Monday, November 24, 2008
Drying spoons, mint cake and rumours of my death being greatly exaggerated. Twice
This wasn't good enough, even by my low standards.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
About Me
- magnetite
- I live alone at the top of a hill, and have done so since my wealthy industrialist parents were lost in a plane crash over the Andes in the mid-70's. Raised by a business of ferrets (who instilled within me family values, love of nature and the ability to chew beetles without grimacing) I chose not to use my resources to fight crime - and instead I simply buy things and stare soullessly at them until the need for another life-affirming purchase drives me from my lonely eyrie. (I'd like to see some Polish fraudster manage to steal my identity from that little lot. Good luck there, Pavel.) [PLEASE SEE COWARDLY DISCLAIMER AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE, AFTER LEGAL MUMBO-JUMBO AND PRO-ZOMBIE, ANTI-REAL LIFE BLOGGER RANT]
Automagically receive stuff I spouted
Posts
Comments
Want to know what I'm reading? Point and laugh.
What to know what I've read? Go ahead and mock
The product of hasty and sloppily researched legal self-education
All characters, events, locations and probably fundamental changes to the laws of physics contained within this blog are fictional and in no way intended to resemble in entirety or in part any persons, places or stuff that happens; like the dead coming back to life
(Not as shambling murderous zombies; that's been literally done to death. Maybe just as really helpful and easy to keep albino versions of themselves who need a top-up of embalming fluid and fake tan once in a while. That'd make a nice fucking change wouldn't it?
Available action hero stars in
'Nana comes back from the grave and just makes a couple of those fantastic pies she used to make, then babysits the kids for a couple of hours so our hero and Cheryl can have a quiet meal marred only by a bit of fight about him slurping his soup and her drunkenly attempting to pay the waiter in kind; but ends with them kissing passionately in a moonlit cove.'
In a moonlit cove, for fuck's sake!
Zombie Nana was the best thing that ever happened to them.
"She doesn't mind falling off the roof when she's cleaning the gutters. Which is great, 'cause she moaned like fuck about it when she was alive."
Quips the square-jawed protagonist to his neighbour and generic best buddy Fred in the film's opening scene. They sprawl in lawn chairs in his back yard as in the background Zombie Nana goes off to work in his stead. In a long shot that zooms slowly out we move away from them and see that Fred's garden is being tended by his Zombie Grandad who merely tuts irritably and kneels when he cuts off his toes with the spade. Fishing out superglue ('the zombies friend' - the jingle for that very product trills out from an old-fashioned radio sitting on the back step) he reattaches his pinkies, glues his wellington toe back on and resumes his toil, whistling cheerfully. Further up and everyone's house has a revivified relative or two happily filling their days until God clicks on that the apocalypse should have started ages ago and nips off to sober up the horsemen.)
I digress again to reinforce this point.
There are not enough imaginary things on the internet. There are too many blogs from the likes of
tanned smiling man and similar girlfriend/wife
Picture after picture of above on fully or semi-extreme holiday interspersed with bible passages and appeals for everyone to 'just get along'. If you're really unlucky there's a blow-by-blow account of the raising of their fucking children.
The next picture I want to see of this almost universal cunt is of him falling a couple of hundred feet into a fire full of swords...and tigers.
Armoured, flameproofed tigers so crazed with hunger that they are biting the dancing flames as they lick up past them.
All this beneath a sombre, but still juicily punning headline, about six pages into The Sun - under a piece about rising prices at the checkout with yet another picture of a loaf of bread with a price next to it. I know what a loaf of fucking bread looks like, even out of its bag. Oh God, look; you've gone and cut off about four thick slices now, just to show us that it wasn't full of speed cameras, paedophiles or asylum seekers; just spongy wholesome bread - just in case you'd never seen it before. Tell you what. I'm still confused. Why don't you toast it, butter it and fetch it to me so I can eat it and finally fully understand the bastard article.
If you don't believe me about the above people, open another tab (or some such technical process that lets you get back here without having to see the whole dreadful parade yet again, but in reverse this time) and click 'next blog' for a while. Go on, I'll wait, but please take precautions like having a firewall and up-to-date anti-virus running. Go on, its a chilling experience...
...after a while you begin to long for a foreign language site, just so you don't have to vicariously experience yet another fucking swim with dolphins or the climbing of a small mountain. Even better, the twat who has removed the 'next blog' button, thus halting your shrieking descent into the abyss that is the average real-life blogger, homogenized and plastered across the face of the internet like some awful digital bukkake splash. There should be more imaginary sites to break things up. Now there's one more.
This material is released under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial 3.0 Unported Licence
I have no idea what that means but here's a picachewer that's also a link to an explanation.
DISCLAIMER: I do not particularly want any Polish fraudsters, named Pavel or otherwise, to take up the challenge to steal my identity. I have a marked respect for the Poles, whose pilots played a very important part in the Battle of Britain, whose sausage products are second to none, and Lech Walesa's 'tash. So I don't want to start disliking them now. Cheers.
(Not as shambling murderous zombies; that's been literally done to death. Maybe just as really helpful and easy to keep albino versions of themselves who need a top-up of embalming fluid and fake tan once in a while. That'd make a nice fucking change wouldn't it?
Available action hero stars in
'Nana comes back from the grave and just makes a couple of those fantastic pies she used to make, then babysits the kids for a couple of hours so our hero and Cheryl can have a quiet meal marred only by a bit of fight about him slurping his soup and her drunkenly attempting to pay the waiter in kind; but ends with them kissing passionately in a moonlit cove.'
In a moonlit cove, for fuck's sake!
Zombie Nana was the best thing that ever happened to them.
"She doesn't mind falling off the roof when she's cleaning the gutters. Which is great, 'cause she moaned like fuck about it when she was alive."
Quips the square-jawed protagonist to his neighbour and generic best buddy Fred in the film's opening scene. They sprawl in lawn chairs in his back yard as in the background Zombie Nana goes off to work in his stead. In a long shot that zooms slowly out we move away from them and see that Fred's garden is being tended by his Zombie Grandad who merely tuts irritably and kneels when he cuts off his toes with the spade. Fishing out superglue ('the zombies friend' - the jingle for that very product trills out from an old-fashioned radio sitting on the back step) he reattaches his pinkies, glues his wellington toe back on and resumes his toil, whistling cheerfully. Further up and everyone's house has a revivified relative or two happily filling their days until God clicks on that the apocalypse should have started ages ago and nips off to sober up the horsemen.)
I digress again to reinforce this point.
There are not enough imaginary things on the internet. There are too many blogs from the likes of
tanned smiling man and similar girlfriend/wife
Picture after picture of above on fully or semi-extreme holiday interspersed with bible passages and appeals for everyone to 'just get along'. If you're really unlucky there's a blow-by-blow account of the raising of their fucking children.
The next picture I want to see of this almost universal cunt is of him falling a couple of hundred feet into a fire full of swords...and tigers.
Armoured, flameproofed tigers so crazed with hunger that they are biting the dancing flames as they lick up past them.
All this beneath a sombre, but still juicily punning headline, about six pages into The Sun - under a piece about rising prices at the checkout with yet another picture of a loaf of bread with a price next to it. I know what a loaf of fucking bread looks like, even out of its bag. Oh God, look; you've gone and cut off about four thick slices now, just to show us that it wasn't full of speed cameras, paedophiles or asylum seekers; just spongy wholesome bread - just in case you'd never seen it before. Tell you what. I'm still confused. Why don't you toast it, butter it and fetch it to me so I can eat it and finally fully understand the bastard article.
If you don't believe me about the above people, open another tab (or some such technical process that lets you get back here without having to see the whole dreadful parade yet again, but in reverse this time) and click 'next blog' for a while. Go on, I'll wait, but please take precautions like having a firewall and up-to-date anti-virus running. Go on, its a chilling experience...
...after a while you begin to long for a foreign language site, just so you don't have to vicariously experience yet another fucking swim with dolphins or the climbing of a small mountain. Even better, the twat who has removed the 'next blog' button, thus halting your shrieking descent into the abyss that is the average real-life blogger, homogenized and plastered across the face of the internet like some awful digital bukkake splash. There should be more imaginary sites to break things up. Now there's one more.
This material is released under a
Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial 3.0 Unported Licence
I have no idea what that means but here's a picachewer that's also a link to an explanation.
DISCLAIMER: I do not particularly want any Polish fraudsters, named Pavel or otherwise, to take up the challenge to steal my identity. I have a marked respect for the Poles, whose pilots played a very important part in the Battle of Britain, whose sausage products are second to none, and Lech Walesa's 'tash. So I don't want to start disliking them now. Cheers.
2 comments:
The beard was very House-ish. Grow it back, borrow a cane, call me.
So you normally have more than one mobile phone with you? Is this a small clue as to your secret double life as an agent for MI7?
Also, may I enquire as to the complexity of the language of ferrets as I have been considering taking up a foreign language. Ferret Speak appeals to me as a university course from which to launch my career in politics.
Glad your back in the padded saddle, mag. Just a shame that I'm having technical issues at the moment...um, actually I mean my computer is having technical issues not myself. I will, however, try and pop by whenever I can, mate.
Peace.
Post a Comment