more than belting out a little number or eighty from the keys of my portable pianola. Work it out for yourselves but all I'll say on any matter is that work and rest: opposite. But I can't be too sure myself as I definitely favour one more than the other.
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I hate nobody, in particular
Reason is to the mind as pumping is to the heart, opposite. The mind is far from capable of reasoning at the best of times. The hand does just as much beating as the heart; in my domain, anyway. Many times have I sat in a cold bath with my hatred and just stared at the soapy bar that I'm clasping. Clutching you very own soapy bar is a barrel of fun in the bath. Blood has been spilled all over the place in the name of freedom and cleaned up with the slippery words of slippery mouthed slipper wearers. Nobody can sit there clutching their own slippery bar and not tell me that the whole thing is just not a wank. Wanking is always more than it seems. Plenty of good has come from loving bathtime but not when the taps are running with blood. I don't care what anyone says. I don't care what anyone says, stars are in the sky and stripes go on shirts. I'm not too shirty about this one. About this one there has been much written and said but you can't hide the simple facts unless of course you have a special machine that I haven't heard about. Now, ettiquette demands that I pose a little question to tinker with your interest. So here goes: how many innocent lives does it take to change? A light bulb is just as screwed as that. I have no answers to such meaty questions. Please, if you're draped in a flag, go flap in the wind at the top of a pole (or go wrap around one). You're just a let down to yourself most of all. If you're not swathed in a banner, I really don't have any problems with you. I'm only having a bit of a lend. Your ears are probably soaked in soapy goodness by this late stage. I think that's soap. Besides all that, I hate hate. I'd never chuck everyone in one basket and send them off to the bath if they weren't a little grubby already. Dirty and clean: opposite.
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The root of all romance
When composting a piece of written material to impress the ladies with, the ladies have little idea of just how much swoonage they will suffer. It is not uncommon for me to send queues of hopeless whores into howls of horrendous haggling. I don't sell my body for any price. The fact of the matter is that the facts of the matter are completely irrelevant. Luckily for me few ladies know this little bit of information. Ladies really are as simple as they look. It is unwise to get on my wrong side, I'll unleash an almighty spray from my puffer in your general direction, and have you gasping for air. Ridicule is the heir apparent to embarrassment but I'm far too proud to let anyone into my own fallibilty. Fall of your chair with delight when I tell you that I'm laughing out loud but, don't be fooled by my orderly conduct - I'll chew your ears off if given half a chance. Words go in ears as text and in eyes as speech. Upside down and back to front you'll find me always a pleasure. Just don't call the shots. There is no pink to pot here. To stretch a short story long, the standing and lying creatures known as ladies just simply love me, in all my complexity and long-windedness. In all my complexity and long-windedness you'll dread being stuck on an escalator behind me. You'll pray for a nasty fall. I probably won't even see you behind the throng of adoring cows who straddle my slippers in an attempt to get close to the man they call the "best root this side of that tree". It's true I'm a good root but, you'd better leave me or I'll snap. Demonic in the sack and a sweet-talker to boot, you'll long to have me talking sweetly with my boots under your head. Take it from me, my penis is for you. Romance and rooting: opposite.
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Paris Hilton is under my bed smoking
Human rights activist, born-again bogan, fallen arch, infant table, and flat cheasted buxom, Paris "The Thirteenth Floor" Hilton is under my bed with a video recorder. Bed bugs the size of bricks are biting her bottom in accord with the treaty signed by delegates from the four corners of the internet, which have described Paris as very hospitable. Rich kids are doing wonderful things these days. With her head resting on a pile of pornos the height of the Leaning Tower of Eiffel, the bitch described by many as "a bit of a let down in the sack", Hilton(The Howling Rectum) is cosily snuggled in a hessian sack that once kept flour. I am kneeding dough as we speak but the government won't come to the party. Deflowering this little number is, sadly, a mission for a past time. Pastimes such as rooting and wanking are best left for other days of the week, preferably in the company of others, but giving a keynote speech at the UN is also acceptable. With her natural locks and engaging persona, that she has taken years to make as nice as a stay in a flash hotel, she is adverse to flashing anywhere but in a hotel. With a turnover of bedmates dissimilar to a hotel and more like a womens only gymnasium, the little princess doesn't have a brain the size of a pea and wouldn't even know if she was sleeping with one let alone a roast with spuds and pumpkins. Pumpkin is delicious. That is why I have decided to inundate her with frozen peas in an attempt, however vain, to flush this minty little nymph out from under my sleeping and occasional rooting implement(she is not hiding uder my reproductive instrument - a turkey baster). Did somebody say Philosophy? Of course, hotels are made with cement and are extremely prominent. The Paris Hilton and Paris Hilton: expensive and cheap: opposite.
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Peter Garrett is under my house smoking cones
Former rock fronting man, pie chucker, speeding motormouth, cat patter, turnip taster, frog hopper, chair sitter, hat flapper, cane taster and hairless gimp, Peter "The Terrible Trousers" Garret (The Fab Hat Fastener) is under my house wolfing down 'the happy plant' as it burns to smoke. He has raided my refrigerator with the zeal of a logging camper with a chainsaw and a pair of boots made from kangaroo joeys hides and a nasty habit of keeping a journal. He has been in hiding since it was revealed that he has enjoyed partaking of copious amounts of what he has described as my one true friend. In light of these stunning revelations, his recent behaviour, which includes commenting that all cars are just medieval horses and the government is out to get him and that he can dance real good, no longer seems quite so whacky. Weed is to blame for so many of our illicit drug use problems. Whatever his issue is, Peter "The Galavanting Hobby-horse" Garrett still loves to sleep in a lot but has a certain smell about him that isn't quite as bad as body odour similar to a cat on heat trapped in a shoebox but is worse than a pair of jockeys knickerbockers after a near fall. Hardly surprising that he has been placed on the frontbench because the wind certainly is into his face especially when he's down on his knees doing what all politicians do best - convene with nature. Naturally, I'm going to alert the authorities immediately and he'll have to stop his popular blog, which is ttiled Turtles and Fairies: lost brothers in a pizza oven.
Dope and cope: opposite.
Dope and cope: opposite.
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So this is what the bottom of the barrel looks like
If these walls could talk they'd probably say something like, I'm sick of holding up the roof. Why can't I be the roof. I want to be at the top. Nobody appreciates the wall. Everybody loves the roof. All I need is a roof over my head. Well you can't have a roof without walls, idiots. They'll notice me when I'm gone. Then they'll be sorry. Why didn't we take better care of the walls? When I'm gone, the roof will be laughing on the other side of its face. I should have said thank you. But its too late! I've had enough. The floor is the only one who understands me. She supports me. Hang in there roof. But, I'm afraid it's too late for that. I just wish I didn't have to be so strong for everyone. I feel like collapsing too. Nobody listens to the aimless thoughts of a wall. No the wall just is. Well when I'm flat on the floor, when our bodies become one, you'll be fucked. You'll all be fucked. Something like that anyway. It wouldn't say anything about the incidents that have happened between it and its family. Walls are so selfish. All they ever talk about is themselves. Even when a roof is soaring majestically towards the sun, the walls are groaning like a pathetic male figure skater begrudgingly changing a light bulb with his testicles in a coffee grinder. Pathetic. This post couldn't hold any weight, it's just some stick in the mud but it does have one good thing - it has nearly finished. Collapse and support: opposite.
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Useful, Nipples on Orble
If you're somebody who likes taking a piggy-back ride loaded bevy of bare-cheasted beauties through the streets of harboured cities with a bee in your bonnet and liable to take seemingly arbritary actions against others, then have I got the community for you. Some console cuddlers harbour serious issues with pen wielding ones but their is no consoling them from the inadequacy which they face when faced with so many issueless issues. Obviously, antique boobies are a serious breach of innocent eyes and should be surgically removed to prevent titilation. Mens nipples are fine in small doses and we are all striving for equality. Please know that I'm against riding naked on anyones back, particularly when that back happens to be my own but, if someone was to dig out a picture of my grandfather you'd find him procreating in the age old fashion. Stalking his victim, I mean to say courting his victim, for many a year, he finally caught and ringed and bagged and begged her and he went clubbing with her. Dragged her off by the hair to his lair and she woke up with a red ring. On her fingers she had grazes and cooked a cow which did likewise until she went the whole hog on it. This is where granddad got the whole notion of taking her and her sister for rides along sunlit beaches in nought but a suit that had been tailored by his mighty hand. His mighty hand had taught his sole member for the seat of his pants all the rhetoric and, with a slogan of I'm up for it, how could she not put him down as number one. She had no preferences. The final siren is about to sound and lure me off to my doom but before I do, this and that: opposite.
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Hands down if you're handy like me
I am lucky enough to be in the position of being so well equipped to deal with the real world that it just is not funny. It just is not funny how capable I am. I am really very, very capable of doing just about anything. So much so that when I peruse the classifieds in search of a little light relief, I'm just overwhelmed by the voices screaming at me from the inside of my head. They are all screaming - where have you been our entire working life, you capable bastard? It's a rhetorical question, I mutter back to them from deep in the bowels of my brain cavity. Being practically as practical as anyone who has ever screwed a nail into their thumb, I can safely say that I am as safe on a work site as a drag queen in stilts on her rags. One of these days, I'll find an employer capable of handling as skilled and practical a unit as me. They'll have to go a long way in a dark room with a wickless candle to find anybody fit enough to fit their vacancy; whatever that vacancy happens to be. It really doesn't matter, I can do it all. I can drive a semi, upside down standing on my head, on fire over a cliff like the best of them. Employers reading my resume are usually so stunned by my profiency that they drop by my house offering up their wives and girlfriends as a down payment for just a single day of my work. As it stands right now, I'm virtually unemployable because of the offers that I have in hand. I'm as handy as an Iranian thief opening a letter bomb. Useless and handy: opposite.
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Special flied lice
I can honestly say, and with the utmost frankness and without a word of a lie, that I'm in this shit for the money. When I laid eyes on the opportunity to put a roof of mine over my head through the agency of my own wordy little numbers, I thought to myself get your hand off your dick and start wanking. Ever since that day, when I received notice that I had been accepted into this holy club, where I have always thought that the humans displayed none of the traits of humans, my life has been full of the reflective joy of seeing myself in others; and knowing just what a unique little person I am, naturally I was aghast at the collective specialness of the others as I am at my own, particularly with regard to presenting thoughts and feelings through the guise of what we all know to be terribly meaningful things (words). I'm sure we are all aware that wanking and blogging are two concepts that are as foreign to each other as a shitting and wiping are but, please don't fool me with perfectly laid out crap on fantastical nonesense because literature has gone past it. It's no longer relevant. I mean to say that it is of course, I'm just having you on - just pulling the other one, by that i mean, not the other one. It's a curious phenomenon that quality writing, by that I mean writing that doesn't hang on the specialness of the subject but rather the specialness of the means brought to any old subject like pissing in your own mouth because you're thirsty and can't be fucked going to the fridge, goes largely unnoticed. Ignore special subjects of any kind, pick something everyday, then you might learn a little something about creative writing. Or not, whatever suits you but, heed these words - content and absolutely miserable: opposite.
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I love to have a cock in my ear in the morning, don't you?
Nothing makes the little sun go up like the sound of a feathery object delivering volumes of advice through a penful of chickens. Any pen would be happy to have a cock at the head holding court to a clucky bunch of chooks. To wake up with a cock in their ears is all that they can ask for and nobody, even when that body has two legs and is all soft and light, could want anymore than that. All the spur any proud cock needs is to see a pen full of two-legged birds pecking at the ground and giving those ever so inviting looks that only a flighty little number can ever give. How I envy those eggs for getting laid by such round and deliciously breasted bipedded coop-hoppers. I can understand why they fly the pen when a slippery little foxy little number comes underneath their gate. Their gate is so delicious and swinging, I can understand why introduced species find domesticated meals so satisfying, albeit on a temporary but nevertheless ongoing basis. When I have the pen in hand, winging it to the beat of my own cock is generally all the impetus that is required to get the feathery ones looking to the dirt for a seed or two. Scrummaging in the dust and mud for a grain of anything is all that a bipedalling thing with fluffy bits on the head can do to provide enough sustainance to get those eggs on the move. I'd never give the chickens a battering. This has been enough of a bake as it is. Now many of you will probably want to go back to the part about the cock. Tying this one up is going to be a little tricky but here goes: chicken and eggs: opposite.
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