Right, that's it.
I've tried to think about what I'm going to write, but I keep getting bored. So all the interesting thoughts I've had, all the funny scenarios, all the points I long to make will have to go by the wayside.
I have to write things as I think of them, or I lose patience. I think this might be the beginnings of a genuine personality disorder. The trouble is, it encourages loads of jokes in the vein of: "I've tried to think about being easily distracted, but I can't keep my mind on it". In fact I'm sure I've made similar jokes before. So, first thing's first, there'll be none of that if I can help it.
Writing spontaneously is quite exciting. It feels like going round a blind turn in the road, after which there may be a lorry heading right towards me, or a supermodel calender shoot. Lorry-load of supermodels plummeting to their deaths.
I have to be quick. If I pause for too long, my thoughts might catch up with me. I can't write anything considered, I just have to keep on typing.
So, if this seems rambling, it's because it is. Although 'rambling' connotes something too sedate. It's really more like a frenzied run through the jungle, hacking desperately with a machete. My thoughts are right behind me, and they're fast. Luckily, I've just had a big coffee, so I have the energy to sprint away.
Uh-oh.
He's behind me.
And now I'm thinking about things.
Oh God. Really? That's what you think? I can't write that. It's so boring.
Quick, Paul, sprint off again! What about a remake of Yes, Minister, set in the Napoleonic Wars?
That's no good. (You can tell I'm not editing that, because that was a shit idea).
What about the government installing a siren that is sounded at random intervals during the day? And whenever you hear it, you've got to draw a picture of an owl with charcoal.
Shit. My thoughts are catching up again. If I wait too long, I'll realise this is nonsense and delete it all. I need to run to the 'Publish Post' button, which is over there in the distance, bu that outcrop of rocks. The trouble is, there's a rickety bridge I need to cross, and I'm carrying a Grand Piano that belonged to Lenny Bruce. The idiot! Why didn't he play the banjo?
At this point, my mind caught up. Sorry, Paul. No more of this nonsense. I'll leave it here for posterity, though. It gives an important insight into my madness.
As I'm now rational, I'll share an email, which (as well as being insane) summarizes my indecision in one word: StickyKeys:
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 29 July 2008 16:43
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Things and things
Well, I'm bored now. I've had enough.
Hey, have you every turned StickyKeys on? I don't really know what it is, but you turn it on by pressing 'shift' loads of times in a row. I do it a lot, because I often can't decide how to begin a sentence.
Can I just waste time for the last half an hour?
Maybe I can write this for half an hour.
It would be good if you could turn StickyKeys on in the real world, as well as word processing.
If you were really indecisive (as we both were), and you went from thinking we should get pizza to thinking we probably shouldn't get pizza too many times, a big sign appears in the sky saying 'Changing your mind too many times turns on StickyKeys!' and it could also be read out in a booming Eastern-European voice.
And we'd be a bit worried, but mostly curious.
"What are StickyKeys?"
We'd think that, then vocalise it softly, then shout it at the heavens. But nothing would happen.
Life would go on as usual. Generally, things would be the same. Perhaps there would be a nagging worry in the back of our heads about the whole StickyKeys thing. But time would move on.
Years later, we may have started a family, moved to a different country, got jobs working as academics or pool boys.
Then, one day, we'd here the sound of something immense, thundering towards us over the horizon. A massive shadow would darken the neighbourhood. We'd be frozen. Transfixed. But somewhere we'd feel that this was inevitable.
StickyKeys.
They'd bomb down from the heavens, key-chain manically fluttering behind them like a dragon's tail. Giant keys smeared in treacle. We'd know it without even looking.
Run, we'd say. And we would run. But not fast enough. Not fast enough to outrun the giant metal birds, their sharp teeth dripping with adhesive.
Making a final descent, like some rusty pteradactyl, they'd strike, pressing themselves to us. We'd be trapped, our arms and legs bound by the treacle. The keys would spiral upwards - fast, faster. The key chain would rattle like the laughter of a dying god. The g-force would pound our faces into taut flaps.
As the oxygen thinned we'd begin to black out, the scream of the wind fading in our ears.
And like pin-hole light, we'd hear the Eastern-European voice:
"That'll teach you to be indecisive!".
---------------
We wake simultaneously. Just a dream we think to ourselves, knowing the truth. Shall we get up or stay in bed, one asks.
I.
Don't
Fucking.
Know.
Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
H-E-Double-Hockey Sticks
I wonder why we don't get used to the annoying and depressing bits of life. Work is always depressing. People are idiots. The tabloids talk rubbish. TV is shit.
And yet, we always take it hard. It's a personal slight. Every time it happens, it seems like a betrayal.
We should realise the usual standard of things and adjust our expectations accordingly.
Whenever we're faced with something bad, like having to empty the kitchen bin, we should think: "Oh yeah. That's no big shock. After all it is a regular (albeit slightly unpleasant) occurrence. Never mind."
But we don't do that. I don't anyway. I just groan like Charlie Brown - cursing the injustice of it all.
It's not as though we've lived a previous life with no toe-stubbing, no washing-up, no Jeremy Kyle, that makes this one seem tortuous by comparison. We've got no excuse.
It's the equivalent of living in Hell, and every day your neighbour comes up to you and says: "It's really hot in here."
No fucking shit.
"Yeah, really hot. Too hot for me. It's uncomfortable."
And you say "Yeah. It's hot. It's always hot. It's Hell. What are you expecting? It's been like this forever. We're not going to get a day of unseasonable coolness. A cold day in Hell is legendarily uncommon."
And your neighbour, not really taking any of this in, would look at his arm pits and smell them.
"Muggy, too," he says, fanning himself with fat hands. "Close. Stifling. Some people may like it. Subathers. But not me."
You rub your eyes in cartoonish exasperation. "John. For fuck's sake. We go through this EVERY DAY. It's always hot. Why are you surprised?"
He picks his teeth. "Yeah, I'm roasting. The heat is the worst thing about this place." He picks a chunk of something out if his cheek, examines it closely, then flicks it onto your carpet. "Except for the demons and torture. But the heat doesn't help, that's for sure."
"Stop complaining! We've been here for eternity! This is an eternal experience! We have always been here and always will. How have you not got used to the climate yet?!"
"Well," says John, putting his seared feet on your coffee table, "that raises an interesting debate. I mean, admittedly, Hell is eternal. But we did used to have mortal lives at some point. We lived on Earth. So there must have been a point at which this experience began."
You try to think of something to say, but he's in full swing.
"You're right that eternity must, by its very nature, stretch infinitely both ways: into the future and the past, but where does our mortal lives fit in? Did we come from a different time continuum altogether? Is eternal damnation just infinite between two points, but not all-encompassing? Is it just one holy, infinite string among many? Millions? An infinite number of strings, weaved into an omni-cloth? And where does that omni-cloth fit? In an infinite Debenhams on an infinite high street in Infinity City (InfinCity)?"
And you put the kettle on and say: "John. We went through this yesterday."
All the while one thought is going through your head:
"Hell is fucking annoying".
***
Edit - 23/11/08 - Audio Version
And yet, we always take it hard. It's a personal slight. Every time it happens, it seems like a betrayal.
We should realise the usual standard of things and adjust our expectations accordingly.
Whenever we're faced with something bad, like having to empty the kitchen bin, we should think: "Oh yeah. That's no big shock. After all it is a regular (albeit slightly unpleasant) occurrence. Never mind."
But we don't do that. I don't anyway. I just groan like Charlie Brown - cursing the injustice of it all.
It's not as though we've lived a previous life with no toe-stubbing, no washing-up, no Jeremy Kyle, that makes this one seem tortuous by comparison. We've got no excuse.
It's the equivalent of living in Hell, and every day your neighbour comes up to you and says: "It's really hot in here."
No fucking shit.
"Yeah, really hot. Too hot for me. It's uncomfortable."
And you say "Yeah. It's hot. It's always hot. It's Hell. What are you expecting? It's been like this forever. We're not going to get a day of unseasonable coolness. A cold day in Hell is legendarily uncommon."
And your neighbour, not really taking any of this in, would look at his arm pits and smell them.
"Muggy, too," he says, fanning himself with fat hands. "Close. Stifling. Some people may like it. Subathers. But not me."
You rub your eyes in cartoonish exasperation. "John. For fuck's sake. We go through this EVERY DAY. It's always hot. Why are you surprised?"
He picks his teeth. "Yeah, I'm roasting. The heat is the worst thing about this place." He picks a chunk of something out if his cheek, examines it closely, then flicks it onto your carpet. "Except for the demons and torture. But the heat doesn't help, that's for sure."
"Stop complaining! We've been here for eternity! This is an eternal experience! We have always been here and always will. How have you not got used to the climate yet?!"
"Well," says John, putting his seared feet on your coffee table, "that raises an interesting debate. I mean, admittedly, Hell is eternal. But we did used to have mortal lives at some point. We lived on Earth. So there must have been a point at which this experience began."
You try to think of something to say, but he's in full swing.
"You're right that eternity must, by its very nature, stretch infinitely both ways: into the future and the past, but where does our mortal lives fit in? Did we come from a different time continuum altogether? Is eternal damnation just infinite between two points, but not all-encompassing? Is it just one holy, infinite string among many? Millions? An infinite number of strings, weaved into an omni-cloth? And where does that omni-cloth fit? In an infinite Debenhams on an infinite high street in Infinity City (InfinCity)?"
And you put the kettle on and say: "John. We went through this yesterday."
All the while one thought is going through your head:
"Hell is fucking annoying".
***
Edit - 23/11/08 - Audio Version
Sunday, 20 July 2008
Big Fruit
The other day, I was thinking about James and the Giant Peach. I'm sure we all do every couple of weeks.I was a big Roald Dahl fan growing up, and JATGP (as it's sometimes known) is a good one. I like that his parents get eaten by a rhinoceros in the second paragraph. That's a good opening to a story. Although, even as a child, I was sceptical about whether a rhino could eat two people. Firstly, their mouths are too small. Secondly, they're herbivores. Even if a rhino was driven mad my captivity, it would still probably not eat people. Kill, sure. But not eat. Then again, Dahl had been to Africa, so I'm sure he knew what he was talking about.
What I was thinking about was a particular bit in the story. I don't know why it sprang to mind, given that I hadn't read the book in years, but I started thinking about the little weird man that appears in James's garden.
If you don't know the plot (spoilers!), he basically gives James a paper-bag full of weird magic gem-things. He tells James to add some of his own hair and the gems to a jug of water, and down it. Fantastic things are promised. James, seeking a way out of his tortuous life with his twisted aunts, thinks this is a good idea. But he trips over on his way to the kitchen, drops the bag, and the gems go everywhere, burrowing into the ground. James tries to recover them, but can't. They then go on to cause the whole talking insect/giant peach adventure.
Anyway, I was thinking about this bit. And a couple of things came to mind.
1) What was this creepy man doing in the garden? He's obviously magic. The description suggests a leprechaun. But this event isn't giving a good example to children, is it Mr Dahl? The author is telling us that if a weird, bearded stranger offers you sweets, you should take them. What if they contained rohypnol?
Which brings me to:
2) What would have happened if James did swallow the green things? What if he'd downed them as requested? It would be funny if they were just sedatives, and the little man was getting ready for some orphan-abuse, and the whole giant peach thing was just a mistake. He was probably kicking himself.
But even if his intentions were good, what would have happened to James? The insects that swallowed the gems grew to human-size and acquired human intelligence. Would James also grow? Maybe he'd turn into a Godzilla-like creature, destroying his aunts with eye-lazers and exterminating the planet's rhino population. Maybe he'd become a God. That would have been a better book - James's attempts to cope with omnipotence.
Anyway, I was pondering this for a while, and then found that we had a copy of the book in the house. It was the copy that I'd read as a child. And the thing that hit me first was how creepy the illustrations were.As I haven't got a scanner, I had to do a google search, and found these via someone's blog (http://racheltrobertson.blogspot.com/). I hope she doesn't mind this thievery!
I always liked consistency when I was a child (I still do, in fact), so I'm sure I was a bit annoyed by the fact that this book's illustrations were not done by Dahl mainstay Quentin Blake. But these pictures are pretty damn cool - proper fairytale pictures.The artist is Nancy Ekholm Burkert.
The world of children's fiction is such a bizarre one. It's weird that we introduce kids to such odd and frightening worlds before they've even got used to this one. Maybe that's the goal: to provide them with such horror and insanity that the real world doesn't seem so bad by comparison.
Unfortunately, I couldn't find the scariest ones online. Here's a poor-quality photo I took with my phone camera. The aunts look like something from Evil Dead.
I used to read so much more when I was a child. I think my attention span must have been at its longest. But I'm pleased we were encouraged to read such warped things. The world of Roald Dahl is like a twisted nightmare, but it's good that children are introduced to art and fantasy and imagination early. Surely it's more important than learning fractions.
If our education was two-thirds imagination, one-third affection, and three-fifths algebra, the world would be a better place.
Thursday, 17 July 2008
SuperCrazyRocketshipFunTime!
Here's my attempt at a dirty limerick:
There once was a girl named Regina
Who was born with a liquorice vagina
Coping well with the stress
She became a success
And didn't let her condition define her
It's a feminist parable. I'm like Germaine Greer in lots of ways...
***
I tried to write an entry yesterday, but I was bored.
Utterly, profoundly bored. I was bored on a fundamental level. It was a deep, physical boredom that penetrated my very being. Even my organs were bored, doing the same old job. My heart wanted to breathe. My lungs wanted to hear. My kidneys wanted to yodel - so bored was I.
It wasn't a trivial boredom. It was a heavy, depressing shroud. I could easily imagine someone committing suicide because of boredom. It would have to be something quick. None of this tedious sitting in a garage full of fumes. Slit wrists? Forget about it. I'd lose patience halfway through and turn on the telly. Hanging? Boring.
Of course death would be the ultimate in boredom. Imagine killing youself out of boredom, and then realising that you were still conscious after death, but stuck in your body. Same old coffin, same old view. Now that's boring.
So, yesterday, I was bored. Did I mention that?
I was bored on a quantum level. Even the minute fundamental particles, particles that behave in crazy unpredictable ways, were chugging along in a uniform line. They were bored.
You wouldn't think that I'd have such a short attention span, given that I'm pretty laid-back and let's face it: lazy. But I get bored so quickly. It's not a good quality. Also, it seems to be getting worse as I get older.
It reminds me of that Armando Iannucci sketch where someone is literally dying of boredom. Brilliant, it's on youtube!
So the entry I was going to write yesterday was about my annoyance at having a cold. The reason is: it makes me look stupid. With my nose blocked up, I have to walk around with my mouth open like a special-needs fish. People who breathe through their mouths are supposedly stupid. 'Mouth-breather' is an insult.
I don't know why. Why is one breathing channel more sophisticated and intellectual than the other? I suppose the nose looks more streamlined and futuristic than the mouth.
Don't get me wrong - it's no eye. The eye is by far the most advanced bit of face aparatus. But the nose is pretty good. The mouth is just a hole.
I got bored writing that yesterday. Can you see why?
So this whole entry is about boredom. It makes me think of when people say: "the only people who get bored are boring people".
Am I bored or am I boring? The answer is clearly 'both'.
That's a stupid expression anyway. That's like saying "the only people who get raped are rapists" or "the only people who get pissed off are urinating".
Yes, those are exactly the same. Directly comparable.
***
I've decided to open up a gym called Futility (in truth, that seems like hard work, but I might sell off the name).
That way, their slogan could be 'Exercise in Futility!'.
Lucy has suggested that all the exercises are pointless, like in the underworld. There could be the Sisyphus machine where you push a boulder up a hill over and over.
I'm going to make one million pounds.
***
I'll bid you good day with one of my many excellent TV ideas that I've honed in emails to Lucy:
I'm going to write a TV programme called 'Don't Forget Smelly!'.
My first idea was a kids' cartoon about a gang of friends who always go on adventures. But as they're setting out, their parents say 'Don't Forget Smelly!'. And they begrudgingly take him along. Then it turns out that Smelly always saves the day with a piece of quick thinking or bravery.
My second idea is a kind of anti-war polemic. An aging world leader faces difficult decisions/pressure from oil compaines and corporations to go to war. Each episodes has a flashback to Vietnam, where he discusses the meaning of life with his army friend Smelly. These morals remind him to keep true to his beliefs and pursue a course of peace. 'Don't Forget Smelly', he'll say to himself, looking at a sepia photo of them both. "I never will".
The flashbacks will form a continuing narrative, where we're led to believe Smelly was eventually killed. The world leader will remember scenes with sad music, and say things like: 'this is for you, buddy'. But in the end, it's revealed that Smelly didn't die at all. He just turns up in the Oval office at the end of the series, and they go bowling together.
I should write TV.
There once was a girl named Regina
Who was born with a liquorice vagina
Coping well with the stress
She became a success
And didn't let her condition define her
It's a feminist parable. I'm like Germaine Greer in lots of ways...
***
I tried to write an entry yesterday, but I was bored.
Utterly, profoundly bored. I was bored on a fundamental level. It was a deep, physical boredom that penetrated my very being. Even my organs were bored, doing the same old job. My heart wanted to breathe. My lungs wanted to hear. My kidneys wanted to yodel - so bored was I.
It wasn't a trivial boredom. It was a heavy, depressing shroud. I could easily imagine someone committing suicide because of boredom. It would have to be something quick. None of this tedious sitting in a garage full of fumes. Slit wrists? Forget about it. I'd lose patience halfway through and turn on the telly. Hanging? Boring.
Of course death would be the ultimate in boredom. Imagine killing youself out of boredom, and then realising that you were still conscious after death, but stuck in your body. Same old coffin, same old view. Now that's boring.
So, yesterday, I was bored. Did I mention that?
I was bored on a quantum level. Even the minute fundamental particles, particles that behave in crazy unpredictable ways, were chugging along in a uniform line. They were bored.
You wouldn't think that I'd have such a short attention span, given that I'm pretty laid-back and let's face it: lazy. But I get bored so quickly. It's not a good quality. Also, it seems to be getting worse as I get older.
It reminds me of that Armando Iannucci sketch where someone is literally dying of boredom. Brilliant, it's on youtube!
So the entry I was going to write yesterday was about my annoyance at having a cold. The reason is: it makes me look stupid. With my nose blocked up, I have to walk around with my mouth open like a special-needs fish. People who breathe through their mouths are supposedly stupid. 'Mouth-breather' is an insult.
I don't know why. Why is one breathing channel more sophisticated and intellectual than the other? I suppose the nose looks more streamlined and futuristic than the mouth.
Don't get me wrong - it's no eye. The eye is by far the most advanced bit of face aparatus. But the nose is pretty good. The mouth is just a hole.
I got bored writing that yesterday. Can you see why?
So this whole entry is about boredom. It makes me think of when people say: "the only people who get bored are boring people".
Am I bored or am I boring? The answer is clearly 'both'.
That's a stupid expression anyway. That's like saying "the only people who get raped are rapists" or "the only people who get pissed off are urinating".
Yes, those are exactly the same. Directly comparable.
***
I've decided to open up a gym called Futility (in truth, that seems like hard work, but I might sell off the name).
That way, their slogan could be 'Exercise in Futility!'.
Lucy has suggested that all the exercises are pointless, like in the underworld. There could be the Sisyphus machine where you push a boulder up a hill over and over.
I'm going to make one million pounds.
***
I'll bid you good day with one of my many excellent TV ideas that I've honed in emails to Lucy:
I'm going to write a TV programme called 'Don't Forget Smelly!'.
My first idea was a kids' cartoon about a gang of friends who always go on adventures. But as they're setting out, their parents say 'Don't Forget Smelly!'. And they begrudgingly take him along. Then it turns out that Smelly always saves the day with a piece of quick thinking or bravery.
My second idea is a kind of anti-war polemic. An aging world leader faces difficult decisions/pressure from oil compaines and corporations to go to war. Each episodes has a flashback to Vietnam, where he discusses the meaning of life with his army friend Smelly. These morals remind him to keep true to his beliefs and pursue a course of peace. 'Don't Forget Smelly', he'll say to himself, looking at a sepia photo of them both. "I never will".
The flashbacks will form a continuing narrative, where we're led to believe Smelly was eventually killed. The world leader will remember scenes with sad music, and say things like: 'this is for you, buddy'. But in the end, it's revealed that Smelly didn't die at all. He just turns up in the Oval office at the end of the series, and they go bowling together.
I should write TV.
Monday, 14 July 2008
I've NEVER NOTICED THAT BEFORE.
It's been about six months since I was last ill. It was a pretty good run, but I've got a cold now.
It's not even a bad cold. Just a cold. But I still feel compelled to complain about it. I think complaining is an unspoken symptom of the virus.
The trouble is, I now have a dilemma when people ask me how I am. I have to say: "yeah, I'm fine - I have a bit of a cold though".
People hate that. They think I'm looking for sympathy. They think I want them to say 'oh dear' and touch me consolingly on the shoulder. When in truth, I want them to touch me somewhere else (although that might prove contagious).
Even if I wasn't ill, nobody actually wants to know how you are. You just ask out of instinct and convention. And you reply in the same vein (fine, thanks). It's the height of rudeness to give out your actual state of being. It's vulgar to divulge anything about yourself. In a perfect world, people would wonder around in Japanese Noh masks, interacting via regimented head movements, and weird call-and-answer yelps. No more sharing, thank you very much.
It's like saying Bless You after someone sneezes. I say it, and I'm not really that bothered about the blessing. As Lucy pointed out, as an atheist I should be opposed to saying it. But I still do it. That one's even weirder than the 'how are you'. What are we trying to say with that? It just draws attention to the sneezer. That's what we're really saying: "I heard you sneeze!". It's less about a blessing, and more bragging about our hearing.
Sneezes are pretty disgusting. We shouldn't be drawing attention to them. If you say bless you, we might as well yell 'Snot release! Snot release!'.
But if you don't say bless you, it's somehow inconsiderate. I might start a convention where when someone farts, you have to say "good health to friends and family!", and whenever someone whistles you salute.
These are cutting edge observations, right here. I've got other ones about how there's never a bus when you need one, and the differences between men and women.
I've also got some stuff about the differences between women and buses:
"One is loud, smelly, and reluctant to give you a ride - and the other one's a woman!"
I also have some insights into what it was like to grow up in the seventies. And I wasn't even born then! Hey, who remembers that Twix advert with the dancing monkey and the sentient cleaver?
I'm so fucking original it makes me want to vomit in an ironic way!
I've lost the plot, and am spiralling into a cul-de-sac of meta-observation.
I may not make any sense, but I have an excuse: I'm ill.
***
And if there's one thing I hate, it's a wry, knowing last line of a blog entry, used to tie everything up. It's so smug. I do it all the time. They enrage me...
Hmm... Although I was expecting to be annoyed, the last lines of my earlier entries are actually alright. I might just compile them. They're better than the actual blog entries. Here are some closing lines from last July:
***
Yes, you're right, I couldn't think of anything to say today. But if you don't use your computer every day, the keyboard gets all gummed up with dust and tears.
***
The seagull saga may continue. If you see me flying through the night sky with a gull strapped to each foot, it's probably me.
Probably.
***
Come back next time for my excellent idea for a series of children's books (and no, it's not just pictures of my genitals, you sicko!)
***
So I'll stick to safer, more politically-correct topics.
Tune in next time for "The Jews: Global Plague"!
***
See you in the funny pages!
Or the OBITUARIES.
***
I could make a living auctioning off closing remarks to other blog writers.
And slowly - slowly enough to bore God Herself - Angelina cocked her hat, cocked her gun, and slipped into the opticians.
It's not even a bad cold. Just a cold. But I still feel compelled to complain about it. I think complaining is an unspoken symptom of the virus.
The trouble is, I now have a dilemma when people ask me how I am. I have to say: "yeah, I'm fine - I have a bit of a cold though".
People hate that. They think I'm looking for sympathy. They think I want them to say 'oh dear' and touch me consolingly on the shoulder. When in truth, I want them to touch me somewhere else (although that might prove contagious).
Even if I wasn't ill, nobody actually wants to know how you are. You just ask out of instinct and convention. And you reply in the same vein (fine, thanks). It's the height of rudeness to give out your actual state of being. It's vulgar to divulge anything about yourself. In a perfect world, people would wonder around in Japanese Noh masks, interacting via regimented head movements, and weird call-and-answer yelps. No more sharing, thank you very much.
It's like saying Bless You after someone sneezes. I say it, and I'm not really that bothered about the blessing. As Lucy pointed out, as an atheist I should be opposed to saying it. But I still do it. That one's even weirder than the 'how are you'. What are we trying to say with that? It just draws attention to the sneezer. That's what we're really saying: "I heard you sneeze!". It's less about a blessing, and more bragging about our hearing.
Sneezes are pretty disgusting. We shouldn't be drawing attention to them. If you say bless you, we might as well yell 'Snot release! Snot release!'.
But if you don't say bless you, it's somehow inconsiderate. I might start a convention where when someone farts, you have to say "good health to friends and family!", and whenever someone whistles you salute.
These are cutting edge observations, right here. I've got other ones about how there's never a bus when you need one, and the differences between men and women.
I've also got some stuff about the differences between women and buses:
"One is loud, smelly, and reluctant to give you a ride - and the other one's a woman!"
I also have some insights into what it was like to grow up in the seventies. And I wasn't even born then! Hey, who remembers that Twix advert with the dancing monkey and the sentient cleaver?
I'm so fucking original it makes me want to vomit in an ironic way!
I've lost the plot, and am spiralling into a cul-de-sac of meta-observation.
I may not make any sense, but I have an excuse: I'm ill.
***
And if there's one thing I hate, it's a wry, knowing last line of a blog entry, used to tie everything up. It's so smug. I do it all the time. They enrage me...
Hmm... Although I was expecting to be annoyed, the last lines of my earlier entries are actually alright. I might just compile them. They're better than the actual blog entries. Here are some closing lines from last July:
***
Yes, you're right, I couldn't think of anything to say today. But if you don't use your computer every day, the keyboard gets all gummed up with dust and tears.
***
The seagull saga may continue. If you see me flying through the night sky with a gull strapped to each foot, it's probably me.
Probably.
***
Come back next time for my excellent idea for a series of children's books (and no, it's not just pictures of my genitals, you sicko!)
***
So I'll stick to safer, more politically-correct topics.
Tune in next time for "The Jews: Global Plague"!
***
See you in the funny pages!
Or the OBITUARIES.
***
I could make a living auctioning off closing remarks to other blog writers.
And slowly - slowly enough to bore God Herself - Angelina cocked her hat, cocked her gun, and slipped into the opticians.
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
If man is five...
Hey, I haven't done this in a while! I'm up (relatively) late, as I can't sleep.
I think part of the problem is I have a certain bit of a Pixies song in my head. It's the middle eight of Monkey Gone to Heaven. I don't really know what a middle eight is, but I read about it in this article. The writer thinks this is the best middle eight. He's right, it's pretty great. I never noticed how good it was before I read about it.
You can hear it at 1:50 on the below video.
And if man is five, and if man is five, if man is five, if man is five, then the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six. If the devil is six, then GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN.
And ever since, I've had that bit in my head. It's been two days. I hope it stops soon, or it might drive me insane.
Frank Black looks funny in that video - like a Philip Seymour Hoffman character.
(and if man is five, if man is five,)
Anyway, I can't sleep. It's on a loop in my head. So it's better to be awake and distracted, rather than in bed in the dark.
I wouldn't do this any earlier in the week. I need my shut-eye. Monday or Tuesday nights can't be late ones. Today is Wednesday, and it's not so bad. Only two days to go. Thursday night you can stay up as late as you want, because Friday gives you an energy boost. They should market an energy drink called 'Friday'.
(then the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six,)
I could be mugged on a Thursday and have both my legs broken, get smashed in the face with an old-fashioned telephone, and have my library card revoked, and I'd still have a spring in my step on Friday. Good old Fridays.
That Friday feeling.
You know that Crunchie advert? This one:
That's a stupid advert.
Don't get me wrong, the visuals are pretty good. A chocolate rollercoaster - that's fine.
The song is also fine, albeit a bit over the top. I fucking love Crunchies, but even I don't get so excited that I just can't hide it. They're obviously trying to suggest the same feeling as getting an erection in class, just before being asked to write something on the whiteboard. You can't hide that. You're excited. But I never got erections over a Crunchie. (And anyone who says they caught me masturbating over a Double Decker is a filthy liar)
The problem with the advert is the slogan 'Have you got that Friday feeling?'
What does that have to do with the chocolate bar? Are Crunchies only sold on Fridays? Does the mixture of honeycomb and milk chocolate produce similar reactions to a particular day of the week?
It makes no sense. The Friday feeling and the chocolate bar are entirely distinct. That's rubbish marketing. You can't just imply a relationship between any good thing and your product. It would give license to idiocy:
Orgasms are Amazing - Alliance and Leicester!
Remember VE Day? Buy Petit Filous!
(then GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN)
It's now midnight. I should go back to bed. I know it's not that late, but I think I need more sleep than the average bear. And they hibernate.
I also like pic-a-nic baskets, but that's beside the point.
(and if man is five, if man is five,)
Throughout this post, I've been wondering if you spell the days of the week with capital letters. Is it Thursday or thursday? I honestly don't know. And I don't really know how to check. I'm pretty sure months have capitals. And I always spell the year with a capital 2.
(then the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six,)
I found a wasp on my keyboard before I started this. I think that might be good luck. I tried to shake him out of the window, but it was raining and he was pernicious. I was worried I might drop the laptop out of the window. I don't know if my warranty covers acts of wasp.
In the end, I used the old glass 'n' postcard technique. I can never kill an insect. I feel guilty about it. Also, who needs a dead wasp all mashed into the space bar?
(then GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN)
Yes, ok. I'm procrastinating. I'll go to bed. I hope that the song leaves my head. I think Hell would be an eternal middle eight. You'd be constantly brought to the brink of the chorus, but would be pulled back to begin the climb once more - never to reach the summit. It would probably be something worse than a Pixies song though. Maybe the middle eight of a Westlife song.
Little known fact: the middle eights of all Westlife songs have explicit Satanic messages in them, but nobody notices because they've always either turned the song off by then or shot themselves in the face four times.
(GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN.
THIS MONKEY'S GONE TO HEAVEN!)
And this bear's gone to bed.
I think part of the problem is I have a certain bit of a Pixies song in my head. It's the middle eight of Monkey Gone to Heaven. I don't really know what a middle eight is, but I read about it in this article. The writer thinks this is the best middle eight. He's right, it's pretty great. I never noticed how good it was before I read about it.
You can hear it at 1:50 on the below video.
And if man is five, and if man is five, if man is five, if man is five, then the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six. If the devil is six, then GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN.
And ever since, I've had that bit in my head. It's been two days. I hope it stops soon, or it might drive me insane.
Frank Black looks funny in that video - like a Philip Seymour Hoffman character.
(and if man is five, if man is five,)
Anyway, I can't sleep. It's on a loop in my head. So it's better to be awake and distracted, rather than in bed in the dark.
I wouldn't do this any earlier in the week. I need my shut-eye. Monday or Tuesday nights can't be late ones. Today is Wednesday, and it's not so bad. Only two days to go. Thursday night you can stay up as late as you want, because Friday gives you an energy boost. They should market an energy drink called 'Friday'.
(then the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six,)
I could be mugged on a Thursday and have both my legs broken, get smashed in the face with an old-fashioned telephone, and have my library card revoked, and I'd still have a spring in my step on Friday. Good old Fridays.
That Friday feeling.
You know that Crunchie advert? This one:
That's a stupid advert.
Don't get me wrong, the visuals are pretty good. A chocolate rollercoaster - that's fine.
The song is also fine, albeit a bit over the top. I fucking love Crunchies, but even I don't get so excited that I just can't hide it. They're obviously trying to suggest the same feeling as getting an erection in class, just before being asked to write something on the whiteboard. You can't hide that. You're excited. But I never got erections over a Crunchie. (And anyone who says they caught me masturbating over a Double Decker is a filthy liar)
The problem with the advert is the slogan 'Have you got that Friday feeling?'
What does that have to do with the chocolate bar? Are Crunchies only sold on Fridays? Does the mixture of honeycomb and milk chocolate produce similar reactions to a particular day of the week?
It makes no sense. The Friday feeling and the chocolate bar are entirely distinct. That's rubbish marketing. You can't just imply a relationship between any good thing and your product. It would give license to idiocy:
Orgasms are Amazing - Alliance and Leicester!
Remember VE Day? Buy Petit Filous!
(then GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN)
It's now midnight. I should go back to bed. I know it's not that late, but I think I need more sleep than the average bear. And they hibernate.
I also like pic-a-nic baskets, but that's beside the point.
(and if man is five, if man is five,)
Throughout this post, I've been wondering if you spell the days of the week with capital letters. Is it Thursday or thursday? I honestly don't know. And I don't really know how to check. I'm pretty sure months have capitals. And I always spell the year with a capital 2.
(then the devil is six, if the devil is six, if the devil is six,)
I found a wasp on my keyboard before I started this. I think that might be good luck. I tried to shake him out of the window, but it was raining and he was pernicious. I was worried I might drop the laptop out of the window. I don't know if my warranty covers acts of wasp.
In the end, I used the old glass 'n' postcard technique. I can never kill an insect. I feel guilty about it. Also, who needs a dead wasp all mashed into the space bar?
(then GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN)
Yes, ok. I'm procrastinating. I'll go to bed. I hope that the song leaves my head. I think Hell would be an eternal middle eight. You'd be constantly brought to the brink of the chorus, but would be pulled back to begin the climb once more - never to reach the summit. It would probably be something worse than a Pixies song though. Maybe the middle eight of a Westlife song.
Little known fact: the middle eights of all Westlife songs have explicit Satanic messages in them, but nobody notices because they've always either turned the song off by then or shot themselves in the face four times.
(GOD IS SEVEN. GOD IS SEVEN.
THIS MONKEY'S GONE TO HEAVEN!)
And this bear's gone to bed.
Headscissors = 1 YEAR OLD (belated)
Oh dear. I've missed this blog's first birthday. I've officially been writing here for more than a year.
I suppose I would have had to go pretty far to match the ostentatiousness of my 100th Post Special, but it would have been nice to commemorate it with a slice of virtual cake or something.
Although I ignored this milestone, I'm quite proud of myself for sticking with it for this long. My first post started with a pessimistic title, but I've managed to keep going. Usually with diaries and the like, I get bored after the second entry.
Hopefully crossing the one year line will spur me on to write more, as I've had a bit of a post-drought as of late. For now, I'll just wish Headscissors a belated birthday (which is the correct terminology).
Hey I wonder how many times I can link to old entries! I would say that I'm getting self-indulgent, but writing that on a blog seems a bit tautologous.
***
Nothing much has happened lately. As I mentioned before, I've been playing Resident Evil 4, which I'm pleased to say has maintained the high level of ridiculous dialogue from all the earlier games.
We watched The Apartment on DVD, which is excellent. It's incredibly well written, and looks great. I'd love to be able to write something so precisely constructed. All the call-backs and repetition remind me of The Big Lebowski, and that's a good thing!
We also watched the second Futurama DVD movie: The Beast with a Billion Backs. I thought it was even better than Bender's Big Score. There was loads of good stuff there, including David Cross being funny, lots of disgusting sound effects, some amazing animation, and an alien zebra that made me laugh for about twenty minutes.
***
The preceding three paragraphs were almost entirely lacking in interesting content. So to rectify the matter, I'll give you a taste of some more of my email correspondence with Lucy. Although I don't know if it's interesting, so much as it is insane.
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 03 July 2008 16:15
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: Sanguinary
I think it's time we started a new email thread. The other was becoming unwieldy.
Yes, sanguinary is a good word. You should use it in conversation.
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 03 July 2008 16:18
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
It's also used as a 'jocular' euphemism for bloody, frequently when aristocrats are reporting the speech of the vulgar: he said' sanguinary hell', and I laughed in the fellow's plebeian face.
Stupid aristocracy. That's how the upper-classes deal with guilt, by leaping into it, or spreading it all over their bodies, like Hedonism-Bot, and getting a servant to lick it off.
Off with their heads, is what I say!
***
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:16
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
I'm balancing my pen point upwards on the table, and thinking about falling forwards on to it. Admittedly, it would only get me in the eye, because I'm not very high up, and it probably wouldn't hurt too much, because biros - especially these ones - are not very sharp. Still.
That would show 'em.
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:22
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
I think it would hurt. It would probably slip and get you in the cheek or something. I have a stressball on my desk.
I might fall forwards onto that. It would be more comfortable.
It would be good if stressballs were made up of the inflamed testicles of 80s stock brokers. Their stress was stored in their balls after cocaine had made their physiology all cuckoo. When the eighties ended, the founder of the stressball company (StressCo) travelled round insane asylums, harvesting their swollen, squishy seed-hubs.
The government gave permission, beacuse they felt that in the long run, a reduction of stress would prevent the breakdowns of the 80s from ever happening again.
Everytime you squeeze a stressball, the monster of 80s Reaganaut capitalism in driven back into the shadows, and Margaret Thatcher slightly, just slightly, loses her erection.
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:24
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
So when all those eighties executives were saying that their bosses had them by the balls, they were really seeing a vision of the future.
That's cool.
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:30
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
That's right. Once again, their coke-riddled neuropouches were all akimbo with the rest of time and space.
In fact, if you pay close attention, the recurring motif of balls is more and more apparent.
"I've got the balls to succeed!"
"My approach is balls-to-the-wall!"
"This sucker is playing hardball!"
"I got balled out by the boss, but he can suck my balls, because I was having a ball the whole time, and he can just go bawl to his momma, and anyway, who wants to go see that movie - Spaceballs? Balls.
Balls.
Balls.
Balls."
All hail the corporate cunts and their spherical prescience.
I suppose I would have had to go pretty far to match the ostentatiousness of my 100th Post Special, but it would have been nice to commemorate it with a slice of virtual cake or something.
Although I ignored this milestone, I'm quite proud of myself for sticking with it for this long. My first post started with a pessimistic title, but I've managed to keep going. Usually with diaries and the like, I get bored after the second entry.
Hopefully crossing the one year line will spur me on to write more, as I've had a bit of a post-drought as of late. For now, I'll just wish Headscissors a belated birthday (which is the correct terminology).
Hey I wonder how many times I can link to old entries! I would say that I'm getting self-indulgent, but writing that on a blog seems a bit tautologous.
***
Nothing much has happened lately. As I mentioned before, I've been playing Resident Evil 4, which I'm pleased to say has maintained the high level of ridiculous dialogue from all the earlier games.
We watched The Apartment on DVD, which is excellent. It's incredibly well written, and looks great. I'd love to be able to write something so precisely constructed. All the call-backs and repetition remind me of The Big Lebowski, and that's a good thing!
We also watched the second Futurama DVD movie: The Beast with a Billion Backs. I thought it was even better than Bender's Big Score. There was loads of good stuff there, including David Cross being funny, lots of disgusting sound effects, some amazing animation, and an alien zebra that made me laugh for about twenty minutes.
***
The preceding three paragraphs were almost entirely lacking in interesting content. So to rectify the matter, I'll give you a taste of some more of my email correspondence with Lucy. Although I don't know if it's interesting, so much as it is insane.
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 03 July 2008 16:15
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: Sanguinary
I think it's time we started a new email thread. The other was becoming unwieldy.
Yes, sanguinary is a good word. You should use it in conversation.
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 03 July 2008 16:18
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
It's also used as a 'jocular' euphemism for bloody, frequently when aristocrats are reporting the speech of the vulgar: he said' sanguinary hell', and I laughed in the fellow's plebeian face.
Stupid aristocracy. That's how the upper-classes deal with guilt, by leaping into it, or spreading it all over their bodies, like Hedonism-Bot, and getting a servant to lick it off.
Off with their heads, is what I say!
***
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:16
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
I'm balancing my pen point upwards on the table, and thinking about falling forwards on to it. Admittedly, it would only get me in the eye, because I'm not very high up, and it probably wouldn't hurt too much, because biros - especially these ones - are not very sharp. Still.
That would show 'em.
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:22
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
I think it would hurt. It would probably slip and get you in the cheek or something. I have a stressball on my desk.
I might fall forwards onto that. It would be more comfortable.
It would be good if stressballs were made up of the inflamed testicles of 80s stock brokers. Their stress was stored in their balls after cocaine had made their physiology all cuckoo. When the eighties ended, the founder of the stressball company (StressCo) travelled round insane asylums, harvesting their swollen, squishy seed-hubs.
The government gave permission, beacuse they felt that in the long run, a reduction of stress would prevent the breakdowns of the 80s from ever happening again.
Everytime you squeeze a stressball, the monster of 80s Reaganaut capitalism in driven back into the shadows, and Margaret Thatcher slightly, just slightly, loses her erection.
From: STONE, Lucy
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:24
To: FUNG, Paul
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
So when all those eighties executives were saying that their bosses had them by the balls, they were really seeing a vision of the future.
That's cool.
From: FUNG, Paul
Sent: 08 July 2008 16:30
To: STONE, Lucy
Subject: RE: Sanguinary
That's right. Once again, their coke-riddled neuropouches were all akimbo with the rest of time and space.
In fact, if you pay close attention, the recurring motif of balls is more and more apparent.
"I've got the balls to succeed!"
"My approach is balls-to-the-wall!"
"This sucker is playing hardball!"
"I got balled out by the boss, but he can suck my balls, because I was having a ball the whole time, and he can just go bawl to his momma, and anyway, who wants to go see that movie - Spaceballs? Balls.
Balls.
Balls.
Balls."
All hail the corporate cunts and their spherical prescience.
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
Mad Man
I'm sorry for not posting here for ages. I haven't seemed to have much time. I also bought Resident Evil 4 for the Gamecube, which has compounded matters.
I'll write something proper soon. But for now, I'll leave you with a great slogan I came up with for a rectal thermometer company:
"Pull your finger out!"
I'll write something proper soon. But for now, I'll leave you with a great slogan I came up with for a rectal thermometer company:
"Pull your finger out!"
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