The Holy Veil

He caught me halfway through a sneeze and said, "Don't listen to 'em. Absolute Power is crap."
"I know," I said, shrugging him off. "I said that in the first place."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
"Then why on earth did I have to say it then?"
"The human thing."
"Ah."

Personkind's Pinnacle

Get this, get this: I pitched my tent yesterday, but the Hollywood execs said they wanted films, not tents!

Treble Clephan

Treble Clephan (the latter pronounced as if "Deaf" and "Barn" were welded together) is a fellow cut from fine cloth indeed. I had stumbled into the kitchen one morning entirely expecting to see an urban sprawl of dirty dish skyscrapers but found a pristine, neatly-arranged environment with an inviting plate of bacon and eggs on the table next to a pot of fresh coffee animated with curling steam. Amidst this glorious set up — indeed its very creator — stood Treble, who was clad in a navy blue apron and mixing ingredients for blueberry muffins. He radiated a friendly greeting when he was aware of my presence and told me to tuck into the breakfast he had prepared. I didn't argue. Quite the contrary, actually: I thanked him with every adjective I could think of and began to feast.

"This is most delicious," I told him emphatically. "Delicious." I made a noise that, in retrospect, was a bit too close to an orgasm for comfort.
"I'm glad you like it," beamed Treble. "And later on we can have these blueberry muffins for afternoon tea."
"I can't wait," I said eagerly, engulfing another bacony-eggy mouthful.
"And then we shall sit on the veranda, watch the stars and sip carbonated apple juice with no added sugar."
"Oh!" I ejaculated. "You really have thought of everything."
A modest smile spread across his face.
"I don't know about that, but thanks."
"You are most welcome, but I assure you that you're the one who needs to be thanked."
"Oh," said Treble's heart. "Oh. I... You know, if you were a woman—" He trailed off.
"I know," I said, patting him tenderly on the back.
"Maybe if it was the other end and just not there..." he continued. "And... Maybe if you had long brown hair. And no beard. And breasts. And a nice face. And—"
"—I know," I interrupted. "I know."
We held hands for a moment.
"And girl hands," added Treble, unclasping.

There was an excruciatingly long pause. Our hearts kept a fast tempo throughout.
"You don't have any sisters, do you?" asked Treble, breaking the silence at last.
"No, I don't. You?"
"No. Curse our condom-clad parents."
I nodded thoughtfully.

"I need to go to the toilet," said Treble a while later, rising from his seat.
"OK."
After I heard the lock turn, I made my way over to the door and listened as he squeezed out something nasty. To most ears, it would be a thoroughly unpleasant and disgusting sound, but to mine it was heavenly.
"Oh," I said, forgetting myself.
"Er... Is that you?" asked Treble from behind the door.
I froze.
"...No, no it isn't."
"Oh OK. I just thought I heard someone."
"No, there's no one here."
"Yeah, I was just making sure."
"I understand. Anyway, I must be off."
"So soon?"
"'Fraid so. I've two screaming kids at home."
"I see. Well, it was nice meeting you."
"Likewise."
"Bye."
"Bye."
I quickly made my way back to the kitchen.

"Something extraordinary has just happened," said Treble, when at last he emerged.
"What?" I asked.
"Well, while I was on the bowl, there was this... Well, this... Voice. It wasn't a person, as there was no one there, but there was just this voice. We had a nice little chat."
"How extraordinary."
"My thoughts exactly."
I nodded.
"So everything went well then?" I asked, four nods in.
"Oh yes. It was delightfully hassle-free."
"Good to hear."
The rhythm had left our conversation, and there was yet another lull in proceedings. I toyed with my bacon and gazed wistfully out the window until the next utterance.

"Why does the penis have to be so horrible?" uttered Treble.
"Yeah, I know," I agreed.
"And you have enough trouble getting things out of that other bit. I certainly don't want to put anything in there."
"I know what you mean."
"And we're ugly and we have muscles."
"Well..." I said, looking at my arms.
"And... Oh I don't know. There must be someone out there."
"There is," I said reassuringly. "You'll find her."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
"You're a good friend."
"And you're a great one."
Treble sighed.
"Thank you," he said. "I... Thank you."
"I thank you too."

And then I had to leave. I had my daily axe to grind. I didn't want to leave him, and I wished I could stay there all day, but I didn't much fancy going without food anytime soon, so I had no choice but to bid adieu.

A tomboy helped me overcome my shyness and I married her. The regularity with which I usually visited Treble was severely cut down, and eventually we stopped seeing each other entirely. I all but forgot about him and focused my attention on my lovely wife. I know how it sounds, but it's true. I loved my wife. Obviously not enough to develop her character beyond a passing reference, but certainly more than I have loved anybody else in my life. Actually, I'll go out on a limb and say she's the only person I've ever truly loved. And she didn't have a penis.

Herring George

Well, I suppose you're all wondering about my day. You are? Great. I'll tell you. Today I munched around town wearing an army reserves bum-bag (a tampon, as it's known in the U.S.), which I had stuffed full of chocolate bars and Polaroid™ digital cameras, and frequented (went to) a number of flashy dives. Well, cafés. I decided to meet a different friend for each one, and my first was, of course, Ben. Oh, the ears on that man!

"What's in the bum-bag?" he asked, a forkful of lumberjack cake prostrating in his mouth.
"Well, chocolate bars — but you're already eating cake, so you can't have one!" I snapped. In retrospect, I'll admit it was rather snappier than was necessary in the circumstances.
"Calm down," said Ben, with due cause. "I was only curious. And you're quite right: This cake is plenty enough for me at the moment."
"Good to hear. So't's nice?"
"Very. It would not be hyperbolic to call it delicious."
"Fab."
"Mm," intoned Ben, and we paused.
"Jesus," he added a moment later. "Shall I write it off as déjà vu?"
"It's for the best," I replied. "Otherwise the repetition will get you down."
"But we've done this for a year."
"Well, so's the sun risen everyday."
"Huh?"
"I don't know." I pushed my plate away morosely and fished a chocolate bar from my bum-bag.
"Oh all right," I said, "you can have one." I retrieved another and offered it to him.
"N'anks," he said, waving it away. "I said the cake was enough and I was telling the truth."
I shrugged a faux nonchalant shrug and placed the milk chocolate & caramel creation back 'neath the zip.

"I could kill you off or something," I suggested optimistically.
"No, that's the easy way out. At this point, only S.C. and J.J. could pump fresh life into it."
"Sigh."
"Christ, don't do that. When people actually say Sigh instead of sighing it, it makes my skin crawl a K."
"Whatever."
"Followed closely by people saying Whatever when their pride's pricked."
"I'm going to go now."
"Are you? Well, I'm going to say Bye then, and finish my cake."
"You've already finished."
"Not the next piece, I haven't."
"Ah. Well, bye."
"Yep."

The rest of my encounters that day were especially forgettable, and I forget them.

Concerning the Discovery of Wheat-Based Cereal

Over the years, scientific thought has developed to such a point that to even hint at the existence of anything not made of concrete can see you severely vilified by the majority of the community (Kelvin, 1976). But anyway, the main points I hope to cover: Is the distance you can throw an object intrinsically linked to its trustworthiness? When did Plymouth Rock set sail for the Mayflower? Why is Pinter such a relic? How can we say we're all equal when it's not true?

To answer these questions, it is important to first examine the nature of life on Ert, and the part we, as socio-humans, play in it. But to examine this point, we must first take into consideration what we understand by the term Life. Life, however, is an arbitrary term, and thus further exploration of the English language is required before we can tackle any of the pending issues.

In conclusion, I will say that this is an endless cycle of deconstruction that can not be used to define theoretical concepts (Anderson, 2004).

Anderson, G. 2004. "Colonial Exploitations Of The Thirteenth Century: The History Of Life On Earth." Packhorse Publishing Ltd., London.

Kelvin, F. 1976. "My Role In Russia's Occupation In Mongolia." Finger Ltd., Holland.

Catch-And-Go-Thief

You may have noticed my hands. Well, perhaps I'll get enough momentum to spin last year's world all the way around. I was told, you see, that if you pump up your hands to the point where they're almost blown up, you can reach across vast oceans and bridge people across. There'll be a toll, of course, but it's cheaper than the alternatives. And, as Freud pointed out, believing in a religion is one of the most extreme forms of neurosis, and thus more affordable.

You'll have to trust me on this. There are some people in a tree outside. One swinging, the other not. But that's like apples and oranges, if only in name. Still, penis envy does explain a lot about the female mind, and is enormously — if you'll pardon the pun — useful. And the fact that women never use progressive verbs means that they are ultimately down-trodden, but never down wind. Suspicious, yes; strange, no.

In other words, I've been too deep into the medicine cabinet. Mixed my news, views and sniffing-glues, and come off quite... Odd.

The Ivory Pill

Loot and Lilly were busy indoors with the building of a bookshelf that was to be varnished but not painted. Outdoors was an expansive hill on top of a mountain, over which kids ran, and on which nice people sat.

"Is the shelf centred?" asked Loot.
There was a pause.
"Yeah, it's very shelfish," said Lilly.
There was a pause.
"What?"
"It's very shelfish."
"Yes, I heard you, but what are you talking about?"
"It's a pun."
"On what?"
"On selfish. You said it was shelf-centred."
"No, I said, 'Is the shelf centred'."
"Yeah, but it still works."
"No it doesn't. It would only work if I said, 'Is the shelf shelf-centred' or, 'Is the shelf self-centred'."
"It doesn't matter. It's a pun."
"A pun has to work on both levels. You can't say something like, 'Is the self-centred', can you? It doesn't make sense. A true pun should make grammatical sense in both contexts. Like um... um... Like a sailor guy saying that he likes to throw little buoys into the ocean."
"That was terrible."
"It was just an example."
"Well, I still think my one was a good pun. There's no rule saying it has to work in both contexts. Go get a dictionary."
"Oh yeah? Well would you jump off a bridge if they told you too?"
"Huh?"
"I want to go outside."
"We have to finish the bookshelf first."
"No we don't. Let's get the kite."
"But... Oh... All right. Let's."

By the Buckles

Juicy was, as per, sitting nonchalantly on the veranda with some sort of beverage and some sort of reading material. The accompanying day was, while not being sunny, wonderful and still, and it also happened to be precisely the right temperature for an extemporisational adventure. Meanwhile, we're unclear as to whether it was a weekend or a weekday, but that hardly matters. Oh and did I mention the mirror? No? Good. That hardly matters either. Anyway, here was Juicy on this specific day, reading and drinking.

"Morning, Juicy" said Harlot, fimbling with his toe and collar.
"Oh, hullo," said Juicy, looking up. "How's it?"
"Oh, not too bad. A bit on the ragged side, you know, but it's bound to clear up."
"Ah. I see."
"Yeah. You?"
"Me? Oh, I'm just the usual."
"Is that a good thing?"
"You know, I think it is."
"Terrific."
"And it's a nice day, too."
"It is! Not sunny, but still and lovely. I really enjoy these sort of days. Could be my favourite."
"Oh, me too. They're marvelous."
"They are."
There was, predictably, a reflective pause.
"Watcha reading?" asked Harlot after it.
"Oh, you know. A lovely little book."
"How lovely! Which one, if you don't mind my asking?"
"I don't mind a bit. Oh, and it's The Lovely Serials."
"Can't say I've heard of that, but it sounds great."
"It is! It's these lovely little stories about these gals who travel around and solve mysteries. You know, magnifying glasses and ancient treasure. Marvelous stuff."
"That does sound marvelous! I might take a look-see sometime."
"Oh, you should. I recommend it."
"In fact, I might just write it down now. What did you say the title was again?"
"The Lovely Serials."
"Ah yes, that was it. Thanks."
"You are most welcome, sir."
"And you are most lovely, madam."
Juicy giggled.
"Silly."
"And proud of it," said Harlot, bursting into a grin. "Anyway, I must be off. I have one or two pressing errands to attend to."
"Oh, you mean the ironing?"
"Now who's silly? But no, my lovely lady. Just sugar-borrowing and that sort of thing."
"Oh, sure. Have fun."
"I'll do my best, lovely. I hope you enjoy the rest of this fine day, and drop in on me anytime."
"I will."
"You will to which?"
"Whichever, sir."
"In that case, I will wave off and see you — or not see you — then. Goodbye!"
"Bye, sir."

The B-Sides Part IV: Songsmithery

I sit here and stare out at the ocean,
Bocean, gocean, rocean, nocean...
Tying to make sense of all these emotions.

My heart is beating like a fatal drum,
Bum, dumb, rum, chum, gum, thumb...
But at a tune I can't even hum.

My mind is hot with a burning desire,
Tire, bire, liar, higher, myer...
I'm dying in the flames of your fire.

I love you and I know you love me,
Sea, see, pee, tea, bee, lee...
But what will it take before we can be free?

From July 3rd, 2005.

A-Side Promotion

You know why calculators are so reliable?
You can always count on them.

The B-Sides Part III: Things in Chairs (Original Version)

I'm posting this to show you how wise I was to not post it. Make sense? Good.

To keep my crust crisp, I had to move in with Ben and firmly abuse his hospitality.
"K'Edward wasn't the man to mess with," he said after I spilt my guts on his rug.
"I know, but I'm glad I don't work for that bastard no more," I retorted in a firm, masculine tone.
"Double negative," scolded Ben as he lit his pipe for kindling.

The fire roared and the night went on. A sense of inactivity steadily dawned on us both, and we decided to sandwich a prostitute. Despite Ben's namesake fiercely protesting the continuation of that thought, we succeeded in hailing a whore in from the cold. The trouble came upon witnessing the repulsive ring of cold sores around her mouth, which wasn't exactly the most enticing site. But we gallantly powered on regardless.
"Are you enjoying this?" asked Ben.
"God no," replied Ben. "Did you have to use my name?"
"No, I meant you."
The prostitute looked up at her client.
"Yes," she said flatly, "of course I am."
"Are you really?"
"Yes."
"You're just saying that."
"So?"
"So how do expect us to enjoy it?"
"I'm enjoying it," interjected Hugh.
"Quiet," said Ben.
"I expect you to enjoy it because I have a vagina," answered the prostitute.
"I can vouch for that," said Hugh.
"Are you done yet?" asked Ben coldly.
"Almost."
Ben sighed.
"Well, that idiot may just need a hole to be happy, but personally I want something more. I want it to be a mutual experience of passion between two—"
"—Three," corrected Hugh.
"Between two," continued Ben, "consenting adults. Aren't you feeling anything at all?"
"Nope," said the prostitute.
"But I have a really swell shoehorn," Ben protested.
"I've seen a lot of swell shoehorns in my time, and they're all unremarkable."
"What do you do for pleasure, then?"
"Sleep."
"No, I mean sexual pleasure."
"Sexual pleasure has been sapped for me, but kissing is nice, I suppose."
Ben stared at her train-wreck lips and sunk in thought. After a minute or so, he swallowed nervously and spoke.
"I would like to kiss you," he said.
"Not on the first date," said Hugh, attempting to be humorous and failing.
"Oh god. Will you hurry up? How come you're not done yet?"
"I am done. Have been since about ten seconds after I started. But this is the first time in my life I haven't felt regret or guilt after finishing, so I'm savouring the feeling of this lovely lady around me until I'm ready to go again."
"You could at least give me a go at that end while you're waiting," said Ben.
"Hold it!" interrupted Ben. "Hugh, can you please stop this now? I mean honestly, what are you doing?"
I ignored Ben and continued the narrative.
"Nope, I won the toss," said Hugh.
"Oh be quiet and hurry up. Anyway, madam, I would very much like to kiss you."
"You're joking, right?" said the madam.
"No I'm not. I've seldom been significantly more serious in my life."
"But my lips are a mess."
"No, your lips are wonderful and I would very much like to kiss them."
A pause for thought later, and they kissed.

"I think I'm ready to go again," said Hugh a moment later, and he went.
Ben, meanwhile, said, "I do believe I love you, madam" to the lady in question.
"Oh," she said, startled. "Well, I like you, but I don't love you."
"I can live with that. Let's elope."
"All right."

I do believe this is the worst thing I've ever written.

From the 14th of March, 2006.

The B-Sides Part II: Letter to Far Away Ben

[Deleted]

From the 6th of September, 2005.

The B-Sides Part I: Open Mike

"And the shattered windows across lanes of virgins and ugly ministers. My blood-drenched cunt smiles at the leering, the wretched, the old and the young. My thighs spread like cascading pools of Tasmanian beer. A life of abuse, of torture, of late-night throbbing. And my ill-proportioned breasts slump the underwhelming alpha-males into sedation, like pills of relief, used to anti-inflammatise the drudgery of being. The men just piss themselves stupid and get stuck in unsuspecting women. An innocent bird perches on a branch and squawks at my cunt. My cunt. My bleeding, plugged-up cunt. My aching Achilles'. My fucking cunt, my dormant cunt, my pissing cunt. A beastly target for inaccurate beasts on pussy pilgrimages. Purring like a cunt, to be sure. And all the while it lies like a deceiver and swallows the receiver. Oh ho ho, the incompetent beaver let's the flood in. What a wretched cunt. Fucking cunt. My little cunt. My fucking little cunt. My cunt. MY CUNT! MY CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT! My cunt. CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT! The end."

From the 14th of October, 2005.

Twenty Four Hours From Culture

What do you call a torch with no light? Useless!

Omnibus

A dark ride home, as per. Faced with only half empty seats, I, of course, chose one next to a member of the nicer sex. She had headphones. I listened carefully to see if she was filling her ears with something decent but couldn't make body parts of it amidst the bustle. And all the while I stole glances. When she caught me in the act, I would instantly avert my eyes, no doubt making myself more suspicious, and then proceed to shoot seemingly random glances around the room, as if my eyes only stumbled upon her before by accident. At these junctures, I'd make paranoid guesses as to the nature or existence of her thoughts towards me and widen my eyes to the ceiling, occasionally slipping into hopeless fantasy.

Soon I began to notice a look of deep, albeit well-hidden, sadness on her face, and I made sure my ribs were wide open so my heart was free to go out to her. Each subsequent glance I furtively placed upon her person was now tilted like a triangle in empathy, and occasionally I even hoped I would be caught again so she would know I knew. But I wasn't caught. Instead, she began looking over at me as if she was about to say something, then, struck for words or courage, she would quickly look back at the window again. This went on a few times, and each time I tried to say something but also found myself struck. Thankfully, however, she did eventually speak.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, worriedly.
"I do," I said. "That's where I'm going now."
"Good."
"Why?"
"I have a boyfriend," she said. I gave her a confused look. For keeps.
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. It's just... Well, I... Something has happened. I feel awful. Hug me."
My heart beat itself off the map.
"What?" I said, startled.
"Platonically," she clarified. "I need it. Now."
"Um..."
"You don't have to."
"I..."
"Never mind."
I leaned over and hesitantly put my right arm around her. Immediately she flung her body onto mine, wrapped me in her arms and rested her head on my shoulder. For a moment, I attempted to keep my less-civilised region in check, but soon I decided to ignore it entirely and threw myself more confidently into the embrace. I could hear her gentle weep in my ear and I held her tighter.

"This is my stop," she said, looking up from the hug.
But she didn't get off. I, however, did. Repulsed, she leapt off my lap and gave me a look of disgust.
"Now it'll be platonic," I said, rather pathetically.

OK, so that last bit didn't happen. But neither did the first bit, so who's complaining?

Ben the Philosopher

It would, of course, be wittier if I didn't succumb to my prediction and write this, but, having none of my balls land in the vicinity of any better ideas, I shall do it anyway.

When Ben states that he isn't, in fact, a philosopher, he is merely philosophising on the uselessness, philosophically, of philosophy, and, in particular, the existence of philosophy as a distinct practice when in fact it's merely thinking. And everybody, as Harry pointed out in his amiably naïve way, does that. But ignoring such definitions for a moment, the presence of a large, black scholarly robe and haywire hair, not to mention his qualifications, certainly label Ben a philosopher in the traditional sense. And he does spend his days cooped up in a room filled with scrolls and dusty books and a distinct lack of windows. He, like all philosophers, knows that the best way to uncover the hidden truths of the world is to be locked away from it most of the time.

The annoying think about these philosophers is that whenever an occasion arises where you think "Gee, I must consult a philosopher about all this", and, in fact, do that, you're always left with more questions than you had before you came. Ben, thankfully, is an exception. Last week when I bashed my fist on his grand oak door, and, upon its opening, spilt my worried guts on his shoulders, he placed a gun-shaped hand to support his chin, scratched his skull with the other and, a minute later, articulated a solution, which, I'm happy to inform, was resolute and, ultimately, successful.

Actually, I think I'll develop this further. See you then.

Home is Where the Hearth is

'Twas perched upon the trusty ol' inglenook, a glass of stout orange juice wrapped in my hand, that it first struck me. Love, like that famous rose, is love is love is love. And the same applied to life. Of course, I doubt those staunch fellows at the Oxford would immediately leap to their typewriters and publish a revised edition, but nevertheless this definition, on a philosophical level, is enormously beneficial for those existential ninnies trying to expunge contentment from daily life. And if I can get just one of 'em to see the light — or lack thereof — then I'll consider it a thigh-slapping success.

But why impose my own radical philosophical beliefs on others? Why stoop to Mormon-like lows? Well, the answer is this. If I manage to successfully convert a hitherto unconverted bud, it will fill me with a positively self-satisfied filling of my rightness and their wrong, and that, for an ego-fiend like me (I don't mind admitting it), is more than enough. As a bonus, it would give me a feeling of power, too, as it — well, her or he — would be a living demonstration of my influence.

Unfortunately, there is a daunting mound of work that needs to be completed before I can let my mind escape to such fulfilling pursuits, so I won't pursue the issue any further just yet. But I will leave you with this potentially life-changing question: Have you polished your brain lately?

Milkhill Puppy

I can hear the chug-chug-chugging of fourteen bright hearts in their vibraphonic shells. And all this on a Wednesday. Earlier today, you see, I pushed my bike up the steep hill to the coal field, and found it in a continental state. Whether this property belonged to the bike or the coal field is hard to say, but I can say this, and, indeed, just did. But quibbles in a pile for a moment, the true discovery of my journey was how much fresher the air was up there, and how the clouds, usually foreboding, dark creatures, revealed their winning personalities.

Milkhill, as I affectionately call him, hopped on by three hours after my return and informed me of each errand he had to do, in chronological order, and each gathering he had to attend, with particular emphasis on the enormous amount of hopping he would have to do to get from gathering to gathering, errand to errand, gathering to errand and errand to gathering. I listened as patiently as a stunted man possibly could and then offered him a stiff cup of tea, which, after his accepting and my preparation, he gulped down within a matter of seconds.

When he returned to my quarters, he was in a dishevelled sate and panting heavily. I made a joke about trousers, but, seeing as it referenced a narrative description of his respiration and not anything that he could physically sense or mentally perceive from the information available, he responded with confusion. I didn't explain, though.

He was a good friend and I liked him. I told him so, taking extra care to convey the platonic and strictly non-romantic nature of this compliment so as not to scare him off. Then, thinking I'd gone too far with this rather soggy outburst, I punched him in the gut and said I was joking.
"So you don't like me?"
"...No, I like you, I suppose."
"So you weren't joking?"
"No, I was joking. But I was telling the truth to some extent too."
"Oh."
There was a sticky pause. I punched him in the gut again and then left bright red.

From your favourite attention-seeking plagiarist,

Stephan Eggberg.

Struck for Epitaph

At someone's request, I will mention Anh Tu's death. Yes, he's dead. In other words, he's officially closed down his blog. I suppose the fervent updating and rigorous grammar checks became too much to bear, and he decided that the only way to save his soul was to relieve himself of this burden in a remote lavatory somewhere. If only all of us, upon sighting a shard of gray, could take such a greasy way out. But drat to that; it's time for remembrance. Here is an extract of one of Anh Tu's more memorable posts:

I was in a bar. A BOHO from BOHEMIA was WANKING into a glass. Fucker. I blew my load. A girl came up to me & asked if I was the guy with the awesome voice in the SPATS & I wiped my pants with her dress and said yes, then she invited me to her apartment & I accepted. What? I'm allowed to compromise my brain for my penis once in a while, YOU FUCKING FUCK FUCK! GO FUCK A CANDLE! As we were leaving the bar a guy came up to us & said "hey, I think you have a really great voice" and I blew my load again. He sponged it off and squeezed it into a jar & sold it off on ebay for $10.50. I was pissed because the jack nicholsons guy got $14 for his. Anyway we went back to her apartment & she said I had the most amazing voice she'd ever heard again & this academic climbed in through the window & said "even though I'm a FUCKING ACADEMIC who doesn't know shit from shit I think you have a Fucking awesome voice I want to cum in your mouth". so anyway, I spit it back in his face and call him a mangy CUNT and then lie down with this girl. During the grind she asks me if I've written any songs and I go limp. I say FUCK YOU! WHY IS EVERYTHING ABOUT SONGS?? WHY CAN'T I HAVE A FUCKING AWESOME VOICE AND NO SONGS?? WHY??. I punch her in the boob and then dive out the window. The academic walks up to me and says 'you don't need any songs. You're a PERFORMANCE ARTIST" and I blow my load again. HE then says he cums everytime I hit a high C and I tell him to shut up and die and he does. Cunt.

Isn't it a shame that his wit will no longer be staining our pants?

Hell Is

Something about eyes that don't listen, wasn't it? Well, sure, that's all very well and good, and all very substantial and profound, but does it really compete with already well-hewn accounts of the Schumann condition? I find abrupt endings tangled in loose threads to be the best way to answer this question.

The Witch Doctor Would Be Better if They Peeled off the Edge Brought on by the Last Chord in the Chorus's Chord Progression

Tomorrow's another day. Hopefully a more rewarding one.

The Bolt from the Blue Goes Back to the Black

Black, of course, being inactivity. I suppose this means he has a life. No one with a life regularly maintains these leaky things, you see. But who needs a life when you've got three paragraphs of badly constructed, half-baked ideas to wrestle with every day? Still, I'm sure there are exceptions. But I'm excluding them for the moment.

A bubbling of clouds first spawned this proper noun and spat him dutifully on a median strip. For the passing, he was but a quirk in the day, and no one stopped to collect this freshly baked creature. Eventually he wisened just enough to place all his weight on his bulging feet and began the long, slow walk to the nearby town. Upon arrival, he was universally adored and bug-eyed shop owners couldn't help but shower him in all sorts of inexpensive gifts. Munching upon the Baker's treat, he made his little way to a small shack by the river and set up shop. A great idea slipped into his ear.

A couple of decades later, he was to the tailoring industry what necessity was to invention, and twice as better off. But he could afford no glue and soon fell apart. Fourteen hours later — or now, to be precise — he is off somewhere doing something. Who knows what? Who knows how? And does anyone care? Well, I'm sure he does. And I'm sure others do too. Oh wait, that was rhetorical.

Um... Oh boy.

Concision!

The following is dedicated to the only person who will get the joke.

Ratings on films are a source of great agitation for me. Who wants to have some crackpot ratings board tell us what we can and can't watch? With the youngens, it should always be up to the parents to decide. Parental Guidance should be the only guidance. In an ideal world, PG would house every film released, and G, M, MA and R would be a distant memory — yet another reason to laugh at the way things used to be done.

Martha's Day

Well, as we all know, I'm a positive weasel when it comes to matters of the heart, particularly when they bypass the ribs, but recently I've delved head first into the published pillow talk of a relatively well known author and have decided my mind, being soiled, needs a change. So how did these dewey worlds stir such an overhaul in my pot? Well, put as simply as I can make it, they showed hitherto cynical me why that peculiar emotion was, to quote an era, all you need, for this author of which I speak also began on the wrong side of our fundamental plague, thinking it a mere infatuation which had been hyperboled to oblivion by inane poets. This all changed, I soon discovered, when he met his then stranger, now wife, Mrs. Roo, and fell hills over mountains into what could only be described as love.

Unfortunately, I didn't have such a miraculous reason to change my morals; rather, I put my faith heavily onto someone else's miraculous reason. But a published author is a published author, and Mr. Roo, if nothing else, was that. And for the moment, I'm going to stick to his words like so much extra-strength name brand glue, my reasoning being that if I embrace this funny habit of ours face first, a wonderful woman will wind up in my clock. To this end, I even started opening my eyes fully on public transport to appear approachable to the fairer sex. A ride for a ride, if you will.

Those embittered by its trappings will no doubt find my prattlings to be further proof of my madness, but I'm hoping that those of the wiser persuasion, with their hearts wedged open in an inviting matter (or wedged shut by a hole-filling spouse), will embrace it with all the warmth of a lover and feed its creator's ego. Right now you are hearing the sound of crossed fingers.

The Times

Despite the actual content of it all — particularly the wretched excuse of directly below —, my recent activities have, I'm proud to say, stomped on Harry's, quantity-wise. His Sundays Are Painful post looms high as sign of defeat; its unchanged position on his page indicating all too vividly that there's been no progress of late. So for the glutton's moment, Harry is Flat Stanley on the footpath, while my hollow, insubstantial but nonetheless tall monument casts out of work actors as shadows across his unstately home. But I shall not gloat, for a winning environment for yours faithfully is a barren environment for the same, and, excepting Harry's recent burst, a barren environment is what it's been for long, long time.

It bubbles down to a self-answering question which most in this field would rather avoid asking: who cares? It's pointless to harp on about lack of activity, as activity for activity's sake is, as I excellently demonstrate, a bunk occupation. And complaining about a lack of activity for activity's sake is an even bunker one, if that were possible. To put it another way, turn the heat up and all that's left are a few charred morsels of insignificance. There's nothing here to set even the most seasoned whiskers on edge, nor will there be, but at least my complaining fills the odd gap in between the usual gunk. And no one really wants other people ending up with awful things like Most Of Al anyway, so perhaps it's a blessing that I'm the only necessity beast.

In lieu of all this, I may even waltz over to Harry's severely squashed form and treat him to a drop of oil. Maybe then he'll squeak right. Still, it makes you wonder, doesn't it? Wonder why I, and, to a lesser extent, anyone, even bother(s). Well, no reason immediately leaps to mind, but perhaps I just want to put some gristle back into people's lives. And what nobler pursuit is there than that?

Most of Al

Well we sat on the edges of each's seat, and we wet for the wait to be whoa whoa-ver, and we et biscuits from a grand jar, whose lid was no more than sheet of glad, and we made a list of things I willn't go into here. And all the while we told each ear that we ain't going nowhere, least of all here. But not that did we each mind about was more on the quaninary side of things for each to tell and all to did well for long. But not how each had mind was going.

And a poorest example of poorest examples was Al's inability to support his firmly. Holed it in pride manner were was various nouvelle quasi men of means and — wait for it — plates o' beans! Each head his meal lain before him like a platter of inspiration. And each had a peach wedged just out of reach. Three rhymes, each banal, and all of the same Latin route, if you'll pardon my Parisian. Well, thirst thing's thirst, and tap's on third. And oh.

Obviously this is one of those carefully planned pieces which never strays near the rushes. I s'ppose it'll have to do.

Gristly Nest

As is the norm and as was our wont, Ben was a-sharing a pot o' tea with me 'round a table set for two. It had been brought into existence just a few minutes earlier after I struck upon the uncanny idea of pouring boiling hot water into a tea pot filled with three scoops of tea and leaving it for a bit. And now we was drinking it.
"The thing is," began Ben, holding his tea cup aloft in contemplation, "you need a unique voice; something to separate you from the masses."
"Go on," went I.
"Well, essentially it boils down to — hey, we're drinking tea! — making something different enough to attract an audience while simultaneously appealing to their already existing notions of humour and/or insight derived from a wide variety of media outlets."
"That's a tricky line to tread," I observed.
"Indeed it is. But if you believe in what you're doing, then, well, it would help, I suppose."
"But do we even need recognition?"
"Well, that's the thing, i'n't it? Would we feel unworthy if we went unnoticed? Would it feel like a waste?"
"No."
"Precisely. I mean, if we really wanted attention, we could frock up in trench-coats and thrust into the breeze."
"And we do that anyway."
"We do. Thus our real goal in all this should be to go completely unnoticed."
"It's a deal. And this way, we don't need to change our approach one bit."
"Exactly right, Hump."

It was a rip-snorting success.

Lukewarm Cup o' Kettle

Well, I was going to write about a lovely cup of tea, but Harry's been clawing my shins all morning because of his exclusion from the previous edition, so I'm going to shine the spot on his stage for a mome. He's had his site since April 2005. Swell. He's white. True. He believes that the term "on a plane" should be extricated from everyday use in favour of "in a plane", unless the person in question is actually atop the plane itself. Very true. He will eventually marry a globule. Indeed.

Oddly 'nough, he left a shoe on my doorstep yesterday.
"I've come to fetch my shoe," he explained later.
Soon the topic turned to stone.
"I've found that a big slab is the most visually appealing. Especially in the middle of the garden."
"But it's stone. Won't it rust?"
"Silly Hugh. Stone isn't a metal."
"Then why do stoners listen to metal?"
"BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!! That doesn't even make sense."
"I know."
"Idiot."

An hour or so after this, Ben popped up from behind a bush.
"That used to be me," he said, pointing rudely at Harry.
"It can be you again," said Harry. "I've been waiting for an excuse."
"Have you? Well, the bush is free, if you don't mind the odd twig in the thigh."
"Actually, I find it helps a lot. Excuse me."
And he leapt into the bush.

A further passing of time later, I was back in my train and visually undressing the back of passengers' heads.

Every Birth Has Its Day

Well here I am. It was a year ago today when I first dipped my face in the newsprint and stamped out a new waste. And judging by the facts, I fell approximately 126 editions short of a once a day average, clocking in at a measly 239 at the time of printing. That figure is, however, misleading, as its disappointing height on the numerical scale can mostly be attributed to a rather unfortunate slump which reared its tail here and there. And its impressiveness is significantly increased when you compare it with a contemporary of mine named Tom, who only managed 16 posts for the year, meaning I wrote 14.9375 times as much as he did. Yep, with good ol' Tom there was a 4% chance of him updating, whereas with me there was a comfortable 65% chance. And the less said about Anh Tu's 2%, the shorter.

Ben, however, has been overlooked, as I can't be bothered doing a tally o'er there, but I'm guessing it was a fairly healthy amount. To compensate, I'm giving him his own paragraph.

So what have I learned?

I'm nothing much.

Eleven in All

For the oompteenth time, I'm dredging out another one of these — hopefully for the last time. There've been a few changes, pups. Not least that there's now eleven. Oh, I should also point out the fact that I'm shamelessly destroying the past and reallocating it. I'm sure you can deal with that. (Unremorsefully edited two-thousand seven.)

The Lamb Ran Away with the Clown

Half a tin of oil, I've noticed, is all it takes to convince a flabby circus to pull the pegs, which is something, believe it or else, that happens with frightening regularity — if I can be so mindless as to use that phrase. Now, I don't suppose this is the kind of going on that goes on around your neck of the woods, but down here where the grass is dust, it's as common as complacency. Every so Easter and every so Christmas and every so anything, that disgusting bulb of a truck, with its vertebrate of grubby trailers and motor-biking masters of ceremony, rolls red into town and sprays obnoxious waves of sound 360 and 247. And upon witnessing any of their assaults on the senses, I lift my leg, let out a great sigh and reach for the nearest oil canister.

The problem is, of course, that they never get the picture. No matter how many times I combat the fax machine or mail them a frame, they still seem to get the impression that someone in our earthly pit is positively four feet off the ground at the thought of their arrival. Now, I don't pretend to speak for everyone, but I think I speak for most of them when I say that nobody here wants those unwashed peculiars fumbling about with rubber balls and the backs of elephants in our humble pillow town. And yet despite this, I seem to be the only one who bothers to oil them out whenever Mr. and Mrs. Backward light up with the bright idea of returning to a profitless place of unwelcome.

Though shooing them off is a relatively simple task, there is always a significant amount of debris left to sort out. And the war raged in my guts usually falls to the side of the broom and I have to do it all myself. On average, this takes around two days to complete, and by the end of it I'm as flat as a balloon manufactured with a hole in it, and twice as useless. And it takes the better part of a week before the gusts can pick me up again. I'll probably die in about five years.

Overgrown and Breadsticks

So sore I am from last night's pounding that to even attempt any significant physical movement would be suicidal. Indeed when I did, out of necessity, try to move one of my limbs earlier, a wave of truly immobilising pain rushed across my person and splayed me against the rocks of stupidity. Thus here I am, face up on my bed with my eyes peeled to the ceiling and my ankles throbbing. And I'm in no position to publish the latest article, not least because I don't have access to any writing materials or a computer. So really, I can't do anything but lie here. How unfortunate.

I wouldn't mind if one of you would float above me on the ceiling at the moment, actually. Spice things up a spot. We could have a decent chat about all things improbable. No pressure, but hmm. It would be nice.

Grant McLennan: He Was The Greatest

Well, no he wasn't, but he did some good things. And he's dead. Two years before gut-fifty. On a brighter note, there are a whole lot of people who aren't dead yet. Including yours truly — at the time of writing — and you. Funnily enough, the 'you' to whom I refer will always be alive, whereas the 'me' who conjured up these sickly words under a fat lack of scrutiny does not have that debatably desirable immortality. Then again, it's not likely anyone will read this gunk after my passing, so for all intents and purposes, I'm a mortal.

Now down a key. Today, I rode my push-bike to the library and spent my afternoon immersed in literature. But soon the brochures grew tiresome, so I progressed through the slidey doors into the main bulk of the library, the place where the books are kept. I read one in present tense. Me being inside the camping equipment I got for my birthday and it being a solitary number, this activity in itself didn't take up any significant amount of time. But when you take into consideration some other factors, then perhaps.

Sorry, third paragraphs only get a line these days.

In the Gravy

For those of you not firmly in the know, the bottom rung of this here (or that there, depending on what angle you're reading this on) ladder is currently occupied by Pinter. Why? Well, updates are, of course, infrequent, and the subject matter, rather than subscribing to the dry and withdrawn school, is wet and deposited. But the main reason is that Harry is the one who discovered the site in the first place, so it is in a position of discomfort that I put Pinter there at all. He has told me on numerous occasions to back off, so I feel I should satisfy him by at least ranking her on the ladder, but not so high as to suggest I have my tongue flapping in her breeze. By placing her on the bottom, I am only acknowledging her existence, and not investing any effort into ogling her person.

It is clear from her posts that Pinter is going through a rather tough trot at the moment, so Harry's pursuit of her favour must be undertaken in the gentlest of manners. In short, he must appear as though he has no romantic interest in her, which, at least in theory, should be the easy part. Where it lands in the rough is where mere friendship is supposed to blossom into full-bosomed love, not a certainty under any circumstances, and especially not here. The fact that Pinter resides in Wales and Harry in Melbourne should give him some comfort, as this will at least fill the 'Hi, I'm not interested in you' metre.

I'm sure we'll all have eyes lodged at his inn to see how this pans out.

My Grand Opening

Henceforth, I'll cut cloth at least once a day, or equivalent of. Those last few boasts were just to test the waters. Now 'ere I am, ready to slice my belly and spill my guts — no doubt in the shape of 'What I did on the weekend' variations — onto your carpet eyes, and bidding you to take a good long peek at my grand opening and remember it as the start of the New Wave. Of course, prior experience may have filled you to the brim with cynicism, but I assure that from here on in, I will endeavor to drink every last drop of doubt that sweats off your collective skin.

Now that I have a contemporary, I can kick into first gear and roar off down the gravel strip waving a five-fingered salute to the back of my spoiler. I'll be even faster than that Indian. And no matter how many stops you make, you won't be able to crawl out of the pit of second place and below, and you'll be stuck a greasy hobo until you heave up enough evil to have me shredded.

Off I go.

Brisk Novelties

No doubt inspired by/stolen from Ben's latest theme, here's a novel I once started without an idea in mind, as per, which only works providing I don't finish it.

Once, it has to be said, something was something. Otherwise, and in great detail – or lack thereof – things tend to drift and float without much thought or, indeed, anything at all. Globules of nothing pervade everything – it must be said. That, or this if you will, is much to the opinion of the thinker; and no one person can hold nature’s law in their jaws – however much they try. In other words, buckle up for another 200 pages of this rubbish.