!!~~POST #500 - UNWIELDY QUINCENTENNIAL BROUHAHA~~!!

If I'd released an album in 1989, this would be the cover.

Once again it's time to put on your nostalgia goggles, and celebrate the meaningless triumph of another post with two zeroes in it.

This is the 500th post of Headscissors (or as all the kids are calling it: I Don't Know What You're Talking About; Please Leave Me Alone).

I have a tradition of marking these events in a special way. My face is special. Lots of my faces are lots of special.

Special.

You can see my previous milestones below.




Post #100
Post #200
Post #300
Post #400

I've just re-read them all. There are some significant events contained therein. An account of my interview for my current job, the origins of my (now legendary) stand-up routine about selfish genes, a haiku, and a picture of me naked.

(Actually there is no picture of me naked. I just thought it might encourage you to look at the links. Because that's what you all want to see.

Of course, I've given the game away now. So I'll have to include an actual picture of me naked in this post, just to live up to my promise. Stay tuned.)

Indulgence is the watchword.

I have the word "indulgence" engraved on my watch, alongside a picture of me, my initials, and a picture of the watch itself, stretching into infinity.

H Samuel didn't sell many of that model.

So strap yourselves in for an exciting thrill-ride of words, punctuation marks, line-breaks and remarks so meaningless, you assume they must be references to something obscure, but are actually just pointless whimsy.

***

Ooh, I just caught this from Post #400:


Ooh, I just caught this from Post #300:

It's odd to have a dialogue with my past self. I suppose it's not really a dialogue - just an extended monologue. But when different parts of a monologue collide, it creates a whole new conversation. And given that time isn't an absolute linear construct, and I'm reacting to myself and anticipating myself, I think we can classify it as a dialogue. It's a solipsistic metaphysical chat, where we're both simultaneously bored and fascinated by each other.

Isn't that right, Post #400 Paul?

Yes. Yes it is.

Post #500 Paul - are you wearing a hat?


No, I'm not. But I do have a woolly hat in my coat pocket. I might put it on later.

Post #600 Paul - what did you have for dinner last night? Also, do you have a Blu-Ray player yet?

(I'm a brilliant conversationalist - I can't wait to see my response in 100 posts' time)

***

Mood: Monday.

Listening to: Jack Jones - Wives and Lovers

This is the most incredibly sexist song I've ever heard, which includes a lot of mainstream hip-hop and all those Motown songs in the 70s that seemed to essentially advocate domestic abuse.



Here are the lyrics (it's written by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, so they deserve most of the blame/credit):

Hey! Little Girl
Comb your hair, fix your makeup
Soon he will open the door
Don't think because there's a ring on your finger
You needn't try anymore


[I like that even the first line is incredible patronising. I also like picturing the scenario of an exasperated 60s businessman coming home to a slob wife and being exasperated.]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
I'm warning you...

["I'm warning you"? Thanks for that. I'm sure it's friendly advice. Rather than a threat.

Remember to run to his arms the MOMENT he comes home. Even if he's carrying lots of bags and a cake. Don't give him time to put them down. Run to his arms. RUN TO THEM.

DON'T PAUSE, OR HE'LL LEAVE YOU.

DON'T EVEN TALK TO HIM. DO YOUR MAKE-UP AND RUN FLAT-OUT INTO HIS FACE BEFORE HE CAN EVEN GET HIS KEY OUT OF THE LOCK.]

Day after day
There are girls at the office
And men will always be men
Don't send him off with your hair still in curlers
You may not see him again

[Remember there are other girls in the office. This is your fault. Especially if you've let yourself go. The other girls don't have any say in the matter. They can't help but be drawn to your husband because of his power and testicles.

Men will always be men. So if you complain about his infidelities and various sexually transmitted infections, you're going AGAINST NATURE.

MEN WILL BE MEN.

CUNTS WILL BE CUNTS.

IT'S YOUR FAULT. YOU AND THOSE CURLERS OF YOURS, YOU SOW!]

For wives should always be lovers too
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you
He's almost here...


[If you're in a wheelchair, you might as well kill yourself.]

[I hope that last sentence isn't taken out of context. Remember, this is SATIRE.]

Hey! Little girl
Better wear something pretty
Something you'd wear to go to the city and
Dim all the lights, pour the wine, start the music
Time to get ready for love
Time to get ready
Time to get ready for love

[PREPARE FOR COPULATION. YOU ARE FEMALE. YOU MUST WORK HARDER TO JUSTIFY OUR MAGNANIMOUS TOLERANCE OF YOUR EXISTENCE.

DIM THE LIGHTS TO HIDE YOUR WITHERED FACE. POUR THE WINE SO THAT THE ALCOHOL MAY DULL YOUR POOR HUSBAND'S PERCEPTIONS. SHIELD HIM FROM YOUR HIDEOUSNESS.

PLAY LOUD MUSIC TO DROWN OUT YOUR INFANTILE PRATTLE. PLAY A BURT BACHARACH SONG. THEN YOU CAN LEARN AS YOU'RE JUSTLY PENETRATED BY YOUR BENEFACTOR.

ALL WOMEN MAKE ME SICK.

YOU MAKE ME SICK.]

by Burt Bacharach and Hal David
They don't write 'em like that anymore.

Reading: the instructions on the back of this bottle of bleach. It doesn't provide a serving suggestion, but as it's lemon scented I assume it's one of your five a day.

I won't get my hopes up, though. Last week I had some Toilet Duck in a Hoisin wrap and it tasted disgusting.

Watching: my previous post, where I forgot to say what I was watching. I just missed it out.

It wasn't intentional.

I haven't been watching people die, and subsequently trying to hide the fact.

I just forgot.

I wouldn't watch people die. I'd call an ambulance.

Unless my phone was broken. That couldn't be helped.

In addition to not watching people die, we also watched quite a lot of a TV show called Pretty Little Liars.

I can't tell you if it's any good, or indeed what it's about, because we watched it on mute.

That's what we do.

We decided there were too many attractive people in it. There was no-one below an 8. That's too attractive for me to relate to.

So I imagine it's terrible.

Playing: Bubble tennis.

It's so good, I almost don't want to tell people about it. But I suppose this is a special occasion.

Lucy and I discovered this a while ago.

You'll need two bottles of bubble-mixture (that's what it's called, right?) and two bubble-hoops (that's what they're called, right?)

The premise is simple: whilst bubbles burst in contact with hard objects (floor, table leg, Michelangelo's David etc), they don't burst in contact with other bubbles.

So you need a bubble stuck to the end of each bubble-hoop, and then to blow some bubbles. (Actually, blow the bubbles first. Find whichever method suits you best.)

Then, use your bubble-hoop bubbles to bat a third, loose, bubble back and forth. Like tennis.

You can even create your own net.

This probably hasn't been well explained. Perhaps some video proof is necessary.

[I tried to video bubble tennis, but it was a disaster. I don't think it can be filmed. Like ghosts. Or The Invisible Pete Sampras.]

It is amazing.

Eating: Salad bar salad again. I don't mean to be repetitive. Maybe I should start eating some more exotic things. Like cocktail bar salad, salad bar napkins, or salad glorious salad.

Drinking: Certainly no cleaning products. I don't know who has started that rumour mill. Probably Mr Muscle, that four-eyed little square. Screw him.

***

There's not going to be a picture of me naked.

Sorry.

(Or is there?)

No.

***

Hilarious Tweets:@diamondbadger
I haven't done any good tweets lately. This isn't a tweet. Honestly. This isn't some clever postmodern tweet. If it was, I'd write more conc

***

I'm starting a hobby. It's called zeal clubbing. It's like seal clubbing, but involves beating enthusiastic people to death.

Especially if they're enthusiastic about seals.

Then you club some seals.

We're meeting on Weds afternoons in the Town Hall. Anyone who shows up early will become a training dummy.

***

This is a trailer for the new film by Duncan Jones, the guy who directed Moon. It looks good. Like Groundhog Day meets Inception.

Though the only way I'd like to see that meeting happen is with Bill Murray beating the tedious cast of tedious Inception to a bloody tedious pulp. And then Andie McDowell.



***

ACORN BREAK:


(breakorn)

***

I think that's probably all.

I could write another haiku, I suppose.

Forty-love Nadal!
The spectral voice of Sampras
Calls for unseen balls

I'm going to pour myself a glass of celebratory Cif and get back to my night job as a regretmonger.

I'm pretty intense.