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.

Spit and Polish

Tom And The Pole Cats have, at long last, shown a fruit of their labour. It's in the form of a birthday song. Will this ear-teaser lead to a full length LP? Well, that's unlikely, but at the very least I'm hoping this isn't a swan song. And just for the record, it seems I can no longer be bribed with non-blog related treats, so Tom doesn't climb any rungs on the back of this alone. He did, however, post recently, but it was an incredibly brief sentence which didn't indicate a renaissance in any way.

The song itself indeed showed potential, but he'll have to produce more for him to be signed to Bucket Men's label.

A song with my name in the title didn't rocket its creator to the top of the ladder. What is the world coming to?

He, You, Hey, Mill, Ten

Well, an hour ago's day was standard. Things happened. I bought my dog a pillow. Good excuse, huh?

Think Hollow

There's been poison poured on many a road before mine, but mine's the windiest, and thus deserves greater attention and affection. So get ready to pour when I tell you my brightest secret.

I'm whole.

Last of the Summer Whine

Actually, make that the next one.

Don't Need Another Set Alight: Why Burning People Shouldn't be Tolerated

I was hovering above my next of kin one day when a bird the size of an apple flew in through the boarded-up window and air kissed me. It was all innocent at first, of course, but eventually I flapped the hell out of that bird and we raised hell together. We didn't raise it very well, mind you, hence the name, so it was allocated the bottom, 'bad people' spot in the afterlife hierarchy. We were so ashamed we threw ourselves off lovers' bluff. But the bitch could fly so only I died.

Chapel Box

This is to everyone who has a wind-up bird inside them.

Goodnight, and sorry about that wind-up bird I put inside you.

To Climb Silly Rituals

I was caught with foil and chocolate in the theatre, which means this is my last post as a toon who looks a twoon. Soon I'll be a tee who looks a twoon. And still will I be with obscure and fattening monuments celebrating someone I don't care for. Nor whose existence is confirmed. I'm in the wrong place. But let's not sit and say "This generation is the worst" while wiping an angry tear. Let's instead ignore everything. Every fucking thing. Especially profanities. Only jesters use 'em. And jesters, like comedians, are lousy cunts. Swearing isn't funny. Nor is this. And this generation is nothing. No generation was anything. Nothing is anything. Nihilism is less. People are grand. People aren't. Things change oft. I'm a prophet. I know things we know but more so. I know when to end. I know that there's only one more sentence to go. And this is it.

Thursday's Unhappy Bath

I'd dip my toe in first. Just to see if it was wet. It was. I did. I usually don't listen to my toe's findings and slide in regardless (feet first, as is the norm), so that little technique isn't particularly useful. Then I stare up at the tiles and see how far I've reached with each passing year. The first 16 in the row are cheating — this is a fairly recent habit, after all — but necessary in depicting my bathroom tile progress filtered through human age. When there's a decent amount (fingers crossed), I'll be dead. I wonder if I'll have achieved anything? Probably not. I wonder if I'll have found someone? Probably not. Well, if that was the case, maybe I killed myself. Maybe in the bath too.

Right now I'm staring up at the ceiling above the bath and thinking, "When will things, like me, look up?". Would it be ironic if I died right now because the laptop on which I'm writing this gunk fell in the bath? Hopefully just after I click "Publish post". Well, maybe more fitting than ironic.

Startin' From...

Whenever it is I begin to achieve this goal.

Grind the Pears and Spill the Letters

Bonfires as grand as fleece lit my path with ease. But I didn't take any, as they were all lowercase and I'm into the harder stuff. Nevertheless, I tucked the sock back into the drawer and sucked down the rest of my pillow. The onlookers — all sweaty — came and went. And looked. And went.

Life's lessons have a habit of creeping up on you at your most incoherent. Evidently not here, though.

Flushed from Success, a Boy of Two Decades Decides That Now, Not the Handful of Thens, is the Right Time to Start up the Engine Again

And here signals the first stop on an infinite journey by train. And by infinite I mean finite. Still, my fingers'll be clockwork till the tomb, and perhaps even keep the beat when I'm floating massless in a void with my lovely. Bye, babes.

Lilly Thinkers

Th's mornin' I was porting m'self a cup o' steamin' brow'. Not fo' long, mine you, as rilly, it only takes arrant five seconds ta fill th' cup — if that, so don go thinkin' that's 'ow I spen' m'whole mornin'. Bu' i' was what I was doing wh'n Lilly woked into my live. Oh 'ow beaut'ful she was! 'Air like pearly silk, skin like flesh, and bits like big. I was'n love. I stark out m'hand to 'ers and we torched each author. And lemming tells ya, boys, she fell so nice! Not only was she pleasin' to the eye, but to th' hans as well. Is dare a more heavily compilation? Anyway, we two got to talkin' pity soon afte' that, and turns out she's caught a grade mind too. We talk'd fa ours and ours. She's a fun bun, all ride.

In chap' two, I toll you 'bout my mistrust, who's a lov'ly lady when the Mormon's right, but is not too crash halt when it isn't. An' I toll you 'bout her 'abit fur not gong starkers at th' time when y'think moist people sh'd be. Anyway, Lill's not lark that. She weaped off 'er dressin' gow' beaver I even took off m'socks! Was a lov'ly s'prise, let me tell you. And, if you'll park on my friends, we forked like rabids. Not in the sends that we gore dow' on or fours or anythin', but in the sends th' it was excitin' and bashin' it. That's wort they mean with the 'ole rabid fing, ride? Anyway, whatever. We had a want her full dime.

Thirty yeahs later, I married th' beach. That's 'ow love works, boys. It's as symbol as that. And on a person'l level, we godda care chew a woman.

Respectable Sheet

Once a day! Once a day! You didn't think it could be done. And yet here I am, four days after my last post, posting. The stamina that keeps these fingers in check must be awesome. And yes, it is. Fresh dipping water by the keys is the key. And a stretch on Mond'ys. It's funny how the world works. Not to you, obviously, but to me.

The Wounded Boy Returns!

I aimed around the bowl. Yes, like Ptolemy, I had a silent pee.

Gee, this is good stuff!

Finger Up Date

Well, seeing as no one else is going to do it, I'll be the next set of features to splurge my insets into the spider mail. And yes, from here on in (not there on in, as I previously let on) I will stick 'em up once a day! Yes, I'm so determined, I even used an exclamation mark. Perhaps to mark my words, as I'm advising all of you to do (i.e. not just your limbs or torso). Well, cheerio, lads of the lamp. I'll be here, like the block I am, tapping away with my steel-toed fingers and providing regular updates on The Human Condition™, because sometimes only the force of a doctor's dedication up its outlet can keep the bugger from excess.

The Flat Season

Today I bought three pounds of coffee in a big brown cup and melted it down with a blowtorch. I then shared it with my closest friends (if you weren't there, you're not one of them*) and shattered the cup on the terrace below. Bucked principles prevented me from going on.

*Who's to say, though?

Worth Puppies

Perhaps four clerical spheres on my nose was overkill. I looked a fool.
"You look lacking," said a patient observer.
I swung my pained expression around to his and he swallowed nervously. Four fat flowers swayed in the breeze behind us.
"I know," I said aloud, arching my eyebrows to create an even more pained expression and allowing a stream of gunk to flow down from my left nostril.
"Would you like the key to my tissue factory?" asked the man sympathetically.
"I would," I said. "Thank you."

Being somewhat out of range of my mother's sleeves, I was forced to resort to messily wiping my nose on the right shoulder of my T-shirt, which was soon caked in a thin layer of mucus reminiscent of a snail trail and glinting controversially in the daylight. But despite this, I succeeded in arriving at the steel marble doors of the tissue factory and even managed to fulfill the key's potential. Inside I found box upon box of low to medium quality temporary sneeze sheets, an exposed wall of which I dived into nose first and relieved myself.

"Bless you," came a voice to the south.
I turned to face its maker.
"Thanks," I said.
"But why don't you just come out with it?" it asked.
"Come out with what?"
"Your meeting with the fingers you'll eventually ring."
"Because someone keeps trying to half-obscure it."

Yes, I found me some fingers.

Well I Wonder

This time there's but 15 between. And in my line of site is a green pipe. Things with feathers flutter in and out of low trees and bushes. A ladder divides the window. Such things, it could be argued, are mere decorations and are insignificant in the grand scheme of fings, but they do serve to provide a clear, if uninteresting, picture of the supposed habitat of the author. Yes, that's me. Author Lee. Shall I go on?

She Wore a Rasberry

The Thames was eaten up by two cackling witch banks this time last Thursday. I stood, glum as usual, on a pedestal made from four oak columns and watched the glorious bleak liquid wash away. It was an inspiring sight, I tell you! Immediately afterwards, I ran a forty-minute mile (as I was in England) and arrived by legs at Central Park™, where I stopped in for quickie and returned to the slippery and flat slopes of Thornbury with the aforementioned cup of steaming brown. Soon I found myself, after playing a brief game of solo hide and seek, in the black and white district and decided to stop in on my old. Opening the door a crack, I transformed back into a human to enter and pay my respects to the lumpy creature who will take over my body when I reach forty. It, however, was too busy juggling two wildlife channels to notice me, and I slipped quietly outside again. Picking myself up off the ground and cursing the bastard who spilt ten gallons of Pepsi Max™ on the stairs, I left, humbled, and made my way to the next paragraph.

As it was that time of the month, I headed across town to my estranged wife, who I ignored by pretending to be interested in my 8 year old daughter's blabberings about the oh-so interesting goings on of the passed few years, and gave her a letter. She sighed and put the "H" in the waste paper bin, from which a familiar stench was emanating, and I jogged out of sight.

Four years later, I decided to become a man in prison who liked birds.

Viva la Prince!

Pre-Easter Shuffle

These posts about ladder changes soon become redundant, so I'm not going to say anything. Except maybe "Oh how Step-head and Blankety eat alluring eggs in the palace".

Top of the Pile to Ya

What can I say? I respond well to bribery.

Woes from the Deep

"Somewhere out there in the big blue is the girl for you," I said neatly.
Harry crossed his arms and exhaled loudly through his nose.
"Can't you be more specific?" he moped.
"Nope," I answered flatly. "I'm no palm wrangler. All I know is that your current run of ducks will soon seem benign when you've swept them away to make room for the true Mrs. Harry, with whom you'll spawn and spend life."
I slid over to accommodate my wife on the thrown and we intwined.
"I wish I could believe you," said Harry.
"I wish you could too. But the proof is before your eyes."
"Oh, you mean the Es after the Cs?"
"No, I mean this wonderful creature nuzzled up against me. I used to think things were pretty dire on the vagina front, you see, but then, out of that big blue I mentioned earlier, came her and now life's a lovely peach."
"Wait, when was this? I don't remember seeing you with any girls in like... ever."
"Oh, well you haven't seen me with her yet. That won't be for a while. In fact, I haven't even met her yet. But she will be there."
"What, you just have an inkling then?"
"No, it's much more than that. I am completely confident. There's not a doubt in my head that it won't happen. And besides, she's here now."
I leaned over and kissed her left cheek.
"If you say so," said Harry.
"It's true," said my wife. "We will meet somewhere and begin living the wonderful life we're living now."
"Love at first sight, huh?" snapped Harry cynically.
"Something like that," I replied, ignoring his inflection. "And the same thing will happen to you."
"Well, I hope so," said Harry doubtfully, "but for now I'll have to be satisfied with a sniff of the waste paper bin."

And with that he left. I shrugged sympathetically and handed my love a spritz.

Hard Reign Fell

Once again I'm using a slightly altered top as an excuse to boast my rumoured roots. Once again I'm ridding thyself of prior peculiarities. But babe, I'm not lying. I'd quote current affairs, but it'd further lower the tone.

Mister Spot

Does this count? Good.

Harry's Spurt

Where's this sudden handful of consistency sprung from? Perhaps his failure to hit it off with the Misses has something to do with it. Or perhaps he's just found another use for his fingers. Whatever the reason, things are popping from his chords with peculiar regularity. Today, at least. Tomorrow the traffic will probably be a lot less clustered, as he and Billie are attending a Salvation Army™ sex education class at the public library. Still, we can at least look forward to a lengthy anecdote on how that turned out when he gets home.

A Dabble of Insecticide Behind the Index

And everything turns out well. Try it and you'll see. Great buildings will compliment your clothes. Feasts will all be doggy-bagged for your convenience. And Harry will show you his secret stash of contraceptives.

Things in Chairs

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 conclusion and beginning to this piece, which ranked among the very worst things I have written, have both been deleted. The beginning concerned the King and myself and was highly uninspired, while the conclusion revolved around Ben and I sandwiching a prostitute. That latter was the most notable offender, being both unfunny and off-putting. I hope Ben appreciates this censorship.]

A Greedy Moniker for Witchcraft and Such

Little by little he polished the kettle and varnished the buckles on his pilgrim shoes. In sixty minutes he was due to appear and switch into a competent, repetitive routine which would see him to the end of the week, but he looked ill-prepared and sickly sweet, as though he was mud-wrestling with an internal dilemma. A handful of minutes passed cautiously and left 25 before the trip. He cashed in the remaining time by looking out the window and squeezing ambitious plans into his leisure hours which would inevitably go unfulfilled.

As the day brightened, his mood sunk over the horizon and he saw B-grade stars. Eventually an overdue bell rung, and he was mildly enlightened to be reversing the morning's journey. Home was soon where his heart, along with the rest of his internal organs and his body, was, and he slunk like a washed out spring in a grand armchair and fell asleep. He awoke to the sound of something and punched himself in the leg.

And that, fortunately, was that.

Bedstop Noting

For considerate attire to launch a thousand spectacles, one must first consider which wardrobe to rustle, and which colour to shade. Personally, I'd go with something fetching.

Tuba Cheeks

People, I have noticed, are only truly alive when their hearts are beating and their brains work, otherwise they may as well be dead. But this distinction, for whatever reason, does not apply to the exempt, so you can't just use it as a casual aside without boring your audience with a lengthly footnote. Well, you can, but I'd advise against it.

Have you ever seen a flower vomit? That's 'cause they can't. But if they could, I envisage it resembling a myriad of off-white colours gushing from its weird genitals and glinting handsomely in the sun. Well, it's the same with people. Hearts + brains = people. Oh, and white = not really a colour. If this all seems a tad odd, it's because I'm writing this on a train, and spray paint coupled with the terror of being caught doesn't add up to the most coherent of thought brews. As a cover up, that's akin to urinating in a puddle, but I thought I should point it out anyway.

How cool are those books that end with "The Beginning"?

Timely Pledge

Quasimodo dreamt of me once. I was wearing a silk robe and I had softcore biceps. The wind kept revealing my bits. But no matter what position or garb he dreamt of me in, I was always rigidly sticking to the daily mail, so I've decided that it's once again time for me to break open the quota and slap its yellow reminder to the box. Once a day (or equivalent of).

200th Anniversary Special

Back when the bloat was but a breath, I chiselled my posts on stone tablets and mailed them off around the world in search of potential readers. Now that may be hard to swallow, but I assure you, it's more or less (in this case, less) true, and it will be quite beneficial in the long run. Of course, once it's dissolving in your belly, it's too late for you to dictate content or even ripple ideas through the sub-editors, so you pretty much have to hold on until you release — though it's still worth shoving a few fingers down your throat from time to time on the off-chance that the gag wears fat and heaves up the horrible stew once and for all. Either way.

A scruffy writer waltzed into my office with a proud piece of foolscap and said two words: "Cover story". Sceptical, I peered down at the handsome sheet, which was as follows:

Thanks to a baffling demotion, my boss was under me. I misread the instruction sheet that came with my shield, you see. Anyway, I was fretting about launching into the annual battlefield recreation event tomorrow when my phone ran. It made it as far as the market, where it was cornered by two adjoining walls and returned unharmed to my tenderloin hook.

I sighed and signalled his exit. The next wordsmith in my office was much more clinically groomed, and he handed in his piece with warm humility and even a touch of grace.

Life sickens me. I'm gonna go wank.

"Better," I said. "But no."

The last one was some jerky post-modern piece, but, having no better option, I went with it. And besides, two sentences is much too bloated for insightful social commentary.