Norm
MalCOMPENSATION FOR SUFFERERS OF MEDIOCRITY
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Read More 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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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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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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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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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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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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Rape, bullying and cowardice
Rape victims have really got my back up. We’re in the middle of a fucking drought and they’re having the longest showers of any of us. Don’t you sluts care that the rest of us stink to low hell? I can’t even water my roses, Doris. We all know that if it wasn’t for rape there would be a lot more random acts of violence. The love a man has for his selected is a beautiful thing. A bully uses the delicate craft of intimidation to demonstrate their inane sense of self. Don’t let anyone tell you that they aren’t noble by birth. Bullies come out of cows. Beneath every rapist is a bully and below them, squashed and whimpering, is a coward. Flat out truth. Fuck ugly are some of these pock-marked, poker faced bush-pigs that enjoy the experience of force. Strength in the face of vulnerability is what heroism is all about. Fuck, the human heart is a pump that circulates blood around the place. I’d love to spring a few leaks. If I know myself as I do, I’ll admit that they exist in me, potentially. The rapist is a high form of coward. Lucky for me I’m a lowly miser. Otherwise I wouldn’t be a mere coward. A bully I have been, no shadows. Only a transparent window. Rapists, bullies and cowards: equal.
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Trottings and snottings
Don’t bet on any one word standing for any one thing. Words are bought and sold and transferred as easily as coin. Coin is only worth what we believe it to be worth. Getting all serious is a field, not mine. Watch a canter in action and compare to a jogger. The former will try to give you the run around, run you ragged; have you on the hop with your foot in your mouth. Fists down. Anything they say, they think has veracity for their capacity is for atrocity. They run gently on your granny's head, sharpening her bones into spikes to put in your drink that are attached to string. They’ll wind you up, dear friends. Wrestle with a canter and you’ll be in banter with a hamper full of wankers. Bank on their duplicity. Bet on your own, it’s in you too. Their teeth are stained in lies and the gaseous river flows from the mouth to flood the plain. We’ve all had our run ins with bad vibes. Don’t be a dill; do recharge your batteries with some time spent in the country. Skip on the spot, it’s no means to get around. Walking is taught. Tight will be your shorts when you least expect it. Breasts in bras belong in binoculars. Out of them you’ll fall off the twig. Witnessing a canter arouses suspicions about the human race. I’ve seen it in myself first so I’ll recognise it in you. I only have to jog my memory of my own inner machinery to know yours, you fucking canters. Jogging is conducive to good health, you sham. Poo will be your cue to open your cock-hole. Say ah. Blppbplpbpblbpbl. I really should have passed at this post. Canter and jogger: equal and opposite.
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Smack on the brain
For crying out loud some babies get shaken like a buggered clock. Some ladies and gents go off at the drop of a hat. Dead set, I feel like clocking some buggers. If the words I arrange in my head were real I’d be a killer; it’s normal to want to rip somebody’s face off. Any pair of addicts can add to the world’s numbers. Same to be said for spotless wonders claiming to be next to cleanliness. Numbered are our days. Permits need not be issued to prospective parents. The planet is a beautiful place populated by pedants and parasites. I give it a big tick. Parades of pram pushing poor mill at lights, tripping, fantastic. You don’t see them give their kiddies a smack; they must go the knuckle. It’s a scene, man. Living without clean internal machinery can make for powerful pollutants. It’s alarming to see how waste can contaminate the sea-beds for future generations, baby. We’re all air to the throne in the outhouse. I can’t picture what poor unfortunates do in dung abodes. Chasing answers to these questions has occupied my mind shitless. Really, I’m too vain to care. Looking at reflective surfaces must be a constant reminder of fractures and fissures. Faces famished for feeling. Articulating problems is just a waste of time. Watch out for the surprises that unusual sources can deliver. Intelligence and understanding can be wrapped in rough packaging. I have experience of seeing some heroine on the bus. Of course kids still get smacked on and off the face. Real heroines don’t spoon feed the world their worth. Smack and heroin: equal.
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