A professional blogger
Today, my wife decided I needed to take a break from blogging. After the police had pried my hands away from my computer keyboard with the jaws of life, I reluctantly went outside.
I collapsed by the front door but I enjoyed the ride in the ambulance, and the doctor at accident and emergency said I didn’t need to see an eye specialist but rather, that it was natural to have a severe reaction to natural light after being inside for three years in front of a computer reading Orble posts. She also said that bodily spasms and uncontrolled vomiting and incontinence issues were natural occurrences in people of genius level intellect who had trained their minds to focus solely on Orble votes and karma. I didn’t let on that she hadn’t told me anything that I didn’t already know.
Before I had time to give her a few tips, I had to sign a form. I listed my occupation as professional blogger. I could tell the nurse who handed me the form was more than a little curious about lofty matters far beyond her intelligence, so I decided to do her a favour and enlighten and educate her.
I explained to her what a blogger was. How it was someone who didn’t live in what plebeians describe as the ‘real’ world due to a heightened perception of reality and innate superiority, and how a blogger didn’t have a real job or need one, or need to mix with real people, but knew everything intuitively and theoretically in a Google kind of way without having to go through the tedium of ‘experience’ in order to grasp or truly experience experience itself. And how experience was overrated.
She pretended she wasn’t interested, but I picked up on her deceptive body-language in that intuitive and perceptive way I pick up on the false vibrations of mistrustful virtual people through their text. I could tell she was embarrassed yet titillated by my superiority, and didn’t want to further humiliate herself in the presence of others by allowing her to do what she knew was the only appropriate course of action to take, namely fawning further, prostrating herself on the hospital corridor in order to pay adoring homage to my magnificence.
It is such an advantage for a blogger who has arrived at the point of spiritual union with inner peace itself , to comprehend not just the calming value of crystals and the supple and flexible bodily advantages of non-religious Yoga to arrive at a junction in life where one possesses not just inner peace, but a comprehensive knowledge of where the skull’s acupuncture points are, and how to drill holes in your own head in order to imbed crystals deep into the lower frontal lobes, and then stitch your own head up in such an expertly surgical manner that would put a plastic surgeon to shame, so as to appear as if your hair itself was impervious to the wind and the elements themselves.
I asked her if she needed some help to get her life on track in any area whatsoever, even though I knew the answer to the question was both an equivocal and unequivocal Yes!
She said she was fine, in that way that people say they’re okay when you ask them how they are, when they inwardly scream ‘suicidal!’ and wonder for years later why their inner voice is mute on the outside. I knew her answer was a lie, so I began to give her a few free tips, while I thought about how much more money I would have made through Google AdSense if I was blogging about this matter rather than just instructing a real person who wasn’t ready for the full force and blinding light of my own brilliance.
Being in total denial, and quite deluded about the fabric, nature and essence of life itself - like every non-blogger - she started making excuses about being busy and having other patients to attend to, workplace reforms, etc, and even had the audacity to interrupt me while I was giving her a rundown on global terrorism.
After being criticised by the Sri Lankans for inserting a squash ball into his glove during the World Cup final to gain an unfair advantage, Adam Gilchrist has decided to use a basketball in both gloves during his second innings in Perth. He also plans to put two soccer balls in his shoes to cope with the extra bounce at the WACA. "I wont be wearing traditional pads either," Gilly said. "I've cut down a couple of AFL goal posts and will be strapping them to my shins." Instead of a helmet, Gilcrhist will wear a netball on his head with specially cut-out eye sections so he can see. Instead of the traditional 'protector' known as a box to protect his nether regions, Gilchrist will strap a real cardboard box around his loins. "It's a box a hockey stick comes in when you order them online," he said. "It might look a bit silly at first, but it will give me extra protection, being almost a metre long." Instead of thigh pads, Gilchrist will bend two tennis racquets in half and insert them into his creams. "They will give extra value for leg byes," he said, "due to the bounce." Instead of a chest guard, Gilly will tie a dart board to his chest and wear a larger-than-normal shirt. "We can learn a lot from other sports."
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.
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.
The opposite of electricity is the opposite of electricity. Idiocy is conducted to earthed objects. I, myself, hate wearing rubbers. It's through their connection to earthly things that idiot conductors conduct idiots. If you ever find yourself in a storm of idiots, and you want to be electricity free, don't, I beg of you, go anywhere near a tall conductor. You can bet on a conductor's baton being waved over a bunch of violin players. Your rights to idiocy will not be waived; it is your right to claim to be right. Right on! The idiot conductor can orchestrate a bunch of fiddlers into all sorts of plucking activities. Plucking hell, they'll pluck in hell, fiddlers. I can't feel sorry for you for I can't hear your plight over the violins. Vile in intent are your vibrations. You have the airs of foul whores and you bow to your horse heirs. Your attraction to the earthed conductor is inexplicable as it is enlightening. The applause that I give you is far from thunderous; I pause at applause. For some other strange reason I can go out into a storm of treacherous idiots with a sheet of metal and have hits everywhere but in my sight. It's not really desirable to be struck down with a few electric sky veins. The idiots are vain in their air strikes; from their lofty fluffy whiteness they see nothing but what a bird sees. It's those on the ground that are down to earth. Some of us conduct idiots and some of us just can't because we're insulated. Conduct and insulate: opposite.
What goes up must come down. Time was that gravity carried a lot of weight. Today no-one gives a flying clock about it. Contrary to some, apples fall from twigs of their own device, in line with natural laws. The letter S signifies plural and ownership. Snakes certainly climb ladders. Rank is rank. I’m the fallen apple in your eye. Sitting at the top doesn't give you more gravity. There are more ways of killing a dog than hanging it by its tail and clubbing it over the head with a spade or a shovel. We’d like to run a few experiments. We westerners deplore the inhumane treatment of non-humans in the east. You’ll be waiting a while for a unified paddock to be found. This post is without offence. There’s no romance in a giant shed of penned pulsed packages. Science makes mushrooms out of clouds. It’s a monkey-business. Time will tell you to hurry up if you want to live longer. Spectators are participants. Theories about trains are great if you can get one that runs on time. That which is indicated by clocks varies with the clicks the clocks are doing. There is a time and a place for everything, including having a bum-plug with a digital clock in it. Don’t ask me for the time unless you want to go peering up my arsehole. I'd only ever have it digital. I’m only winding you up. Time flies when I fart. Time and gravity can’t be resolved. Weight and time: opposite.
This is not just a saying relating to Keen’s Mustard. They also make Mayonnaise. So how do you make Keen Mayo? It’s a question of what type of beater you use. Wife beaters? That’s taking things too literally, and way too far. Unless it’s done in tempered retaliatory terms due to pathologically-denied verbal and physical abuse itself. Beer cans smashed on the head and flying stove top throat-slashers and eye-blinders. Mayo with soft almost non-existent bruises? Mouldy bits? Self-inflicted? So deep they don’t prevent face-to-face screams? It turns into a substance reminiscent of sour grapes that are pressed to Whines and served in carafe’s of self-pity at Women’s shelters, or houses full of yapping Sanseveria trifasicatas leaves (mother-in-law’s tongue plants) after abrupt pre-planned and premeditated leaves? Judas-type, 30-silver-coin sell-offs behind the back of a man going around doing only good. Night-time secret meetings? For this is your time? And it was night when this happened? This is your hour of Jimmy Swaggering, femmo control-freak and power-trip power? Night-time? Darkness. For you cannot bear the light? Trading Communion wafers for spondoolee, and giving one Last Supper a miss for betrayal and traitorship? But Whines? The really bitter ones? They do not quite reach their full peak and pitch, before passing through Govt Agency vats, mutual-appreciation societies of back-slapping and back-stabbing fellow victims out for revenge on real men, and a fermentation process in the judicial and legal system, through see-through, transparent, glass distilling tubes first. Do you see life through Rose or Shiraz or Cab-Sav coloured glasses, former Dear? Or was St Paul right? We only see things through a dark glass clearly in this life? But Whines? Approved by faulty pro-bleeding-women’s-hearts judicial systems? Not approved before coming at you with the full force of a Pharissarcical, Sans-Head (rin) torch and weapon bearing hypocrisy army behind them. Families full of discord and dissension and festering hatred underneath a false-exterior-morality veneer, uniting to fight a common enemy? And Herod and Pilate became friends? The Judas Kiss? Friend? Why dost thou betray me with a legal and judicial kiss on restraining order documents? I have done thee no harm. I only ever did thee good. But I’ve been resurrected, and you’re bleeding bowels have been rent asunder under a tree in the potter’s field, and what for? A measly thirty silver coins? You will trade love for money. And in my resurrected glory? My new-found Immortality, Impassibility, Brightness, Agility, and Subtility? I’ll beat my new brand of Mayo with my lips and my phallic wooden-spoon-type dipping stick. My butter-pat. That churns out cream from both sources?Matured Wines? The substance of a real, mature woman. The Whines of immature, unreal, young Girls? Opposite.
You can’t really nail a can of soup to a wall if you’re not a fine stud. If you’re ever lucky enough to have enough bread to pound the starch out of a tart, don’t hesitate to nail it in the key-hole. Sleeping with a hammer and a driver under my head is a job for someone accustomed to uncomfortable and secretive affairs and subtle propositions. I never clean the dunny just in case I find a scrubber on the corner of the street. The look on my face when I get in the rim with one of those must be priceless. The expression would look like a man gargling a lemon in a cavity of vinegar. Nailing a pin into a bike is best done with a split-loaf. My love-life is forever hampered by the basket on the back of mine. Pilgrims can tread all they like but they don’t ride side-saddle any more than a metropolis smells rotten. You can try and open a door with a purple crash-helmet, but don’t go riding on a dog track without a pig’s intestine on your pump. Watch the fat spit! Some posts are hard to swallow, I’ll give you that. Spit on your fist before you go pounding a rissole or else expect a lot of tomato sauce. Put your pump in a nice soft one, be gentle like a screwdriver, and mess that wallet up. I’m not the sharpest tool in the oven but, to be perfectly blunt, nail and screw: opposite.
Digging her own grave as she ground her axe wound wound up to be fatal for The Tractor. Blessed with a shovel in her petticoat and an axe wound to grind, The Tractor dug herself a bigger hole the more she ground that axe wound. Patrolling cyberspace on a commode, with her head in a vice, the pressure was too much on her temple. She always had the shits up. Shovelling and grinding her way into the dirt as she bogged herself in the mire, The Tractor’s banality was so subtle as to be only obvious to the discerning. "She’s a maniac, a maniac, that's for sure." Sticking your head in the oven is only fatal in a gas oven, deary. Fatally boring was the dear old thing. Not to mention the stench of a fungal fanny. It wasn’t hers. A fun-gal-fanny she didn’t have, more a boring-granny-fanny. If you'd woken up to a knock at the door and saw The Tractor on your verandah, you'd give her both barrels. Bang her off into the bush, you would. As cumbersome as she was, her stupidity was only matched by her mechanicalism; her brutally dreary pistons and indelicate gear would send you off into a rage. As attracted as you’ll be to a splendid siren song, you’d be repulsed by the Tractor’s drone. It’s Bullshit that she got stuck in when she put her foot down. The Tractor in the Bullshit: bogged.
Fun is fun, let’s face it.
We all like a little word beginning in “F”.
Fun starts with the letter F.
I have been described as a word beginning with "F".
What other “F” words are fun?
Computers can’t have fun.
Computers are boring.
Boring starts with the letter B.
What other words start with “B”?
Cows have male counterparts that defecate.
Nothing could be more inhuman than swear words.
Computers don’t have parts that have vulgar names.
To stick a floppy in a slit is a little bit suggestive.
I just close my eyes when I insert one in the slot.
Pushing buttons is something I never do without gloves.
What other parts of a computer are vulgar?
Let me know, so I can find something dirty to think about.
Fun and Boring: opposite.
End program.
A female is intelligent because of her Pico as a male is because of his Kaco. Hermaphrodites have both a Pico and a Kaco. A Kaco goes in a Pico as a pencil goes in a case. Hermaphrodites can put their dirty Kaco in their Pico. Women have been known to suck Kaco and eat Pico. So have men. Women have been known to do both at one time while a Kaco is in their Pico. So have hermaphrodites been known to suck their Pico and eat their Kaco. Men have done worse things to Pico and Kaco. Like in wartime when soldiers put methylated rags in peasants' Picos and lit them. Women and men have been noticed with backbones. A Kaco doesn’t have a bone but Pico has been called meat on a bone. My spieling is going downhill farts and I cunt say I like profannity of any snatchure ether.
Thales “The Swimming Bird” had a date that protruded from his shorts that left people in no doubt as to the time of day. There are two traditions: one that he lived with a bag-lady and the other a vagrant. The time of his life was had by all. According to Hairy Armpits Herodotus (The Doting Hero), “The Swimming Chimp” predicted the winner of the quadie in race six - which has been determined by modern methods. Apple Patches was one of the greatest liars of the rebirth. He was a chicken catcher with running legs like trees and a pair of swimming trunks of purple elastic material. Amid his extensive responsibilities, he treated his blisters with Vaseline and fit through every door, likewise I’m sure. However, his baby formula was chunky and contained solids. It came to mark the starting point of the human race.
The Penis is an instrument of love on the outside. There is no such thing as an internal penis. Like a love-thermometer, a penis contains a thick mercurial liquid. Mostly, it is men who play the instrument although in most cases privately. There have been recorded playings in public. One notable instance happened on the bus, and it had nothing to do with the author or the authorities. Back to the Penis(no thank you), like cricket stumps the Penis is made up of three columns. The Herald-Sun and The Age newspapers have more columns; The Australian still more. The Penis has faced many testing times but usually prevails, although victory is often hollow. Contrary to popular belief it has no Bone. So when you want to ask your teacher to suck your bone, you’ll be mistaken. She might do it anyway. She who has a Vagina. The Opposite of the Penis is not the Anus, as some people would have you believe, but The Vagina. Meaning scabby in some other tongue, The Vagina is nothing like an internal Penis. In the experience of the author, these “cunts” are found to be dry, inhospitable places to shelter from the cold. Others maintain that they are wet and wild. The Vagina is truly a mysterious thing. Referred to as the love canal, some have had more boats than others. Above all else, it is functional. They might even sell them in Hardware shops. During a pap smear one Doctor was noted as saying “This is what you like, isn’t it?!”. Truly a mystery that he went before the bar. The Vagina, dry and forbidding or wet and hospitable, is the opposite of the Penis.
Francis “Crispy Ring” Bacon, 1st Viscount St. Spoonbender was the proud owner of a chemistry set and his mother had quite a set too, which she would lay out for all to see. “Ham Hands”, as they called him in the cold storage facility, was a revolutionary with knees that barely touched the ground, a head that looked like a smashed in tea-cosy and a liking for kindergartens. He was hit over the head with a mallet by the royal family and became extinct upon his death. It was Louis “The Lip” Pastuer or “Cream Pants” who was a French dwarf with the middle leg of a giant and the hands of a surgeon general. He is best remembered for getting “a bit tipsy” at the Christmas party and snogging the boss’ wife in the “broom cupboard” and demonstrating that wine goes sour after you’ve had a few and left it overnight. His experiments with the Karma Sutra confirmed germ theory of disease and he caught rabies; all in one night. He lead some to believe he was a Chemist.
Norm
Mal
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