I think there's something wrong with me. Sometimes, I get a feeling in my abdomen and it hurts. I've identified the sensation as hunger. There's only one thing that helps cure the hunger, and that is by devouring the flesh of a creature.
There are numerous creatures that happily roam this planet, they can all be chopped into pieces, cooked and eaten. Cows, pigs and chickens are the usual diet for hungry people. I had read on the internet that you can buy them already sliced into pieces at the supermarket or butchers.
'I'm hungry, I need to consume an animal!' I shouted angrily at the butcher. He gave me the head of a cow and told me to fuck off. I took Daisy's head home and set it on the coffee table.
Daisy was a good looking cow, large eyes and a friendly smile. I found a long knife, 'I'm so sorry Daisy,' I said as I sharpened the blade, 'but I must eat you to satisfy the lust in my belly.' She looked at me, unfazed. I glanced at the knife, 'this knife is no good for you Daisy, you deserve better...'; I went to the garden shed to grab the chainsaw. The hunger was beginning to wrench my guts, I had to act quickly.
Ten minutes later, my living room was covered in blood, brains, flesh and bones. The cow creature known as Daisy was no longer recognisable. 'I'm so sorry Daisy.' I cried, not knowing where to direct my communication as Daisy had become somewhat omnipresent in the room. I put down the chainsaw, feeling as though I had fulfilled some primordial urge in me.
I went to Burger King and ordered a double whopper with fries.
"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." - Dr. Seuss
7.30.2006
7.29.2006
The Thirst: Tea is Addictive
Tea can be more addictive than smoking cigarettes; there should be a government health warning on each bag.
The first time I drank tea was when I was about eight years old. My mother had brewed a large teapot of the narcotic substance and offered me a cup, cream and two sugars; after that, I was hopelessly hooked. I can't get enough tea, I drink it and I get high.
The old lady that used to live down my road would regularly invite me over for tea and biscuits. The old bag eventually dropped dead; no doubt, it was due to the culmination of a life time of tea addiction. 'Would you like a cuppa?' she would ask me as I sat in her kitchen which had become a rat infested stink hole with discarded used tea bags on the floor. Then she'd open the cupboard and pull out a tin of tea bags, and like the junky I was, my eyes would light up and stare at them greedily.
After the long wait for the bags to brew, which often seemed like an eternity, we'd prepare the tinctured water with cream and sugar. The cream would take the bitterness out of the taste and the sugar enabled the active compounds in the leaves to be easily absorbed by the body. A side-effect of tea use is to ramble on incessantly about life and the neighbours. She was a nice old lady, but the years of tea abuse had made her senile and unable to string a sentence together.
I am drinking tea as I write this. It keeps me calm and uncollected. I hope that I do not ever become as bad as old man Fred, who would sit in front of the television all day long and suck tea bags; he has lost all his teeth.
The first time I drank tea was when I was about eight years old. My mother had brewed a large teapot of the narcotic substance and offered me a cup, cream and two sugars; after that, I was hopelessly hooked. I can't get enough tea, I drink it and I get high.
The old lady that used to live down my road would regularly invite me over for tea and biscuits. The old bag eventually dropped dead; no doubt, it was due to the culmination of a life time of tea addiction. 'Would you like a cuppa?' she would ask me as I sat in her kitchen which had become a rat infested stink hole with discarded used tea bags on the floor. Then she'd open the cupboard and pull out a tin of tea bags, and like the junky I was, my eyes would light up and stare at them greedily.
After the long wait for the bags to brew, which often seemed like an eternity, we'd prepare the tinctured water with cream and sugar. The cream would take the bitterness out of the taste and the sugar enabled the active compounds in the leaves to be easily absorbed by the body. A side-effect of tea use is to ramble on incessantly about life and the neighbours. She was a nice old lady, but the years of tea abuse had made her senile and unable to string a sentence together.
I am drinking tea as I write this. It keeps me calm and uncollected. I hope that I do not ever become as bad as old man Fred, who would sit in front of the television all day long and suck tea bags; he has lost all his teeth.
Creativity and Paranoia Equals Violence
The thing that I've noticed about creative people is that they also have a tendency towards extreme paranoia.
The other morning I woke up stinking of shit in my bed, I was rolling in a cesspit of maggots and stale vomit. The night before had been a frenetic orgy of creative output as I finished the last few thousand words of the novel's chapter. I looked into the mirror and a poor man's Jesus looked back at me, he wasn't going to bless me; he just sneered and drooled, scolding me with those crazy insane eyes. I had enough, too many people hated me and they were all laughing at me; I went out to find a victim.
It's a tough life being a comedian who hates laughter. I'm surrounded by hyenas everywhere, all waiting to pounce on me and make a light meal of me. I go on the internet and the words, 'LOL' start the cogs of paranoia spinning in my mind. 'Hahaha, you're so funny!' he said, before I punched him to the floor and tied the bastard up with the duct tape that I happened to be carrying with me.
When he came around, I smacked him in the face a couple of times. He looked at me with cowardly fear. I grabbed a baseball bat, 'You think I'm funny eh? I'll show you whats funny...' and I bashed his legs in as he screamed. 'Cry for your mummy you bastard.' That's one of the great things about doing standup shows, you always get to bring home a victim; unfortunately you can't grab the whole crowd; that's why I'm trying to build up an army.
The other morning I woke up stinking of shit in my bed, I was rolling in a cesspit of maggots and stale vomit. The night before had been a frenetic orgy of creative output as I finished the last few thousand words of the novel's chapter. I looked into the mirror and a poor man's Jesus looked back at me, he wasn't going to bless me; he just sneered and drooled, scolding me with those crazy insane eyes. I had enough, too many people hated me and they were all laughing at me; I went out to find a victim.
It's a tough life being a comedian who hates laughter. I'm surrounded by hyenas everywhere, all waiting to pounce on me and make a light meal of me. I go on the internet and the words, 'LOL' start the cogs of paranoia spinning in my mind. 'Hahaha, you're so funny!' he said, before I punched him to the floor and tied the bastard up with the duct tape that I happened to be carrying with me.
When he came around, I smacked him in the face a couple of times. He looked at me with cowardly fear. I grabbed a baseball bat, 'You think I'm funny eh? I'll show you whats funny...' and I bashed his legs in as he screamed. 'Cry for your mummy you bastard.' That's one of the great things about doing standup shows, you always get to bring home a victim; unfortunately you can't grab the whole crowd; that's why I'm trying to build up an army.
7.27.2006
Camping Trip: The Three Amigos! Olé
from left to right: me, Rich, Brian (photo courtesy of Brian)
The Three Amigos made their first appearance at Grundy Lake campsite, where we met up with about fifty other campers. The show was a blast, darling!
More pics:
My photos
Brian's photos
7.26.2006
Camping Trip: The Whole Truth and Nothing Butt
I've been away for a few days with a large group of campers up at Grundy 'Bloody' Lake, it's unique name comes from the reddish colour of the water which resembles a Bloody Mary; but with more tampons in it.
The first day was rather uneventful; we spent most of the time trying to figure out how to orientate our tents so we did not exit into a tree. With careful planning, we managed to stack the tents on top of each other to create a tower block with a glass elevator that carried three occupants at a time with very little weight limit.
My friend Tim lived on the 50th floor of the tent tower; he had a nice view of the bloody lake, and he invited me up for a cigarette and some brandies. As we stood on the balcony overlooking the forest and the lake, I noticed that Tim wasn't quite himself, 'what's wrong Tim?'
'I miss the city', replied Tim, 'You can take the boy out of the city but you can't take the city out of the boy.'
'That's very profound, Tim.'
'Chaucer.'
'No thanks Tim, I've already eaten.'
The next day, I woke up to find that I was slowly being eaten alive by carnivorous frogs. I had been warned about them and it was the season where they would swarm small towns and eat all the people. The frogs had a small evolutionary problem, you see, they had a taste for human flesh but nature had denied them teeth, so they would slowly suck their victim to death: some men would enjoy the experience but fail to realize that the enzymes in the frogs' saliva would be slowly digesting their bodies. I ran out of my tent, dived into the lake with the frogs still attached to my body and managed to drown them all; only suffering superficial wounds.
The restaurant in the basement of the tent tower was run by a Monsieur Pompideu. He cooked on top of a large fire which would often roast the occupants on the lower floors. 'Do you really think that it's a good idea to stack a load of tents on top of a fire?', I once asked him.
'Burt ef curse!', replied Monsieur Pompideu, 'It keps ze building werm in wenter.'
It was sweltering that night, so I turned on the A/C. I immediately felt the tent begin to cool down. I turned on the television to watch the local news; a decapitated dog had been found in the lake. How gruesome, I thought to myself as the next headline, 'Bears Run Amok in Frocks' presented itself. I must have had a psychic flash or something because I knew that instant that the bears did it; they stole the dog's frock.
The first day was rather uneventful; we spent most of the time trying to figure out how to orientate our tents so we did not exit into a tree. With careful planning, we managed to stack the tents on top of each other to create a tower block with a glass elevator that carried three occupants at a time with very little weight limit.
My friend Tim lived on the 50th floor of the tent tower; he had a nice view of the bloody lake, and he invited me up for a cigarette and some brandies. As we stood on the balcony overlooking the forest and the lake, I noticed that Tim wasn't quite himself, 'what's wrong Tim?'
'I miss the city', replied Tim, 'You can take the boy out of the city but you can't take the city out of the boy.'
'That's very profound, Tim.'
'Chaucer.'
'No thanks Tim, I've already eaten.'
The next day, I woke up to find that I was slowly being eaten alive by carnivorous frogs. I had been warned about them and it was the season where they would swarm small towns and eat all the people. The frogs had a small evolutionary problem, you see, they had a taste for human flesh but nature had denied them teeth, so they would slowly suck their victim to death: some men would enjoy the experience but fail to realize that the enzymes in the frogs' saliva would be slowly digesting their bodies. I ran out of my tent, dived into the lake with the frogs still attached to my body and managed to drown them all; only suffering superficial wounds.
The restaurant in the basement of the tent tower was run by a Monsieur Pompideu. He cooked on top of a large fire which would often roast the occupants on the lower floors. 'Do you really think that it's a good idea to stack a load of tents on top of a fire?', I once asked him.
'Burt ef curse!', replied Monsieur Pompideu, 'It keps ze building werm in wenter.'
It was sweltering that night, so I turned on the A/C. I immediately felt the tent begin to cool down. I turned on the television to watch the local news; a decapitated dog had been found in the lake. How gruesome, I thought to myself as the next headline, 'Bears Run Amok in Frocks' presented itself. I must have had a psychic flash or something because I knew that instant that the bears did it; they stole the dog's frock.
Back Again! Let the words flow...
Blog called me today, but I was asleep. When I woke up, I checked my answering machine; the Blog had left me a message, 'Hey you!!! It's me Blog! You haven't written in me for quite some time! Hey don't delay!!' Blog is always annoying like that; I should have killed him when I had the chance, but now it's too late, there's just too many people who like him and they'll do anything to protect him. I thought of a better way, I'll slip amphetamines into his cup and get him drugged up, that way, he'll become even more annoying and just bore the crap out of everyone; they won't hesitate to stomp his head after that...
Younger Cousin and Blog
I accidently left my email signature with my blog address in it to my cousin. Now she's reading my blog. Is it something that a young teenager should be reading? -I don't think so!
Luckily I have caught her IP address (not many England visitors) through the Stat Counter site, and then threatened never to write to her again should I detect her visiting this site again!!!
Luckily I have caught her IP address (not many England visitors) through the Stat Counter site, and then threatened never to write to her again should I detect her visiting this site again!!!
7.20.2006
If Dog's Could Write Comedy...
... they'd be fucking rich.
I have set up another project; yes, another bloody project. I've been working with my good friend Kerry, developing comedy sketch ideas, but I've decided to push it and bring aboard more people. I put out an small advert calling for comedy talent on the Meetup.com writer groups of Toronto; I have good faith in Canadian comedians, although they tend to become American when they get famous.
Surprisingly, I've had a good response so far, I wanted about six people like the original Python team ('we're not worthy...'), but I've got about eight now. I like to think of them as the Dirty Dozen. I have no idea why they would want to work with me or respond to an advert of me posing semi-naked and drunk in my cum stained underwear.
This is a good team. We hope to produce a truckload of sketches and sell them to CBC, possibly making a pilot show to go with it; I've asked for people who don't mind performing in front of a camera.
The only problem is...
I seem to have become increasingly serious over the past few days; as soon as any pastime starts to become a money making venture, I just freeze up and become somewhat comatose. What is wrong with me? I asked myself in the mirror, looking at my wasted body; am I dying?
'Maybe I am dying' said my mouth as my ear listened intently.
'No wait' said my mouth.
'What?' said my ear.
'Huh? who the fuck are you?', said my mouth.
'I am your next door neighbour..' replied my ear.
'Oh.'
'Can I borrow some sugar?'
'Sorry, I'm out of sugar, but I've got some of that aspartame stuff...'
'That stuff keeps me awake.'
'Better than having a cigarette shoved up your arse.'
I have set up another project; yes, another bloody project. I've been working with my good friend Kerry, developing comedy sketch ideas, but I've decided to push it and bring aboard more people. I put out an small advert calling for comedy talent on the Meetup.com writer groups of Toronto; I have good faith in Canadian comedians, although they tend to become American when they get famous.
Surprisingly, I've had a good response so far, I wanted about six people like the original Python team ('we're not worthy...'), but I've got about eight now. I like to think of them as the Dirty Dozen. I have no idea why they would want to work with me or respond to an advert of me posing semi-naked and drunk in my cum stained underwear.
This is a good team. We hope to produce a truckload of sketches and sell them to CBC, possibly making a pilot show to go with it; I've asked for people who don't mind performing in front of a camera.
The only problem is...
I seem to have become increasingly serious over the past few days; as soon as any pastime starts to become a money making venture, I just freeze up and become somewhat comatose. What is wrong with me? I asked myself in the mirror, looking at my wasted body; am I dying?
'Maybe I am dying' said my mouth as my ear listened intently.
'No wait' said my mouth.
'What?' said my ear.
'Huh? who the fuck are you?', said my mouth.
'I am your next door neighbour..' replied my ear.
'Oh.'
'Can I borrow some sugar?'
'Sorry, I'm out of sugar, but I've got some of that aspartame stuff...'
'That stuff keeps me awake.'
'Better than having a cigarette shoved up your arse.'
My Evening...
A friend of mine gave me a call tonight, 'come out tonight, it'll be fun, I'm meeting a few friends at the Afterlife nightclub'...
I had been staring at a page of the first chapter of the collaborative novel that I have been working on for the past month, what the heck, I thought to myself, if Mozart can have a good time while producing Sonatas, then so can I; not that I rate myself anywhere close to Mister Amadeus, but I realized that the creative process does indeed require a break. Off I went.
It happened to be Irish night, alot of Irish people who had nothing better to do than be Irish. It wasn't until I went up to the smoking area on the roof deck that I got to speak to the Irish. 'You've got an English accent' said one girl, I get that alot from the Canadians I told her... 'But you're Chinese,' I nodded, '..that's weird.'
Okay, I agree the Irish have never had good relations with the English, but I had nothing to do with that part of history. I'm good friends with alot of second generation Irish people here in Canada, tonight I realized how friendly Canadians actually are. I told a group of Irish people, 'you're in Canada now, people are friendly, sorry, but that's something that you have to get used to.' Nonetheless, I did meet a few welcoming Irish folk.
It was a disappointing night, but the highlight of the evening was coming home and finding that famous New York comedian, Jen Dziura, had commented in my blog... Ho hum, 'c'est la vie' say the Japanese...
I had been staring at a page of the first chapter of the collaborative novel that I have been working on for the past month, what the heck, I thought to myself, if Mozart can have a good time while producing Sonatas, then so can I; not that I rate myself anywhere close to Mister Amadeus, but I realized that the creative process does indeed require a break. Off I went.
It happened to be Irish night, alot of Irish people who had nothing better to do than be Irish. It wasn't until I went up to the smoking area on the roof deck that I got to speak to the Irish. 'You've got an English accent' said one girl, I get that alot from the Canadians I told her... 'But you're Chinese,' I nodded, '..that's weird.'
Okay, I agree the Irish have never had good relations with the English, but I had nothing to do with that part of history. I'm good friends with alot of second generation Irish people here in Canada, tonight I realized how friendly Canadians actually are. I told a group of Irish people, 'you're in Canada now, people are friendly, sorry, but that's something that you have to get used to.' Nonetheless, I did meet a few welcoming Irish folk.
It was a disappointing night, but the highlight of the evening was coming home and finding that famous New York comedian, Jen Dziura, had commented in my blog... Ho hum, 'c'est la vie' say the Japanese...
My Theory: Smoking & Cancer
I'm not a doctor or anything, but I've always had an interest in medicine; perhaps it has to do with being Chinese?
Anyhow, I've been studying about Vitamin C and smoking.
The reason I started reading about this was because I came across an article that correlated impotency in men who smoked. I'm trying to quit, and the photograph of the drooping cigarette on the box really scares me. I did some googling and discovered that doctors didn't actually know how nicotine would cause this phenomenon; but they did know that the cause was due to the weakening of the blood vessels.
For a long time, I have assumed that cancer wasn't caused directly by smoking. It is well known that nicotine lowers the body's ability to absorb vitamin C. Smokers deplete their store of vitamin C much faster than non-smokers. Every young child is taught at school that a deficiency in vitamin C causes scurvy... Interesting I thought to myself as I looked at the photograph of damaged gums on my package of Canadian cigarettes, 'Smoking causes gum disease'.
What if, I thought to myself, that the cause of cancer, heart disease, etc was not due to the chemicals in the cigarette itself but to the low amount of vitamin C in a smoker's body? EH? Heart disease is due to the blood vessels in the heart weakening and becoming thinner, then bursting, causing the blood pressure to increase in the remaining blood vessels; Vitamin C causes blood vessels to thicken and become more elastic. As well as boosting the immune system, Vitamin C has been speculated to prevent cancer too.
So if all these diseases are attributed to vitamin C deficiency, then why doesn't the government or the pharmaceutical companies say anything? I think I know why, and it's pretty obvious if you think about it; they're scared of the cancer cure. The large pharmaceutical companies would lose their large sums of funding if word ever got out that a natural cure or prevention of cancer existed.
They blame cigarettes instead, what have they got to lose? They keep the smokers on a tight leash anyway, selling them expensive nicotine patches and alternative addictive products. This is not to say that it's okay to smoke cigarettes, any type of drug that you ingest into your body is going to be harmful in the long term: remember, vitamin C is NOT a drug!
Anyhow, I've been studying about Vitamin C and smoking.
The reason I started reading about this was because I came across an article that correlated impotency in men who smoked. I'm trying to quit, and the photograph of the drooping cigarette on the box really scares me. I did some googling and discovered that doctors didn't actually know how nicotine would cause this phenomenon; but they did know that the cause was due to the weakening of the blood vessels.
For a long time, I have assumed that cancer wasn't caused directly by smoking. It is well known that nicotine lowers the body's ability to absorb vitamin C. Smokers deplete their store of vitamin C much faster than non-smokers. Every young child is taught at school that a deficiency in vitamin C causes scurvy... Interesting I thought to myself as I looked at the photograph of damaged gums on my package of Canadian cigarettes, 'Smoking causes gum disease'.
What if, I thought to myself, that the cause of cancer, heart disease, etc was not due to the chemicals in the cigarette itself but to the low amount of vitamin C in a smoker's body? EH? Heart disease is due to the blood vessels in the heart weakening and becoming thinner, then bursting, causing the blood pressure to increase in the remaining blood vessels; Vitamin C causes blood vessels to thicken and become more elastic. As well as boosting the immune system, Vitamin C has been speculated to prevent cancer too.
So if all these diseases are attributed to vitamin C deficiency, then why doesn't the government or the pharmaceutical companies say anything? I think I know why, and it's pretty obvious if you think about it; they're scared of the cancer cure. The large pharmaceutical companies would lose their large sums of funding if word ever got out that a natural cure or prevention of cancer existed.
They blame cigarettes instead, what have they got to lose? They keep the smokers on a tight leash anyway, selling them expensive nicotine patches and alternative addictive products. This is not to say that it's okay to smoke cigarettes, any type of drug that you ingest into your body is going to be harmful in the long term: remember, vitamin C is NOT a drug!
7.19.2006
Wigga Wigga
Last night, Kerry and I were walking home when we encountered a wigga...
I live on such a strange continent; there are people here who think they are vampires, emokids who thrive on the lifestyle of depression, and white people who think that they are black.
A wigga is a white guy who dresses, acts and talks like a black man in the same way that a transvestite impersonates a woman; but far less convincing. The way to usually spot one, is to look for the white man with shaved blonde hair and blue eyes sporting a very long oversized t-shirt that goes down to his knees, a baseball cap, and ridiculously baggy trousers that hang below their crotch line (hence the long shirt). They will walk as if a rusty exhaust pipe had been jammed up their rectum and gesticulate like a deaf person who's had one too many blows to the head.
So we're walking along Yonge street when a lone wigga who is standing around on the sidewalk, trying to look mean for the sake of looking mean starts harassing Kerry, 'Yo sup bitch -I can fuck you real good bitch -put my nine inch inside ya...' I suppose he was talking about the exhaust pipe up his arse. Wiggas aren't usually seen with girlfriends, their breeding partners are usually dried up and wrinkled crack whores who suck cigarettes for nourishment. We carried on walking, ignoring the ruffian who was staggering aimlessly to and fro; only that he wasn't drunk.
We were about a hundred metres away when the guy started shouting obscenities, flinging his arms all over the place as though he was trying to fly. I looked at Kerry and said, 'Bloody wiggas'.
I live on such a strange continent; there are people here who think they are vampires, emokids who thrive on the lifestyle of depression, and white people who think that they are black.
A wigga is a white guy who dresses, acts and talks like a black man in the same way that a transvestite impersonates a woman; but far less convincing. The way to usually spot one, is to look for the white man with shaved blonde hair and blue eyes sporting a very long oversized t-shirt that goes down to his knees, a baseball cap, and ridiculously baggy trousers that hang below their crotch line (hence the long shirt). They will walk as if a rusty exhaust pipe had been jammed up their rectum and gesticulate like a deaf person who's had one too many blows to the head.
So we're walking along Yonge street when a lone wigga who is standing around on the sidewalk, trying to look mean for the sake of looking mean starts harassing Kerry, 'Yo sup bitch -I can fuck you real good bitch -put my nine inch inside ya...' I suppose he was talking about the exhaust pipe up his arse. Wiggas aren't usually seen with girlfriends, their breeding partners are usually dried up and wrinkled crack whores who suck cigarettes for nourishment. We carried on walking, ignoring the ruffian who was staggering aimlessly to and fro; only that he wasn't drunk.
We were about a hundred metres away when the guy started shouting obscenities, flinging his arms all over the place as though he was trying to fly. I looked at Kerry and said, 'Bloody wiggas'.
7.18.2006
Computers: They Don't Bedazzle Smart People
I've come to the conclusion that smart people do not use computers: smart people use people who use computers...
The smart man/woman strives away from relying solely on the computer to procure their income; they know that the computer will eventually fritter away more of their time than is worth while.
Not to say that people who are technologically savvy are stupid; far be it, no doubt that they have the intelligence, but they lack the common sense to know how to improve their life.
The smart man knows about computers, he knows that they can be a lucrative source of income. He realizes that the computer is a tool that can enable an efficient workflow and thus increase profit; at the same time, he knows that to invest time to learn them can mean sacrificing opportunities to make money and improve his lifestyle.
Any job involving computers, requires the operator to constantly update their knowledge in order to remain employed and stay ahead of the competition. Therefore by relying on computers to make a living, you are tied to a course of self improvement that will have no positive influence on your income.
An example is the guy who designs websites, creates 3D animations and illustrations (ie. Me). The more I know, the better chance of getting work that I have. I can read books, and learn alot about the software that I'm using ad infinitum. Meanwhile, as I'm studying these books on computer applications, there is perhaps another guy who is reading books about finance, trading and property management. The other guy will be making more money than me while I will be constantly struggling to remain ahead of my computer co-workers.
He'll have the extra income to enable him the freedom to do whatever he so chooses, and his hobbies might include computers too! So the point that I'm basically trying to make, is that if you want to make it rich, don't expect to do it without knowledge of finance and economics.
The smart man/woman strives away from relying solely on the computer to procure their income; they know that the computer will eventually fritter away more of their time than is worth while.
Not to say that people who are technologically savvy are stupid; far be it, no doubt that they have the intelligence, but they lack the common sense to know how to improve their life.
The smart man knows about computers, he knows that they can be a lucrative source of income. He realizes that the computer is a tool that can enable an efficient workflow and thus increase profit; at the same time, he knows that to invest time to learn them can mean sacrificing opportunities to make money and improve his lifestyle.
Any job involving computers, requires the operator to constantly update their knowledge in order to remain employed and stay ahead of the competition. Therefore by relying on computers to make a living, you are tied to a course of self improvement that will have no positive influence on your income.
An example is the guy who designs websites, creates 3D animations and illustrations (ie. Me). The more I know, the better chance of getting work that I have. I can read books, and learn alot about the software that I'm using ad infinitum. Meanwhile, as I'm studying these books on computer applications, there is perhaps another guy who is reading books about finance, trading and property management. The other guy will be making more money than me while I will be constantly struggling to remain ahead of my computer co-workers.
He'll have the extra income to enable him the freedom to do whatever he so chooses, and his hobbies might include computers too! So the point that I'm basically trying to make, is that if you want to make it rich, don't expect to do it without knowledge of finance and economics.
7.14.2006
In Times of Confusion
When faced with a dilemma, the best thing to do is to put yourself into your shoes, and ask yourself, 'What would I do in a situation like this?'
7.13.2006
Strange Visitation to MY Room
My household is strange. I live in a weird neighbourhood. I just had a knocking at the door.
'Yes? what do you want?' I said while I hurriedly jumped into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and pulled on a sleeveless top.
'It's okay, if you're busy, it doesn't matter.' he shouted through the door. I unlocked the door, and opened it while I readjusted my clothes.
I found standing before me, was my landlord and about three middle-aged Indian people. They had come to check out the room next to me that would be vacant next month, and they 'wanted to meet the other occupants of the house.'
The woman closest to me, suddenly thrust her head through the door to peek into my room. I hadn't really prepared the room for visitors; my cum-stained boxer shorts were hanging over the lamp shade, and a cum tissue was laying there on the table. A pile of dishes with mouldy food and fruit flies sat untouched in a plastic basin. She looked at me, and sniffed, I smiled at her.
The two men that were with her moved closer to the door, I wondered what the hell I was doing and decided that I am going to exert my god given right of privacy. I grabbed the door and slowly began to close it, pushing back the nosey beast who said, 'Oh!' Enough is enough, my landlord had no right to bring these strangers to me, they could have been psychopathic murderers or even worse: sadomasochists.
I was not ready to be anally abused by marauding sex fiends who masqueraded as innocent appartment seekers; I wasn't ready, not that moment anyway; maybe later but not then. I closed the door until it was a narrow gap through which my landlord continued to feed my apologetic murmurs. The door slammed shut, and I locked it; made sure it clicked, then gave a sigh of relief. It was a close call, too close...
'Yes? what do you want?' I said while I hurriedly jumped into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and pulled on a sleeveless top.
'It's okay, if you're busy, it doesn't matter.' he shouted through the door. I unlocked the door, and opened it while I readjusted my clothes.
I found standing before me, was my landlord and about three middle-aged Indian people. They had come to check out the room next to me that would be vacant next month, and they 'wanted to meet the other occupants of the house.'
The woman closest to me, suddenly thrust her head through the door to peek into my room. I hadn't really prepared the room for visitors; my cum-stained boxer shorts were hanging over the lamp shade, and a cum tissue was laying there on the table. A pile of dishes with mouldy food and fruit flies sat untouched in a plastic basin. She looked at me, and sniffed, I smiled at her.
The two men that were with her moved closer to the door, I wondered what the hell I was doing and decided that I am going to exert my god given right of privacy. I grabbed the door and slowly began to close it, pushing back the nosey beast who said, 'Oh!' Enough is enough, my landlord had no right to bring these strangers to me, they could have been psychopathic murderers or even worse: sadomasochists.
I was not ready to be anally abused by marauding sex fiends who masqueraded as innocent appartment seekers; I wasn't ready, not that moment anyway; maybe later but not then. I closed the door until it was a narrow gap through which my landlord continued to feed my apologetic murmurs. The door slammed shut, and I locked it; made sure it clicked, then gave a sigh of relief. It was a close call, too close...
Tourettes Blog - FUCK
Fucking fuck off. Hello. I fuck your mongoose you fuck face fuck you up the fuck hole. And good morning mister Davies -fuck you. Two creams and a fuck off sugar in my fucking tea you fuck, I hate you fuck bastard wank my toy panda.
Yes, extremely fine weather we're having -fucker doo doo, die you bastard. So how's the I hate the bitch and her fucking shit spawn your wife and kids doing?
Yes, extremely fine weather we're having -fucker doo doo, die you bastard. So how's the I hate the bitch and her fucking shit spawn your wife and kids doing?
Frogs Have Teeth
There are some things that you'd rather not know, but when curiosity gets the better of you, the truth is most often too chilling to handle.
I know not why, but I was making a cup of coffee today when I wondered whether frogs had teeth. A quick google search revealed that they do.
Now that my interest had been peaked, I went to the local library to further research the matter. Looking through dusty old volumes, I found out that back in the Dark Ages, there were stories of giant frogs which terrorized and ate villagers.
It sounds like a Hollywood movie, right? Well, back then, they didn't need Hollywood: they lived it, baby.
I know not why, but I was making a cup of coffee today when I wondered whether frogs had teeth. A quick google search revealed that they do.
Now that my interest had been peaked, I went to the local library to further research the matter. Looking through dusty old volumes, I found out that back in the Dark Ages, there were stories of giant frogs which terrorized and ate villagers.
It sounds like a Hollywood movie, right? Well, back then, they didn't need Hollywood: they lived it, baby.
Writing Equals AAAaarrrggggghhh
Working on this first novel thing, shit I hope I'm not becoming mainstream. I can see the thing inside my head, but my writing style is starting to get boring. How can I imbue it with the frenzy of madness that is often so lacking in my work?
The only way I see how, is to scream 'aaargghh', and bash my head against the wall until it bleeds; that way, I may gain the extra edge in insanity that every writer should have.
The only way I see how, is to scream 'aaargghh', and bash my head against the wall until it bleeds; that way, I may gain the extra edge in insanity that every writer should have.
7.12.2006
Fluffy Things That Go Meoww and Bump in the Night
A dear friend of mine has recently become the soul inheritor of some fluffy things that make a meow sound.
Allow me to explain. These 'things' are quite hairy, they have four protrusions on their underside, big eyes and a tendril that curves from their back.
He has offered me the opportunity to acquire one of these creatures; I think it would be fun to own one of these strange balls of fluff, although I really doubt my ability to look after one.
Allow me to explain. These 'things' are quite hairy, they have four protrusions on their underside, big eyes and a tendril that curves from their back.
He has offered me the opportunity to acquire one of these creatures; I think it would be fun to own one of these strange balls of fluff, although I really doubt my ability to look after one.
I BLOG therefore I AM
this is one of my more successful pieces that I wrote in the year 1984; it was such a celebratory hit, that the Queen awarded me a Knighthood for it.
...
I AM BLOGGER; THEREFORE I AM
I have slain men, and drank their horses' blood,
I AM BLOGGER, 'COS I DO WHAT I CAN
It was late in the evening, when the campfires went out,
Children were screaming while cattle was dreaming,
I BLOG I BLOG, I BLOGGED A BRAVE KNIGHT'S HEAD OFF,
mercy, mercy cried the hero, before I cut off his blog.
I have conquered civilizations, destroyed worlds...
WE ARE BLOG
...
I AM BLOGGER; THEREFORE I AM
I have slain men, and drank their horses' blood,
I AM BLOGGER, 'COS I DO WHAT I CAN
It was late in the evening, when the campfires went out,
Children were screaming while cattle was dreaming,
I BLOG I BLOG, I BLOGGED A BRAVE KNIGHT'S HEAD OFF,
mercy, mercy cried the hero, before I cut off his blog.
I have conquered civilizations, destroyed worlds...
WE ARE BLOG
I am god-like in nature: Ancient Blogger Bloodlines
I have new visitors to my blog everyday.
If this is your first time to my blog, please be aware that these words that you now caress with your eyes are not from just any ordinary blogger; I am THE BLOGGER.
I noticed my power, it's a strange power that draws people into the gossamer strands of my writing. It captures and sucks their energy.
I AM BLOGGER; descended from the ORIGINAL BLOGGER who landed here on this our planet, all those aeons ago. An alien race of beings who live in a distant galaxy, a super race of bloggers.
I cannot help but be GOD-LIKE in nature. Praise be, praise me, my descendants wrote the original blog: the fucking BIBLE.
If this is your first time to my blog, please be aware that these words that you now caress with your eyes are not from just any ordinary blogger; I am THE BLOGGER.
I noticed my power, it's a strange power that draws people into the gossamer strands of my writing. It captures and sucks their energy.
I AM BLOGGER; descended from the ORIGINAL BLOGGER who landed here on this our planet, all those aeons ago. An alien race of beings who live in a distant galaxy, a super race of bloggers.
I cannot help but be GOD-LIKE in nature. Praise be, praise me, my descendants wrote the original blog: the fucking BIBLE.
7.10.2006
I saw the gay movie Superman Returns at the Freemasons Cinema
So I went to the Paramount today to watch Superman Returns.
I saw that fucking movie in the 3D Imax because I needed to see what kind of technology the Freemasons were using to brainwash people with.
I usually go to a movie theatre expecting to have the whole place to myself; unfortunately, it was not the case; I had to share with a million other people today.
I have a big problem with people who eat in movie theatres; I find it most unatural, it bothers me. I'm not talking about popcorn, but people who eat take-out meals during the film. Actually, I have a problem with people who eat potentially messy foods in the dark. How the hell, do you see what you're sticking in your mouth, and when it's not going into your mouth it's ending up on the person who's sitting infront of you.
So anyway, I had a couple sitting to the left of me, who were enjoying a three course meal: the whole works. Crispy appetizers to begin with, then a soup, an entree and dessert. I think most of it ended up on their laps, but I was ready to make a big song and dance musical out of it should any food have dropped on me.
I had an empty seat to my right, up until about 10 minutes into the movie! I cannot stand it when people block my view at the start of a movie; I have to watch every single frame, if I miss a frame, then the film is basically... ruined. This guy sat down next to me, he was eating an icecream cone, with two more cones at the ready. He ate like a pig. Yom yomsch yomsch yomsch (that's a pretty cool onomatopeia I invented, eh?). Well, I couldn't concentrate on the movie, I've already missed vital frames and I was too busy avoiding flying food. I removed my drink from the holder and he thrust his cones in there; the bastard stole my drink holder.
The couple eventually finished their five course dinner, and the guy finishes off his third icecream. I relaxed, and began to settle into the film. Next minute, the pig is rubbing his temples and shifting left and right in his chair; fucking idiot has given himself brain freeze. He is just staring at the icecream stain on his black shirt during the movie, looking very unhappy, only taking brief breaks to watch the action scenes.
The movie is not entirely 3D, now and then we were ordered to put on the provided protective goggles during the 3D scenes. It got tiresome putting them on and then taking them off for brief scenes of flying and ... stuff moving quickly. I was glad when the icecream monster decided to take a permanent hiatus halfway through the movie. I could relax again.
Superman looked kinda gay. I noticed that all the way through the movie. Only a gay man would wear a multi-coloured rompa suit with pride and have impeccably well styled hair . He's a good looking guy with big dreamy arms and everything... Wow, you can become gay just by watching this movie.
The acting was bad. Every character in the movie only existed to support the lead guy. These (sub) characters contributed no emotional value to the plot, they were just there for the amusement of Superman; toys for him to play with: like dildos but not as intelligent.
Lois Lane is particularly stupid, she cannot make the connection that Clark Kent and Superman are indeed the same person. Clark Kent has disappeared for five years, so has Superman, they both make their reappearance at the same time; they also look like each other. How dumb can you get? She doesn't even care about Clark Kent; or her husband, when she decided to kiss Superman. She came across as a bitch, and I wouldn't have had any sympathy for her if she died.
So I will not review this film anymore; it hurts me to do so. I happened to discover a whole load of Freemason references in the movie; Superman himself is a Freemason. There's just too much crap. Gimme Spiderman anyday, he is a normal guy just like me. Hoorah.
I saw that fucking movie in the 3D Imax because I needed to see what kind of technology the Freemasons were using to brainwash people with.
I usually go to a movie theatre expecting to have the whole place to myself; unfortunately, it was not the case; I had to share with a million other people today.
I have a big problem with people who eat in movie theatres; I find it most unatural, it bothers me. I'm not talking about popcorn, but people who eat take-out meals during the film. Actually, I have a problem with people who eat potentially messy foods in the dark. How the hell, do you see what you're sticking in your mouth, and when it's not going into your mouth it's ending up on the person who's sitting infront of you.
So anyway, I had a couple sitting to the left of me, who were enjoying a three course meal: the whole works. Crispy appetizers to begin with, then a soup, an entree and dessert. I think most of it ended up on their laps, but I was ready to make a big song and dance musical out of it should any food have dropped on me.
I had an empty seat to my right, up until about 10 minutes into the movie! I cannot stand it when people block my view at the start of a movie; I have to watch every single frame, if I miss a frame, then the film is basically... ruined. This guy sat down next to me, he was eating an icecream cone, with two more cones at the ready. He ate like a pig. Yom yomsch yomsch yomsch (that's a pretty cool onomatopeia I invented, eh?). Well, I couldn't concentrate on the movie, I've already missed vital frames and I was too busy avoiding flying food. I removed my drink from the holder and he thrust his cones in there; the bastard stole my drink holder.
The couple eventually finished their five course dinner, and the guy finishes off his third icecream. I relaxed, and began to settle into the film. Next minute, the pig is rubbing his temples and shifting left and right in his chair; fucking idiot has given himself brain freeze. He is just staring at the icecream stain on his black shirt during the movie, looking very unhappy, only taking brief breaks to watch the action scenes.
The movie is not entirely 3D, now and then we were ordered to put on the provided protective goggles during the 3D scenes. It got tiresome putting them on and then taking them off for brief scenes of flying and ... stuff moving quickly. I was glad when the icecream monster decided to take a permanent hiatus halfway through the movie. I could relax again.
Superman looked kinda gay. I noticed that all the way through the movie. Only a gay man would wear a multi-coloured rompa suit with pride and have impeccably well styled hair . He's a good looking guy with big dreamy arms and everything... Wow, you can become gay just by watching this movie.
The acting was bad. Every character in the movie only existed to support the lead guy. These (sub) characters contributed no emotional value to the plot, they were just there for the amusement of Superman; toys for him to play with: like dildos but not as intelligent.
Lois Lane is particularly stupid, she cannot make the connection that Clark Kent and Superman are indeed the same person. Clark Kent has disappeared for five years, so has Superman, they both make their reappearance at the same time; they also look like each other. How dumb can you get? She doesn't even care about Clark Kent; or her husband, when she decided to kiss Superman. She came across as a bitch, and I wouldn't have had any sympathy for her if she died.
So I will not review this film anymore; it hurts me to do so. I happened to discover a whole load of Freemason references in the movie; Superman himself is a Freemason. There's just too much crap. Gimme Spiderman anyday, he is a normal guy just like me. Hoorah.
I can't go to Paramount anymore/ Freemasons allergy
It's such a shame, a shame, shame, shame. Since I discovered that Paramount is a Freemason enterprise, it's hard for me to set foot in their cinemas anymore.
The Paramount cinema located in Downtown, Toronto, looks like a giant cube rotated onto one of it's corners. Freemasons love squares, they also have an obsession with five pointed/sided shapes, and tall phallic structures.
I have this theory that the Freemasons are building the Matrix and slowly getting us used to it.
The Paramount cinema located in Downtown, Toronto, looks like a giant cube rotated onto one of it's corners. Freemasons love squares, they also have an obsession with five pointed/sided shapes, and tall phallic structures.
I have this theory that the Freemasons are building the Matrix and slowly getting us used to it.
7.08.2006
Making Friends at the Launderette
The launderette, a poet once remarked that it is 'a beautiful place where clothes go to heaven for the day'. I can't remember where I read that, but for sure I read it just now.
I was at my local coin operated self service laundry today, catching up with a few weeks of dirty bed linen and cum stained underwear. It's such a great place to meet characters, it's cheaper than going to a night club, and everyone has something in common; they're wearing their shittiest clothes.
So I thought to myself, mmm, what would I do if I won the lottery... The answer is obvious, I would exchange all that money for quarters, so I could spend all my time hanging out at the launderette making friends. Honestly, it's the place to be because I like people who wear clean clothes; they're people that you can take home to meet your mother.
I believe that if you've ever considered becoming a serious writer; don't do your washing at home, go to the local coin operated and meet strange new character ideas. I don't understand why writers want to meet other writers for inspiration; the inspiration is in your neighbourhood on the streets, and in their shittiest clothes.
I was at my local coin operated self service laundry today, catching up with a few weeks of dirty bed linen and cum stained underwear. It's such a great place to meet characters, it's cheaper than going to a night club, and everyone has something in common; they're wearing their shittiest clothes.
So I thought to myself, mmm, what would I do if I won the lottery... The answer is obvious, I would exchange all that money for quarters, so I could spend all my time hanging out at the launderette making friends. Honestly, it's the place to be because I like people who wear clean clothes; they're people that you can take home to meet your mother.
I believe that if you've ever considered becoming a serious writer; don't do your washing at home, go to the local coin operated and meet strange new character ideas. I don't understand why writers want to meet other writers for inspiration; the inspiration is in your neighbourhood on the streets, and in their shittiest clothes.
A Devout Christian Who Murders Freemasons
As many of my closest friends are aware, I am a devout Christian who spends most of my time in prayer and surfing for porn.
Faced with a dilemma, I would often say to myself, 'What would Jesus do in this situation?'; but I would just say it; I wouldn't think what he might actually do.
I've had acquaintances who joined The Freemasons and subsequently their careers would rocket to the top; I don't understand why anyone would want to be at the top, it's nicer at the bottom where you can get a good view up ladies' skirts.
This is quite a random post actually; I'm still testing the ability of my new blog to help me generate new ideas. The gawd honest truth, ladies and gentlemen, I don't actually use my brain to type my blogs... I use a keyboard, otherwise it would hurt too much and I might have an epileptic fit half way through.
Faced with a dilemma, I would often say to myself, 'What would Jesus do in this situation?'; but I would just say it; I wouldn't think what he might actually do.
I've had acquaintances who joined The Freemasons and subsequently their careers would rocket to the top; I don't understand why anyone would want to be at the top, it's nicer at the bottom where you can get a good view up ladies' skirts.
This is quite a random post actually; I'm still testing the ability of my new blog to help me generate new ideas. The gawd honest truth, ladies and gentlemen, I don't actually use my brain to type my blogs... I use a keyboard, otherwise it would hurt too much and I might have an epileptic fit half way through.
7.07.2006
NEW BLOG! I MOVED FROM MSN SPACES!
I've transferred some of the articles from my old MSN blog to this site; I hate having to start with a blank blog: it's like moving into a new house without your furniture and belongings.
I haven't copied all of the old blog, so I'm keeping my old site incase you want to read the older entries.
I'm just making myself at home now, trying to get accustomed to the new features. The reason for the move is to increase my exposure on the web; now that I have two blogs, I am twice as powerful: 'If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.'
I haven't copied all of the old blog, so I'm keeping my old site incase you want to read the older entries.
I'm just making myself at home now, trying to get accustomed to the new features. The reason for the move is to increase my exposure on the web; now that I have two blogs, I am twice as powerful: 'If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.'
Sneezing and Nose Leakage
I am taking a break from book writing...
I have been sneezing throughout the day and nursing a runny nose. I've observed that if I tilt my head forward too much, what seems to be an extravagant amount of liquid pours out of my snout. It occurred to me that I may have inadvertently punctured my skull while picking my nose; I'm losing brain fluid.
I have been sneezing throughout the day and nursing a runny nose. I've observed that if I tilt my head forward too much, what seems to be an extravagant amount of liquid pours out of my snout. It occurred to me that I may have inadvertently punctured my skull while picking my nose; I'm losing brain fluid.
Part Man/ Part Crab
"With great power comes great responsibility." - Spiderman
I've had complaints from readers about the credibility of some of my stories; I admit, some of them may be slightly false, but the story that I'm about to convey, is unbelievably true...
Last summer, I was cutting up a particularly tough stalk of celery when the knife slipped; it cut straight through the fleshy part of my thumb. I felt a sharp pain when it happened, but was surprised that I was not bleeding; I had never cut myself in my entire life. I looked at my flesh wound, expecting that blood would gush out any moment, but nothing happened. The flesh was white and squishy, I peeled the skin back and prodded it; strange, I had no sensation. I pulled the skin back further and a piece of white flesh fell out. I picked it up from the cutting board and examined it; it looked so familiar.
It wasn't until that I tried to stuff my flesh back beneath the flap of skin, that I realised what it was. The smell had seemed familiar to me when I sniffed it; it was crab meat. I put it to my lips as my heart drummed faster, touched it with my tongue, mmmm, I took a bite... This was no ordinary crab meat: this was imitation crab meat; I was made of imitation crab meat! Then my whole life suddenly began to make sense; all these years, and now it all comes together. I understood why children have always found me so fun to hang around with; it's because kids LOVE imitation crabmeat, they thrive on it.
I used to write about human eyeballs
This is an article that I wrote over 3 years ago!! It was a submission for the BBC book of the Future. I'm tempted to edit it; the grammar is not too great, but instead, I'll probably just cut and paste it as I had originally intended for it to be read. As you'll see, I didn't have a sense of humour back then...
You can find more articles that I wrote HERE.
HUMAN EYEBALLS: A Delicacy!!!
The ever increasing popularity and demand for Digitally Enhanced Vision (DEV), has resulted in an over abundant surplus of organic human eyeballs.
Five years ago, we saw the shipping of over 10,000 surgically removed eyeballs from America, where DEV was orginally pioneered, to several third-world countries for transplants where blindness caused by eye diseases still remain a problem.
Now, we are faced with another problem; what to do with all the excess eyeballs? It appears that there is a growing market in Japan and other parts of Asia for human eyeballs as a delicacy. The oculars can be freshly bought in any Japanese supermarket and cooked or eaten raw.
As with most things Japanese these days, the trend for eating human eyeballs seems to be catching on over here in the West. Already, in a few popular London sushi bars, one can purchase eyeball soup or, sliced and battered crispy eyeballs with prawns.
Eye have to give it a go some time!
The ever increasing popularity and demand for Digitally Enhanced Vision (DEV), has resulted in an over abundant surplus of organic human eyeballs.
Five years ago, we saw the shipping of over 10,000 surgically removed eyeballs from America, where DEV was orginally pioneered, to several third-world countries for transplants where blindness caused by eye diseases still remain a problem.
Now, we are faced with another problem; what to do with all the excess eyeballs? It appears that there is a growing market in Japan and other parts of Asia for human eyeballs as a delicacy. The oculars can be freshly bought in any Japanese supermarket and cooked or eaten raw.
As with most things Japanese these days, the trend for eating human eyeballs seems to be catching on over here in the West. Already, in a few popular London sushi bars, one can purchase eyeball soup or, sliced and battered crispy eyeballs with prawns.
Eye have to give it a go some time!
You can find more articles that I wrote HERE.
The Closet Energy Vampire
As many of my closest and dearest friends already know, I am a closet energy vampire; that's right, I suck people's energy.
Being an energy vampire is not easy, nor do I choose this life by choice. Like others of my kind, we became vampires after we had our own energy sucked.
If I don't get energy, then I start to feel weak. Without energy, I cannot move, cannot function and cannot think.
Some vampires do not believe in sucking energy from humans; they find other sources, which can often be much better. Food seems to be the closest alternative energy form. It can be easily acquired then absorbed through the mouth.
Being an energy vampire is not easy, nor do I choose this life by choice. Like others of my kind, we became vampires after we had our own energy sucked.
If I don't get energy, then I start to feel weak. Without energy, I cannot move, cannot function and cannot think.
Some vampires do not believe in sucking energy from humans; they find other sources, which can often be much better. Food seems to be the closest alternative energy form. It can be easily acquired then absorbed through the mouth.
Computer Shops & The Broken Laptop Hinge
Fear strikes me whenever I have to return broken electronic goods: in this case, it was the hinge of my laptop. It's been broken for sometime now, but today was the day that I decided to finally get it fixed since I was tired of finding ways to prop up the screen.
The laptop was originally bought at Future Shop, a Canadian chain of computer/electronic stores. Although, the manufacturer warranty had already expired, the Future Shop warranty which was also purchased at the time was still valid.
I took the computer to the Returns desk; as usual with these high street outlets, I expected a long wait; they prefer to invest in sales rather than customer returns staff. Eventually, a young lady approached me, 'how can I help you?' she said with a look of annoyance.
'My laptop hinges are broken, I've brought it in for repairs; it's covered by the Future Shop warranty.'
'Have you seen the technician yet? He needs to check what's wrong with it...'
'No... I already know what's wrong with it... the hinges are broken.'
'You have to take it upstairs and have him have a look at it before we can proceed with repairs.'
The technician was a small man who seemed to be on the telephone alot. I waited patiently; okay, I lied, I was majorly irritated. When the phone calls were finally over, he walked over to the door where I was standing, 'how can I help?'
I scanned the man's face which was devoid of all emotion, 'I've brought my laptop in to have the hinges repaired, they're loose -see...' I demonstrated by opening the screen and fanning it up and down. He repeated the action.
'Do you have any valuable data on the hard drive?'
'Nothing's wrong with my hard drive, it's the hinges...' I stressed.
'Yes I know, but we may need to open it up, and data may be damaged.'
That wasn't an acceptable explanation, but I just agreed for the sake of getting on with life. He signed my warranty and I took it downstairs; once again prepared for another long wait; nobody was at the desk. A young man showed up and without saying a word took the warranty that I handed to him. After five minutes of repeatedly tapping the same key on his computer which was apparently down, he printed out another receipt which I had to take up the stairs. I plodded back upstairs.
This time the technician was checking data on his computer. I could feel my precious life ticking away. I coughed for attention. He came over to take the new receipt from me and produced a clipboard for me to sign. He turned the page over, and asked me if their were any passwords on the computer.
'I'm sure you won't need any passwords to fix a broken hinge!' I replied defiantly.
'We may need the password for testing. Do you have any passwords?' He glared at me.
He must have been quite convincing at the time because I actually told him 'yes', then he asked me what the password was; I clued into his game and told him that I didn't have a password.
'Is it alright to delete the data on the drive?' he droned.
At this point, I had given up on the notion that I could convince this guy that the hinge fault was a mechanical problem that had nothing whatsoever to do with the electronic hardware. I just nodded impatiently, 'yeah, do whatever...'
I have my fingers crossed for two weeks, and pray to the god of laptops that everything will be fine.
The laptop was originally bought at Future Shop, a Canadian chain of computer/electronic stores. Although, the manufacturer warranty had already expired, the Future Shop warranty which was also purchased at the time was still valid.
I took the computer to the Returns desk; as usual with these high street outlets, I expected a long wait; they prefer to invest in sales rather than customer returns staff. Eventually, a young lady approached me, 'how can I help you?' she said with a look of annoyance.
'My laptop hinges are broken, I've brought it in for repairs; it's covered by the Future Shop warranty.'
'Have you seen the technician yet? He needs to check what's wrong with it...'
'No... I already know what's wrong with it... the hinges are broken.'
'You have to take it upstairs and have him have a look at it before we can proceed with repairs.'
The technician was a small man who seemed to be on the telephone alot. I waited patiently; okay, I lied, I was majorly irritated. When the phone calls were finally over, he walked over to the door where I was standing, 'how can I help?'
I scanned the man's face which was devoid of all emotion, 'I've brought my laptop in to have the hinges repaired, they're loose -see...' I demonstrated by opening the screen and fanning it up and down. He repeated the action.
'Do you have any valuable data on the hard drive?'
'Nothing's wrong with my hard drive, it's the hinges...' I stressed.
'Yes I know, but we may need to open it up, and data may be damaged.'
That wasn't an acceptable explanation, but I just agreed for the sake of getting on with life. He signed my warranty and I took it downstairs; once again prepared for another long wait; nobody was at the desk. A young man showed up and without saying a word took the warranty that I handed to him. After five minutes of repeatedly tapping the same key on his computer which was apparently down, he printed out another receipt which I had to take up the stairs. I plodded back upstairs.
This time the technician was checking data on his computer. I could feel my precious life ticking away. I coughed for attention. He came over to take the new receipt from me and produced a clipboard for me to sign. He turned the page over, and asked me if their were any passwords on the computer.
'I'm sure you won't need any passwords to fix a broken hinge!' I replied defiantly.
'We may need the password for testing. Do you have any passwords?' He glared at me.
He must have been quite convincing at the time because I actually told him 'yes', then he asked me what the password was; I clued into his game and told him that I didn't have a password.
'Is it alright to delete the data on the drive?' he droned.
At this point, I had given up on the notion that I could convince this guy that the hinge fault was a mechanical problem that had nothing whatsoever to do with the electronic hardware. I just nodded impatiently, 'yeah, do whatever...'
I have my fingers crossed for two weeks, and pray to the god of laptops that everything will be fine.
The Pride Festival Creature
Bob was a big hairy beast. A large muscle bound freak who creaked when he moved.
As the days drew closer to gay Pride week, I noticed changes in Bob. He became withdrawn, sat on the sofa all day to neglect his regular visits to the gym. The muscle eventually turned to fat, the fat turned to liquid and evaporated through his enlarged stinky pores.
'What's wrong with you Bob?' I asked him. He sat still, almost motionless on that sofa, staring at the television through eyes crusted with sleepy dust. He didn't even glance at me to respond.
'I'm getting better...' he spoke hoarsely through his rotten scurvy lips, 'can't you see? I'm getting better...' His breathing was shallow and irregular, wheezing like a punctured tyre. 'I'm getting better...'
Then one morning, as I filled the kettle with water, I noticed Bob lying on the sofa. Concerned that he may have died, I walked over to his body, and noticed that his sweat had hardened to form a thin crusty shell over his skin. It felt hard and oozed yellowy pus as I pressed it. Squeamishly, I picked up his wrist and felt for a pulse. I could feel a weak beat coming from beneath a spiderweb of purple veins. His blood shot eyes opened and his pupils swung slowly around at me.
'Bob, you're not well, I should call a doctor.' I said as I gently laid his arm down by his side.
'I'm getting betterrrr...' he moaned through his strained exhalation. I picked up the phone and called the doctor.
A while later, an unshaven scrawny man showed up. He was carrying a medical bag over his shoulder. A cigarette hung loosely from his bottom lip. 'Where's the fucking patient?' he demanded impatiently as I opened the door, I pointed him over to Bob on the couch. He hurried over and placed the medical bag onto Bob's chest. 'He looks fine, I'm going to prescribe him a couple of shots of penicillin, and we'll see if his condition improves.' He reached into his bag and pulled out a syringe that was tinged with red and a small vial of liquid penicillin.
‘He doesn’t look so great to me, I’m pretty sure he’s dying…’ I stuttered.
He stabbed the needle into the small glass container, ‘Are you a fucking doctor?’
I looked at him. His eyes were piercing and aggressively penetrating, they twitched wildly like restless ants. ‘Are you a fucking doctor?’ he repeated forcefully.
‘Uh… no.’
He threw the empty glass vessel, smashing it against the wall, ‘then shut the fuck up!’ He injected Bob’s pale and lifeless body with the medicine.
‘I just want him to get better.’ I stammered nervously, ‘gay pride week starts tomorrow, and Bob’s never missed a single one.’ The doctor looked at me with a puzzled expression, then proceeded to collect his belongings and promptly left our apartment.
Throughout the night, I maintained a vigil on Bob. The crust around his body appeared to thicken as pustules would erupt beneath the skin. As morning approached, I drifted to sleep in the wooden chair next to him.
I remembered being woken up by the loud sound of cracking as if someone was breaking polystyrene blocks. Through my cloudy vision, I could make out the contours of Bob splitting open and another figure crawling out.
I looked at the form that stood before me. It was Bob; but he looked different. He was wearing a rather flamboyant pink dress. A tall blonde curly wig flounced around his long eyelashes and ruby red lips. Blusher and white powder made a poor attempt to hide his four o’clock shadow. He spun around on his tall platform heels, and giggled as the skirt helicoptered upwards to reveal his thick hairy legs. Bob had transformed into a drag queen.
As the days drew closer to gay Pride week, I noticed changes in Bob. He became withdrawn, sat on the sofa all day to neglect his regular visits to the gym. The muscle eventually turned to fat, the fat turned to liquid and evaporated through his enlarged stinky pores.
'What's wrong with you Bob?' I asked him. He sat still, almost motionless on that sofa, staring at the television through eyes crusted with sleepy dust. He didn't even glance at me to respond.
'I'm getting better...' he spoke hoarsely through his rotten scurvy lips, 'can't you see? I'm getting better...' His breathing was shallow and irregular, wheezing like a punctured tyre. 'I'm getting better...'
Then one morning, as I filled the kettle with water, I noticed Bob lying on the sofa. Concerned that he may have died, I walked over to his body, and noticed that his sweat had hardened to form a thin crusty shell over his skin. It felt hard and oozed yellowy pus as I pressed it. Squeamishly, I picked up his wrist and felt for a pulse. I could feel a weak beat coming from beneath a spiderweb of purple veins. His blood shot eyes opened and his pupils swung slowly around at me.
'Bob, you're not well, I should call a doctor.' I said as I gently laid his arm down by his side.
'I'm getting betterrrr...' he moaned through his strained exhalation. I picked up the phone and called the doctor.
A while later, an unshaven scrawny man showed up. He was carrying a medical bag over his shoulder. A cigarette hung loosely from his bottom lip. 'Where's the fucking patient?' he demanded impatiently as I opened the door, I pointed him over to Bob on the couch. He hurried over and placed the medical bag onto Bob's chest. 'He looks fine, I'm going to prescribe him a couple of shots of penicillin, and we'll see if his condition improves.' He reached into his bag and pulled out a syringe that was tinged with red and a small vial of liquid penicillin.
‘He doesn’t look so great to me, I’m pretty sure he’s dying…’ I stuttered.
He stabbed the needle into the small glass container, ‘Are you a fucking doctor?’
I looked at him. His eyes were piercing and aggressively penetrating, they twitched wildly like restless ants. ‘Are you a fucking doctor?’ he repeated forcefully.
‘Uh… no.’
He threw the empty glass vessel, smashing it against the wall, ‘then shut the fuck up!’ He injected Bob’s pale and lifeless body with the medicine.
‘I just want him to get better.’ I stammered nervously, ‘gay pride week starts tomorrow, and Bob’s never missed a single one.’ The doctor looked at me with a puzzled expression, then proceeded to collect his belongings and promptly left our apartment.
Throughout the night, I maintained a vigil on Bob. The crust around his body appeared to thicken as pustules would erupt beneath the skin. As morning approached, I drifted to sleep in the wooden chair next to him.
I remembered being woken up by the loud sound of cracking as if someone was breaking polystyrene blocks. Through my cloudy vision, I could make out the contours of Bob splitting open and another figure crawling out.
I looked at the form that stood before me. It was Bob; but he looked different. He was wearing a rather flamboyant pink dress. A tall blonde curly wig flounced around his long eyelashes and ruby red lips. Blusher and white powder made a poor attempt to hide his four o’clock shadow. He spun around on his tall platform heels, and giggled as the skirt helicoptered upwards to reveal his thick hairy legs. Bob had transformed into a drag queen.
Exciting Vindaloo Eating
Chinese people are not designed to eat curry.
In the original blueprints of the different races of man, god said to his best friend and voluntary helper, satan, 'I don't think we should make Chinese people curry eaters.'
Satan replies, 'Damn god, you come up with all the best ideas'.
So on this hot summer afternoon, baking like a spud in my oven of a room for I was not blessed by the gods of air conditioning, I decided to cook a chicken vindaloo.
I anxiously cut the chicken into small pieces. My hands were shaking and sweat poured from my face onto the raw lumps of the creature that I would later digest. Chop, chop, chop. Here I was a Chinese man on a mission to make a vindaloo using the flesh of a feathered monster that once terrified innocent country folk.
The pieces were fried, and the dangerous vindaloo curry paste that I had acquired from east Indian anarchists was poured lovingly on top. The sauce sizzled, and spat at me, hating me for what I was. I pulled my underpants down to my knees, and emptied the contents of my bladder into the mixture, the secret ingredient that Indian restaurant chefs guarded fiercely.
This vindaloo was going to be fucking good. Twenty more minutes of simmering and the fucking bastard child of satan would be ready to consume me. I put on my leather gimp costume and looked in the mirror, 'Jesus, I'm so fucking hot.'
I filled a bowl with rice and a dollop of the hateful vindaloo with the dead chicken. 'Ho hum, I said to myself.' I placed the bowl onto the coffee table and went down on my knees. The acrid fumes that rose from the dish scorched my eyes, I screamed in pain. I unzipped my mouth free and placed a spoonful of the piping hot preparation into my mouth. I could feel the acidic substance dissolving my teeth and gums, searing pain from my tongue crept up to my ears and eyeballs. I swallowed.
The pain was intense as a hot lump of coal moving through my digestive system. My stomach convulsed and forced me to throw myself violently onto the floor. I screamed in pain. My vision blurred. Every single nerve ending in my body was singed. Just before I blacked out, I heard an ambulance arrive outside my house.
In the original blueprints of the different races of man, god said to his best friend and voluntary helper, satan, 'I don't think we should make Chinese people curry eaters.'
Satan replies, 'Damn god, you come up with all the best ideas'.
So on this hot summer afternoon, baking like a spud in my oven of a room for I was not blessed by the gods of air conditioning, I decided to cook a chicken vindaloo.
I anxiously cut the chicken into small pieces. My hands were shaking and sweat poured from my face onto the raw lumps of the creature that I would later digest. Chop, chop, chop. Here I was a Chinese man on a mission to make a vindaloo using the flesh of a feathered monster that once terrified innocent country folk.
The pieces were fried, and the dangerous vindaloo curry paste that I had acquired from east Indian anarchists was poured lovingly on top. The sauce sizzled, and spat at me, hating me for what I was. I pulled my underpants down to my knees, and emptied the contents of my bladder into the mixture, the secret ingredient that Indian restaurant chefs guarded fiercely.
This vindaloo was going to be fucking good. Twenty more minutes of simmering and the fucking bastard child of satan would be ready to consume me. I put on my leather gimp costume and looked in the mirror, 'Jesus, I'm so fucking hot.'
I filled a bowl with rice and a dollop of the hateful vindaloo with the dead chicken. 'Ho hum, I said to myself.' I placed the bowl onto the coffee table and went down on my knees. The acrid fumes that rose from the dish scorched my eyes, I screamed in pain. I unzipped my mouth free and placed a spoonful of the piping hot preparation into my mouth. I could feel the acidic substance dissolving my teeth and gums, searing pain from my tongue crept up to my ears and eyeballs. I swallowed.
The pain was intense as a hot lump of coal moving through my digestive system. My stomach convulsed and forced me to throw myself violently onto the floor. I screamed in pain. My vision blurred. Every single nerve ending in my body was singed. Just before I blacked out, I heard an ambulance arrive outside my house.
Magical Toronto Summers
Life is so good at the moment. It can only get better.
The city was stipped bare by the sunlight today, so I decided to spend the day walking around the city. I often wonder whether there is something wrong with me because whenever I walk the streets of Toronto on a day like this, I can still feel as if I had just landed here almost two years ago. I stepped out of the house, took a deep breath of fresh air and thought to myself, 'Wow!! I'm in frigging Toronto!' Everything looked so fresh today, so vibrant with colour that I could have been walking through a rainbow. The sidewalks gleamed with such intensity, it made the buildings look like they were floating on sunlight.
There was so much life outside today, almost as if the atoms in the people and architecture were thrumming with a frequency so intense that they would either burst or melt. Ah, the air was fresh with traffic fumes and dust, but it felt as if all the elements were in balance today, playing with each other like excited children on a playground. Music blared out from the shops and cafes on Queen Street, flooding the air with a sense of anticipation for the fun summer nights ahead. There is something beautiful about the sound of skateboard wheels on the pavement, it is the wakeup alarm call of the Toronto city streets in summertime.
The city was stipped bare by the sunlight today, so I decided to spend the day walking around the city. I often wonder whether there is something wrong with me because whenever I walk the streets of Toronto on a day like this, I can still feel as if I had just landed here almost two years ago. I stepped out of the house, took a deep breath of fresh air and thought to myself, 'Wow!! I'm in frigging Toronto!' Everything looked so fresh today, so vibrant with colour that I could have been walking through a rainbow. The sidewalks gleamed with such intensity, it made the buildings look like they were floating on sunlight.
There was so much life outside today, almost as if the atoms in the people and architecture were thrumming with a frequency so intense that they would either burst or melt. Ah, the air was fresh with traffic fumes and dust, but it felt as if all the elements were in balance today, playing with each other like excited children on a playground. Music blared out from the shops and cafes on Queen Street, flooding the air with a sense of anticipation for the fun summer nights ahead. There is something beautiful about the sound of skateboard wheels on the pavement, it is the wakeup alarm call of the Toronto city streets in summertime.
One Eyed Deer Merchant
I've been scribbling alot in my sketchbook lately, working out ideas and playing around with graphics.
My background is graphic design, my specialism is Typography/ Typographics, but to be more precise I studied Experimental Typographics. Today, I was in an art book store looking at new typographics, that's where my interests lie. I've always had a fondness for the experimental, finding new ways of expression but not necessarily relying on technology to achieve it.
I recall an incident while I was studying GCSE Art. My art teacher would call one of the students, a 'one idea merchant'. At the time, I hadn't a clue what this meant, for a start my hearing was not too good and I have a tendency to distort stuff with my brain; I thought they were calling him a 'one eyed deer merchant'. Now I have no idea why a merchant would be selling one eyed deers. I asked the aforementioned kid, who was more than a capable artist, infact the top of the class, what a 'one eyed deer merchant was. He told me that he had been accused of this title because he would only develop the first idea that came into his head. It took me awhile, but I eventually understood.
I've found that in any field which involves creative thought, the generation of ideas is the most important skill. While studying at university, my professor told us that the clients aren't paying you to think up a good idea: they're paying you to come up with LOTS of ideas, and then select the most viable option. Brainstorming is not just the first stage of any project, but a continual process that is ultimately refined. Some of the best work by students were the ones produced in the last week of a month's deadline; not because these students were lazy, they were working all the time coming up with alternative ideas and not just being complacent.
The people that I have valued most in my life, are not the one hit wonders, but those who are constantly outputting ideas and testing them. Probably a good example of this is the professional photographer who takes a thousand shots of imagery, knowing that most of them will be rejected to select a few usable ones.
My background is graphic design, my specialism is Typography/ Typographics, but to be more precise I studied Experimental Typographics. Today, I was in an art book store looking at new typographics, that's where my interests lie. I've always had a fondness for the experimental, finding new ways of expression but not necessarily relying on technology to achieve it.
I recall an incident while I was studying GCSE Art. My art teacher would call one of the students, a 'one idea merchant'. At the time, I hadn't a clue what this meant, for a start my hearing was not too good and I have a tendency to distort stuff with my brain; I thought they were calling him a 'one eyed deer merchant'. Now I have no idea why a merchant would be selling one eyed deers. I asked the aforementioned kid, who was more than a capable artist, infact the top of the class, what a 'one eyed deer merchant was. He told me that he had been accused of this title because he would only develop the first idea that came into his head. It took me awhile, but I eventually understood.
I've found that in any field which involves creative thought, the generation of ideas is the most important skill. While studying at university, my professor told us that the clients aren't paying you to think up a good idea: they're paying you to come up with LOTS of ideas, and then select the most viable option. Brainstorming is not just the first stage of any project, but a continual process that is ultimately refined. Some of the best work by students were the ones produced in the last week of a month's deadline; not because these students were lazy, they were working all the time coming up with alternative ideas and not just being complacent.
The people that I have valued most in my life, are not the one hit wonders, but those who are constantly outputting ideas and testing them. Probably a good example of this is the professional photographer who takes a thousand shots of imagery, knowing that most of them will be rejected to select a few usable ones.
The Famous Monkey Blogging Experiment
I remember reading articles of early experiments performed on monkeys by the military. These monkeys were kept in a house, confined to their bedrooms for most of the time with nothing but a computer and a connection to the internet. Now and then, the test subjects were brought together for tea parties and other social events in the living room.
Each monkey was assigned a blog, and given the task of keeping up this blog on a regular basis. Some monkeys would write about how they missed their Amazon home and family while others preferred to write about events in the household.
Oneday, for the first time in the history of blogging, one of the hairy tree climbers decided to link to the other monkeys' blogs and write about them. The test subject was referred to as 128369.
128369 would spend most of their time writing about the other test subjects and about how much he enjoyed reading their blogs. It was a most unusual case, since the scientists on the project did not expect the primates to read one anothers' blogs; back then, monkeys were only known to write them.
Monkeys can get really upset if you don't read their blog
Word soon got around about 128369's blog, and a strange phenomenon began to happen. The test subjects were soon reading about each other. Oneday, much to the surprise of the scientists, subject 128369 turned up at a tea party with a large stick which he had ordered from Ebay. He proceeded to beat those who had not been reading his blog. This had the effect of driving up the hits to his own site.
Soon, the community was divided into two groups, those who read and those who didn't. A few of the test subjects wrote about how much they hated 128369, and how they resented the fact that his blog had become so popular with regular updates about the news, celebrities and sporting events. A subject 5566678 even attempted to sabotage 128369's site by hacking into it. A day later this subject was found beaten up and stuffed into a washing machine.
Each monkey was assigned a blog, and given the task of keeping up this blog on a regular basis. Some monkeys would write about how they missed their Amazon home and family while others preferred to write about events in the household.
Oneday, for the first time in the history of blogging, one of the hairy tree climbers decided to link to the other monkeys' blogs and write about them. The test subject was referred to as 128369.
128369 would spend most of their time writing about the other test subjects and about how much he enjoyed reading their blogs. It was a most unusual case, since the scientists on the project did not expect the primates to read one anothers' blogs; back then, monkeys were only known to write them.
Monkeys can get really upset if you don't read their blog
Word soon got around about 128369's blog, and a strange phenomenon began to happen. The test subjects were soon reading about each other. Oneday, much to the surprise of the scientists, subject 128369 turned up at a tea party with a large stick which he had ordered from Ebay. He proceeded to beat those who had not been reading his blog. This had the effect of driving up the hits to his own site.
Soon, the community was divided into two groups, those who read and those who didn't. A few of the test subjects wrote about how much they hated 128369, and how they resented the fact that his blog had become so popular with regular updates about the news, celebrities and sporting events. A subject 5566678 even attempted to sabotage 128369's site by hacking into it. A day later this subject was found beaten up and stuffed into a washing machine.
Sado Masochistic Torture Party
Confession time:
It was about 9PM when Oliver showed up. We were a bunch of latex wasters, sexual decadents who spent all our time masturbating to each others' rubber outfits. It was fun, the summer of '69. Oliver wasn't one of us, he was a 'normal' guy who complained of his boredom 24/7. We wanted to help Oliver, so I got my friend Isabelle to invite him over for an 'innocent tea party'. He turned up in his designer shirt and tie, shorts and sandals. He entered the sitting room where we (all shiny leather and rubber) were waiting for him.
'Take a seat you fucking bastard!', interrupted I, mid sentence of Oliver as he introduced himself. He sat down, and looked nervously around the room. Mary smacked a whip against her thigh, and Joey growled like a panther who had just discovered how to lick it's private parts. I walked over to the mini bar that we had set up on the back of Jimmy the Gimp, his arse crack functioned as a useful napkin holder. 'You fuck!' I repeated once again for no apparent reason but to show my authority. I poured a pint of tequila and laughed. 'Oliver, you fucking bastard, you gonna have a good time tonight...', paused and grinned then shouted, 'YOU FUCK!!' for dramatic effect. The masturbators all laughed. I handed the poor bastard the pint of tequila.
It was about 9PM when Oliver showed up. We were a bunch of latex wasters, sexual decadents who spent all our time masturbating to each others' rubber outfits. It was fun, the summer of '69. Oliver wasn't one of us, he was a 'normal' guy who complained of his boredom 24/7. We wanted to help Oliver, so I got my friend Isabelle to invite him over for an 'innocent tea party'. He turned up in his designer shirt and tie, shorts and sandals. He entered the sitting room where we (all shiny leather and rubber) were waiting for him.
'Take a seat you fucking bastard!', interrupted I, mid sentence of Oliver as he introduced himself. He sat down, and looked nervously around the room. Mary smacked a whip against her thigh, and Joey growled like a panther who had just discovered how to lick it's private parts. I walked over to the mini bar that we had set up on the back of Jimmy the Gimp, his arse crack functioned as a useful napkin holder. 'You fuck!' I repeated once again for no apparent reason but to show my authority. I poured a pint of tequila and laughed. 'Oliver, you fucking bastard, you gonna have a good time tonight...', paused and grinned then shouted, 'YOU FUCK!!' for dramatic effect. The masturbators all laughed. I handed the poor bastard the pint of tequila.
Bill takes me to the Realm of Comedy
It was one gloriously sunshiny afternoon when I bumped into my comedy mentor and friend, Bill, the tramp (I prefer not to use the word bum). I had only met him once before at a streetcar stop in the middle of nowhere on outer fringes of Toronto. I was relaxing on a bench in my local park, watching the kids play football when I saw a dark ragged silhouette approach me from the corner of my vision, 'Like a sandwich would ya?', a flattened jam sandwich with a tyre mark on it presented itself infront of my eyes on a smelly blackened hand. I looked at the fellow, it took me a while to recognise that it was Bill, the once famous standup comedian extraordinaire.
'Hi Bill!!' I said. He looked at me suspiciously, and then appeared to become frozen. 'Hi, I'm the guy that you spoke to at the street car stop about a month ago, you gave me some great standup comedy advice...' Nothing, inanimate as an ice lolly, only he wouldn't have tasted as good. I thought about checking his pulse, but looking at that stinky filthy form of a man, it occurred to me that it would be somewhat of a Fear Factor challenge, only without the prize money and the possibility of contracting some deadly contagion that would eventually turn me into a homeless zombie. I stood up and walked around him, trying to determine if he was still breathing. The jam sarnie was motionless in his hand, it did not quiver or quake; but, I already knew that jam sandwich had died the minute it was hit by a vehicle. I waved my hands in front of his eyes which were locked in that expression of suspicion. Nothing.
There was a stick lying on the ground, so I picked it up and started prodding him with it. I poked his arm, then I poked the jam sandwich. The sandwich was lifeless, flat as a leaf but no where near as nutritious. I prodded the stick onto various parts of his body, yet there was no response. An idea occurred to me as I was doing this, I decided to approach the kids playing football and asked if they would bring themselves and their ball over to the still tramp on the bench. 'Hey kids,' addressed I to the teenagers, 'I'd like to try an elaborate experiment...', and I discussed my dastardly ingenious plan to the group of young impressionables.
Soon, I had the kids lined up and the ball placed about nine feet away from the bench. Each kid was to take their turn kicking the ball and try to hit Bill with it, the logic of the plan was to awaken Bill from his catatonic state by a refreshing blow from a fast travelling projectile. The first child to try was a ghastly underfed child with twig like limbs and hollow eye sockets, he took a few steps back, looked at his target, then ran at the ball with the ferocity of an angry rabbit. Whack! The ball moved a few inches as the wretched child tripped over it. The next kid prepared to take his shot. A large overgrown lump of a child who was unfortunate to be afflicted with a nervous twitch in his left eye. This time, the shot hit Bill straight in the face and we watched the full impact of the missle knock the tramp down. A mushroom cloud of disturbed dirt rose from the impact into the warm summer air. Silence. The dust parted, and I saw Bill rise up shakily.
He stumbled over while smiling at me, 'That is the second lesson of standup comedy, no matter how hard the hecklers are on you, a good standup comedian remains as solid as a rock.' He wiped some blood from his lip, 'My name is Bill, thank you for watching...' He dizzily strode back to the bench to pick up the fallen jam sandwich, and sat down to eat it.
'Hi Bill!!' I said. He looked at me suspiciously, and then appeared to become frozen. 'Hi, I'm the guy that you spoke to at the street car stop about a month ago, you gave me some great standup comedy advice...' Nothing, inanimate as an ice lolly, only he wouldn't have tasted as good. I thought about checking his pulse, but looking at that stinky filthy form of a man, it occurred to me that it would be somewhat of a Fear Factor challenge, only without the prize money and the possibility of contracting some deadly contagion that would eventually turn me into a homeless zombie. I stood up and walked around him, trying to determine if he was still breathing. The jam sarnie was motionless in his hand, it did not quiver or quake; but, I already knew that jam sandwich had died the minute it was hit by a vehicle. I waved my hands in front of his eyes which were locked in that expression of suspicion. Nothing.
There was a stick lying on the ground, so I picked it up and started prodding him with it. I poked his arm, then I poked the jam sandwich. The sandwich was lifeless, flat as a leaf but no where near as nutritious. I prodded the stick onto various parts of his body, yet there was no response. An idea occurred to me as I was doing this, I decided to approach the kids playing football and asked if they would bring themselves and their ball over to the still tramp on the bench. 'Hey kids,' addressed I to the teenagers, 'I'd like to try an elaborate experiment...', and I discussed my dastardly ingenious plan to the group of young impressionables.
Soon, I had the kids lined up and the ball placed about nine feet away from the bench. Each kid was to take their turn kicking the ball and try to hit Bill with it, the logic of the plan was to awaken Bill from his catatonic state by a refreshing blow from a fast travelling projectile. The first child to try was a ghastly underfed child with twig like limbs and hollow eye sockets, he took a few steps back, looked at his target, then ran at the ball with the ferocity of an angry rabbit. Whack! The ball moved a few inches as the wretched child tripped over it. The next kid prepared to take his shot. A large overgrown lump of a child who was unfortunate to be afflicted with a nervous twitch in his left eye. This time, the shot hit Bill straight in the face and we watched the full impact of the missle knock the tramp down. A mushroom cloud of disturbed dirt rose from the impact into the warm summer air. Silence. The dust parted, and I saw Bill rise up shakily.
He stumbled over while smiling at me, 'That is the second lesson of standup comedy, no matter how hard the hecklers are on you, a good standup comedian remains as solid as a rock.' He wiped some blood from his lip, 'My name is Bill, thank you for watching...' He dizzily strode back to the bench to pick up the fallen jam sandwich, and sat down to eat it.
Kid Blogs
Do you ever think about what it would be like to go back to school with what you know now? It would be so easy. I mean, you would ace all your classes and be teacher's pet, not to mention that you would be getting a good view of your teachers legs plus get to admire them all the more - Oh yes, Ms Brahms...
Anway, I'm part of the MSN spaces cult, and just out of curiousity I decided to check out my other blogging colleagues. I've found that many of the sites belong to kids, yes that's right, little children blogs. Perhaps it's because I'm turning into an old git, but I can't figure out why anyone would want to read them, let alone other kids; they're quite... awful.
Well, since all the kiddies blogs are so awful, I thought it would be my perfect opportunity to beat them at it. So, I've decided to write my own kiddies blog:
MY KIDDY BLOG
Today I woke up. I brushed my teeth with this really yummy toothpaste that my mummy bought for me the other day. It's like strawberry flavour. Then I went down to have breakfast and my mummy and daddy were at the table eating toast and cornflakes, and my daddy was reading a newspaper as he always does. My mummy asked me if I wanted to have some toast but I didn't feel like it as I had toast yesterday so I asked her for my chocolate rice krispies instead. They were delicious - yum yum. My mummy took me to school and I saw my friends Jimmy, Christopher (I hate him) and Julie (ewww a girl!!!) LOLZ. So today in science class we were learning about how trees grow, did you know that they come from a seed???? I was so amazed when I learnt that and our teacher Ms. Brahms showed us different seeds from different types of trees - it was too cool!!! I had a hard day today and I'm really really really tired so I'm going to bed now, it's like really late (about 9 O'clock) so I'll tell you more stuff tomorrow.
Anway, I'm part of the MSN spaces cult, and just out of curiousity I decided to check out my other blogging colleagues. I've found that many of the sites belong to kids, yes that's right, little children blogs. Perhaps it's because I'm turning into an old git, but I can't figure out why anyone would want to read them, let alone other kids; they're quite... awful.
Well, since all the kiddies blogs are so awful, I thought it would be my perfect opportunity to beat them at it. So, I've decided to write my own kiddies blog:
MY KIDDY BLOG
Today I woke up. I brushed my teeth with this really yummy toothpaste that my mummy bought for me the other day. It's like strawberry flavour. Then I went down to have breakfast and my mummy and daddy were at the table eating toast and cornflakes, and my daddy was reading a newspaper as he always does. My mummy asked me if I wanted to have some toast but I didn't feel like it as I had toast yesterday so I asked her for my chocolate rice krispies instead. They were delicious - yum yum. My mummy took me to school and I saw my friends Jimmy, Christopher (I hate him) and Julie (ewww a girl!!!) LOLZ. So today in science class we were learning about how trees grow, did you know that they come from a seed???? I was so amazed when I learnt that and our teacher Ms. Brahms showed us different seeds from different types of trees - it was too cool!!! I had a hard day today and I'm really really really tired so I'm going to bed now, it's like really late (about 9 O'clock) so I'll tell you more stuff tomorrow.
Learning the Ways of Stand-Up Comedy
In my quest to become the ultimate stand-up comedian, I have sought the advice of many great humourists, on and off the internet, but no other comedian has influenced me more than Bill.
I met Bill about a year ago, while waiting for a street car on the way home from a party on the East Side of Toronto. I was scribbling some ideas in my notebook about some observations that I had made at this party, and I heard a drunken voice ask me for a light, I looked up and saw a ragged looking homeless man in his mid-fifties. 'Hey man, you gotta light?', he slurred, I offered him my lighter and he lit his cigarette butt. 'Whassat cha got there?' he gruffly asked as he stumbled forward to return my lighter, 'you some kinda student or something?'.
'Just some notes' I replied hastily, hoping he would go away.
'What kinda notes?'
'I'm putting down some funny ideas.' At that point, he plonked his smelly self down to occupy the seat at the stop next to me, and made a grab for my note pad.
'You wanna write comedy or somefffing?', his face was almost right up to mine, I could smell his foul alcohol breath and his stinking urine stained trousers.
'Well, I'm just starting off, I hope to be able to do stand up oneday', I was conscious of my nose spasming on it's own accord to the horrible stench that was emanating from this despicable man.
'I used to be a fucking stand up comedian you know...', he stared at me with a wobbly gaze and pointed a finger at me.
'Oh really.' I replied most disinterestedly.
'I used to be the fucking best, this was the fucking early 80s, I toured all of Canada and all of the West Coast down to Mexico, I played gigs in New York too.'
'That's interesting.'
He took a final drag on his cigarette butt and flicked it onto the road, 'If you wanna write comedy, you gotta know how to write...'
'Right.'
'Because, if ya dunno how to write, you aint nobody, your jest some fucking guy in a bar talking shit.'
'Indeed.' I looked to see if a street car was on it's way and almost contemplated walking to the next stop.
'You gotta know how to write, beeecos, its your strategy', he nudged my shoulder then slapped my notepad, 'these are your war plans, without these you aint got shit an your just another man in a bar...'
'Okay, that's great, thank you.' He stared at me, the smell was so bad now that I was worried that my eyeballs would melt any second, they were streaming tears.
'I can tell you're a passionate fellow about comedy..', he grinned his ugly black teeth, 'but writing is useless on stage cuz you can't take it up there, you need your weapons on stage.'
'Okay. Yes. Thank you. Great.' I smiled, hoping he would depart.
'Watcha need when you're on stage are the weapons of timing and delivery..'
Maybe this stinky bum really does know what he's talking about, I thought to myself.
He swayed for a few seconds and then continued as if he were trying to focus on something in the distance, 'ahhh, it's the way you say them', he suddenly grabbed my notepad and looked at it, he pointed at something, 'wasshis say?'
I looked at the sentence that I had written only a couple of minutes ago and read it out, 'sometimes, when you drink a bottle of beer too quickly, it fizzes and shoots up your nose and you hope that nobody has noticed.'
'Seee, that aint fucking funny, that's bullshit, damn fucking bullshit!!', he clenched his fists as if in rage. Then the rage disappeared as suddenly as it came, and was replaced by sobbing, he had wrapped his dirty hands around his head in his lap, he raised his head slowly with blackened tears streaming down his cheeks, 's-s-s-ometimes...' he sobbed, 'when you drink a bottle of beer, too quickly...', he sobbed again and wiped snot from his nose, 'it f-f-f-fizzes and shoots up your nose...and... and... and...', he gasped then acceleratedly said, 'and-you-hope-that-nobody-has-noticed!' to which he started bawling out loudly like a big baby.
Concerned, I asked him if he was okay.
He sprang up, 'Hi, my name's Bill! Thank you for watching!', proceeded to offer me a grubby handshake, and then took off with a merry swagger down the road.
I met Bill about a year ago, while waiting for a street car on the way home from a party on the East Side of Toronto. I was scribbling some ideas in my notebook about some observations that I had made at this party, and I heard a drunken voice ask me for a light, I looked up and saw a ragged looking homeless man in his mid-fifties. 'Hey man, you gotta light?', he slurred, I offered him my lighter and he lit his cigarette butt. 'Whassat cha got there?' he gruffly asked as he stumbled forward to return my lighter, 'you some kinda student or something?'.
'Just some notes' I replied hastily, hoping he would go away.
'What kinda notes?'
'I'm putting down some funny ideas.' At that point, he plonked his smelly self down to occupy the seat at the stop next to me, and made a grab for my note pad.
'You wanna write comedy or somefffing?', his face was almost right up to mine, I could smell his foul alcohol breath and his stinking urine stained trousers.
'Well, I'm just starting off, I hope to be able to do stand up oneday', I was conscious of my nose spasming on it's own accord to the horrible stench that was emanating from this despicable man.
'I used to be a fucking stand up comedian you know...', he stared at me with a wobbly gaze and pointed a finger at me.
'Oh really.' I replied most disinterestedly.
'I used to be the fucking best, this was the fucking early 80s, I toured all of Canada and all of the West Coast down to Mexico, I played gigs in New York too.'
'That's interesting.'
He took a final drag on his cigarette butt and flicked it onto the road, 'If you wanna write comedy, you gotta know how to write...'
'Right.'
'Because, if ya dunno how to write, you aint nobody, your jest some fucking guy in a bar talking shit.'
'Indeed.' I looked to see if a street car was on it's way and almost contemplated walking to the next stop.
'You gotta know how to write, beeecos, its your strategy', he nudged my shoulder then slapped my notepad, 'these are your war plans, without these you aint got shit an your just another man in a bar...'
'Okay, that's great, thank you.' He stared at me, the smell was so bad now that I was worried that my eyeballs would melt any second, they were streaming tears.
'I can tell you're a passionate fellow about comedy..', he grinned his ugly black teeth, 'but writing is useless on stage cuz you can't take it up there, you need your weapons on stage.'
'Okay. Yes. Thank you. Great.' I smiled, hoping he would depart.
'Watcha need when you're on stage are the weapons of timing and delivery..'
Maybe this stinky bum really does know what he's talking about, I thought to myself.
He swayed for a few seconds and then continued as if he were trying to focus on something in the distance, 'ahhh, it's the way you say them', he suddenly grabbed my notepad and looked at it, he pointed at something, 'wasshis say?'
I looked at the sentence that I had written only a couple of minutes ago and read it out, 'sometimes, when you drink a bottle of beer too quickly, it fizzes and shoots up your nose and you hope that nobody has noticed.'
'Seee, that aint fucking funny, that's bullshit, damn fucking bullshit!!', he clenched his fists as if in rage. Then the rage disappeared as suddenly as it came, and was replaced by sobbing, he had wrapped his dirty hands around his head in his lap, he raised his head slowly with blackened tears streaming down his cheeks, 's-s-s-ometimes...' he sobbed, 'when you drink a bottle of beer, too quickly...', he sobbed again and wiped snot from his nose, 'it f-f-f-fizzes and shoots up your nose...and... and... and...', he gasped then acceleratedly said, 'and-you-hope-that-nobody-has-noticed!' to which he started bawling out loudly like a big baby.
Concerned, I asked him if he was okay.
He sprang up, 'Hi, my name's Bill! Thank you for watching!', proceeded to offer me a grubby handshake, and then took off with a merry swagger down the road.
A Beautiful Mind
I've had this comment a lot lately, but I've been too happy-happy-joy-joy to rant about it... until NOW, it's "you have a beautiful mind."
"You have a beautiful mind...", they told me as they stared into my eyes and smiled. What the hell? I'm not sure what to make of that. When I hear the words, 'a beautiful mind', I think of that movie of the same name with Russell 'check out my pot belly, ladies' Crowe. A great movie about a great schizophrenic. The tagline of the movie is, 'He saw the world in a way no one could have imagined.'
So I think to myself... Hmmmm, maybe I'm schizophrenic but I don't know it? But, if I am schizophrenic, someone would have called the men in white by now. No wait, maybe... maybe I'm actually in a mental asylum, the people telling me that I'm schizophrenic are nurses leaking TRUTH from the real world outside my mind. Then, why would they want to tell me I have a beautiful mind? would it not make more sense to tell me that I have a 'fucked up mind'?
No that can't be it. I think they're telling me that I have a beautiful mind, to fuck with me, that's right, the fuckers are fucking with my mind. Jesus H. Christ!! What kind of hospital in the higher Alien Overlords name is this!!! Who put me in here? Am I paying for this??? Let me out! I want a refund... I don't think I'm getting any better.
So doctor, if you are listening, please tell me, send me a message, anything! Please in all your mercy, if you are not the Alien Master himself, why o' bloody why, do I have a beautiful mind, don't fuck with me. Hey I know, 'beautiful mind' is code for, 'your brain is not functionally correctly, infact you have lost your grip on reality and hence falling down a bottomless ravine. We're telling you this, yes there is more than one of us, we're shining a light in your eye right now to check if you're listening -there might have been a slight response there. Ummm where was I, oh yeah, we're telling you that you're fucked. Actually we don't know why, maybe we're just lonely and want someone to talk to, but I'm staring at you and you are a complete vegetable. Thanks for listening. This ones a lost case.'
So the moral of the story is, when next time someone tells you that you have a 'Beautiful mind', just nod and smile and say something like "why thank you, kind sir/lady" while fluttering your eyelids and pouting your lips, politely leave, go home and cry for you are falling down a bottomless mental pit!!!
"You have a beautiful mind...", they told me as they stared into my eyes and smiled. What the hell? I'm not sure what to make of that. When I hear the words, 'a beautiful mind', I think of that movie of the same name with Russell 'check out my pot belly, ladies' Crowe. A great movie about a great schizophrenic. The tagline of the movie is, 'He saw the world in a way no one could have imagined.'
So I think to myself... Hmmmm, maybe I'm schizophrenic but I don't know it? But, if I am schizophrenic, someone would have called the men in white by now. No wait, maybe... maybe I'm actually in a mental asylum, the people telling me that I'm schizophrenic are nurses leaking TRUTH from the real world outside my mind. Then, why would they want to tell me I have a beautiful mind? would it not make more sense to tell me that I have a 'fucked up mind'?
No that can't be it. I think they're telling me that I have a beautiful mind, to fuck with me, that's right, the fuckers are fucking with my mind. Jesus H. Christ!! What kind of hospital in the higher Alien Overlords name is this!!! Who put me in here? Am I paying for this??? Let me out! I want a refund... I don't think I'm getting any better.
So doctor, if you are listening, please tell me, send me a message, anything! Please in all your mercy, if you are not the Alien Master himself, why o' bloody why, do I have a beautiful mind, don't fuck with me. Hey I know, 'beautiful mind' is code for, 'your brain is not functionally correctly, infact you have lost your grip on reality and hence falling down a bottomless ravine. We're telling you this, yes there is more than one of us, we're shining a light in your eye right now to check if you're listening -there might have been a slight response there. Ummm where was I, oh yeah, we're telling you that you're fucked. Actually we don't know why, maybe we're just lonely and want someone to talk to, but I'm staring at you and you are a complete vegetable. Thanks for listening. This ones a lost case.'
So the moral of the story is, when next time someone tells you that you have a 'Beautiful mind', just nod and smile and say something like "why thank you, kind sir/lady" while fluttering your eyelids and pouting your lips, politely leave, go home and cry for you are falling down a bottomless mental pit!!!
Ahhh... Happiness... Ultimately Equates Sadness...
Ahhh, happiness, don't I love being happy? I ask myself, don't I just love being happy? I ask myself. No reply. Silence. Hello, anyone there? Hi, sorry, I was busy sitting on the toilet having a poop; relieving myself...
I am so happy recently, it's sunny in Toronto and the air is, um... fucking polluted. But life is good, don't you love that word happy. I'm being creative, going out, drinking, smoking, dining, clubbing, partying, more drinking and more... But something has to give right??? Yes, it's my fucking heart. The days have been too kind to me, but not so kind to that precious life organ of mine. It's been going wibbly wobbly, and when I press my heart against my mattress, I can hear it hum like a trapped bumble bee on laughing gas. Today, I clutched my chest in pain, and laughed it off; I had to force myself to laugh because it was really painful, like they say, laughter is the best form of medicine. So I'm cutting out the ciggies, cutting down on the booze, and cutting down on the late nights and partying. But, alas, what happens to that happiness meter... no, you guessed wrongly, I'm still happy. Happy, happy, happy... Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet, ooooh, one of those would be good right now.
Welcome to the wonderful world of excess, it's like a gigantic soft and fluffy blanket made out of lots of dead fluffy animals. You wrap it around your body, and it makes you feel so comfortable. I'm not one of those people that addicted easily to things, that's probably why I tend to deny myself the luxuries that might make me a happier, crazier, productive and creative person. But, poor little heart, it's weak from all that speed abuse of those stupid hedonistic raver speed days. If I die now, I'll die happy, with a big grin on my face. I have totally exceeded amazing, am awfully-awfully-offally content with myself.
There is nothing like a big juicy steak, cooked medium rare. A fruity mature red wine to accompany, and a cigarette (that's not a Canadian brand) to end the meal with. Isn't that just lovely? Life's little evils.
I am so happy recently, it's sunny in Toronto and the air is, um... fucking polluted. But life is good, don't you love that word happy. I'm being creative, going out, drinking, smoking, dining, clubbing, partying, more drinking and more... But something has to give right??? Yes, it's my fucking heart. The days have been too kind to me, but not so kind to that precious life organ of mine. It's been going wibbly wobbly, and when I press my heart against my mattress, I can hear it hum like a trapped bumble bee on laughing gas. Today, I clutched my chest in pain, and laughed it off; I had to force myself to laugh because it was really painful, like they say, laughter is the best form of medicine. So I'm cutting out the ciggies, cutting down on the booze, and cutting down on the late nights and partying. But, alas, what happens to that happiness meter... no, you guessed wrongly, I'm still happy. Happy, happy, happy... Happiness is a cigar called Hamlet, ooooh, one of those would be good right now.
Welcome to the wonderful world of excess, it's like a gigantic soft and fluffy blanket made out of lots of dead fluffy animals. You wrap it around your body, and it makes you feel so comfortable. I'm not one of those people that addicted easily to things, that's probably why I tend to deny myself the luxuries that might make me a happier, crazier, productive and creative person. But, poor little heart, it's weak from all that speed abuse of those stupid hedonistic raver speed days. If I die now, I'll die happy, with a big grin on my face. I have totally exceeded amazing, am awfully-awfully-offally content with myself.
There is nothing like a big juicy steak, cooked medium rare. A fruity mature red wine to accompany, and a cigarette (that's not a Canadian brand) to end the meal with. Isn't that just lovely? Life's little evils.
A Strange Urge to Kill ALL Conspiracy Theorists
Maybe it's because it's late, or simply because I'm completely insane, but I have a strange urge to kill all conspiracy theorists. Maybe about two years ago, it was fun, but conspiracy theory has really gotten out of control, and any old nut bag can make them up.
What I never saw a few years ago, were sections dedicated to this conspiracy stuff. Now everyone and anyone who's out to make a quick buck can jump on the conspiracy theory bandwagon. Most of these books don't even present any solid evidence, but are just nut bags quoting other nut bags. I think that this is the newest genre of trash literature for people who have really boring lives, and who want to liven up their reality.
I believe I have an openmind, but there' are only so many things that this mind will open it's doors to. I discard information that's useless to me. Conspiracy theory is the new religion of our times, for people who want to believe that planet earth is under the control of aliens!!?? If I wanted to accept random truths like that, then I would go to church.
So, what I'm going to do, is go and find a stick, a strong one, perhaps with barbs sticking out of it. The next time I see a conspiracy theorist, I'm gonna beat them repeatedly with that stick until they start bleeding some sense.
What I never saw a few years ago, were sections dedicated to this conspiracy stuff. Now everyone and anyone who's out to make a quick buck can jump on the conspiracy theory bandwagon. Most of these books don't even present any solid evidence, but are just nut bags quoting other nut bags. I think that this is the newest genre of trash literature for people who have really boring lives, and who want to liven up their reality.
I believe I have an openmind, but there' are only so many things that this mind will open it's doors to. I discard information that's useless to me. Conspiracy theory is the new religion of our times, for people who want to believe that planet earth is under the control of aliens!!?? If I wanted to accept random truths like that, then I would go to church.
So, what I'm going to do, is go and find a stick, a strong one, perhaps with barbs sticking out of it. The next time I see a conspiracy theorist, I'm gonna beat them repeatedly with that stick until they start bleeding some sense.
Experimento: Part III: Killer Donkeys
For this experiment, you will need to acquire a donkey; preferably one from this planet.
Convert your garden shed into a home (or barrack) for the donkey. This will be where they will be living for the next few months as you slowly and patiently train them to become crazed flesh eating killers.
To begin the experiment, plaster the walls of the barrack with film posters that glorify violence, such as Rambo, Scarface and Toy Story to name but a few; these can be picked up in any dollar store. Next, keep the donkey hungry but alive, this is the part where you have to be wary of prying animals rights activist neighbours, if you're reported and found to be creating an army of killer donkeys, it may very well put a quick end to your career as an evil genius.
Once the donkey is sufficiently hungry and begging for food. Put a monitor inside the donkey's room, and connect that to an external camera. Invite a group of your closest friends over and have a barbecue, the donkey will watch you eat meat. At this point they will be open to eating anything, including people.
So the next step, is to now and then open the door of the shed, and throw in large bloody pieces of raw meat. If you have done everything correctly up to now, the test subject will proceed to devour the protein laden food source, and immediately forsake the vegetarian ways of their donkey religion. Throw in a few straws of hay, not too much, just to provide enough fibre to prevent constipation.
Now that your soldier is well fed, they are almost ready to go to battle. Firstly, they must learn to kill a live moving target. You have to understand that a donkey does not come equipped with the killer instincts of say, a lion or a chimpanzee (who's had it's feet tickled continuously for a hour), but donkeys are cheaper, expendable and more able to cope in a combat situation than a lion.
If you would like to continue the most important stage of the experiment, I have produced a 12 page booklet that explains in thorough step-by-step detail the process of donkey military training. I'll send to you this groundbreaking book, for a time limited offer price of only $30, which includes postage, packaging and my 5 page autobiography, 'How I used donkey power to conquer Australia'.
Convert your garden shed into a home (or barrack) for the donkey. This will be where they will be living for the next few months as you slowly and patiently train them to become crazed flesh eating killers.
To begin the experiment, plaster the walls of the barrack with film posters that glorify violence, such as Rambo, Scarface and Toy Story to name but a few; these can be picked up in any dollar store. Next, keep the donkey hungry but alive, this is the part where you have to be wary of prying animals rights activist neighbours, if you're reported and found to be creating an army of killer donkeys, it may very well put a quick end to your career as an evil genius.
Once the donkey is sufficiently hungry and begging for food. Put a monitor inside the donkey's room, and connect that to an external camera. Invite a group of your closest friends over and have a barbecue, the donkey will watch you eat meat. At this point they will be open to eating anything, including people.
So the next step, is to now and then open the door of the shed, and throw in large bloody pieces of raw meat. If you have done everything correctly up to now, the test subject will proceed to devour the protein laden food source, and immediately forsake the vegetarian ways of their donkey religion. Throw in a few straws of hay, not too much, just to provide enough fibre to prevent constipation.
Now that your soldier is well fed, they are almost ready to go to battle. Firstly, they must learn to kill a live moving target. You have to understand that a donkey does not come equipped with the killer instincts of say, a lion or a chimpanzee (who's had it's feet tickled continuously for a hour), but donkeys are cheaper, expendable and more able to cope in a combat situation than a lion.
If you would like to continue the most important stage of the experiment, I have produced a 12 page booklet that explains in thorough step-by-step detail the process of donkey military training. I'll send to you this groundbreaking book, for a time limited offer price of only $30, which includes postage, packaging and my 5 page autobiography, 'How I used donkey power to conquer Australia'.
Acting for Dummies...
Right now, I'm at George Brown college waiting for my acting class to start, so like most of the other students I've come to the computer room to waste an hour or so... I think I'll rant about acting...
So I'm in Acting II now, it's really changed the way that I watch movies; "I'm looking for emotion darlings... EMOTION, I'm not feeling anything." Last night, I decided to watch Monty Python's Holy Grail, for comedians, these guys really know how to act; I'm talking about Michael Palin and John Cleese in particular. It's amazing how John Cleese can bring a script to life with his eccentricities, and he can do pissed off very well too.
Then I watch a film like the Matrix, everyone seems to be a fan of these Matrix movies, but I think that the ideas and concepts that the Wachowski brothers stole from other films is what really makes it successful, otherwise the acting sucks as badly as a diarrhea milkshake. For instance, I was thinking of the scene in the first movie where Keanu Reeves character, Neo, is downloading 'skills' such as martial arts into his brain. He and the rest of the cast might have done themselves a big favour by downloading acting skills, "I know acting!!"; at least 'Acting for Dummies', anyway. Then we might have seen Morpheus and Neo in the dojo scene performing an incredible rendition of Shakespeare, Neo as Lady Macbeth on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and Morpheus as Macbeth.
So I'm in Acting II now, it's really changed the way that I watch movies; "I'm looking for emotion darlings... EMOTION, I'm not feeling anything." Last night, I decided to watch Monty Python's Holy Grail, for comedians, these guys really know how to act; I'm talking about Michael Palin and John Cleese in particular. It's amazing how John Cleese can bring a script to life with his eccentricities, and he can do pissed off very well too.
Then I watch a film like the Matrix, everyone seems to be a fan of these Matrix movies, but I think that the ideas and concepts that the Wachowski brothers stole from other films is what really makes it successful, otherwise the acting sucks as badly as a diarrhea milkshake. For instance, I was thinking of the scene in the first movie where Keanu Reeves character, Neo, is downloading 'skills' such as martial arts into his brain. He and the rest of the cast might have done themselves a big favour by downloading acting skills, "I know acting!!"; at least 'Acting for Dummies', anyway. Then we might have seen Morpheus and Neo in the dojo scene performing an incredible rendition of Shakespeare, Neo as Lady Macbeth on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and Morpheus as Macbeth.
People who feed pigeons?
I don't understand why people feed pigeons...
I mean, what are they thinking?... 'Hey let's go out and feed the pigeons, those pigeons must be starving! God only knows how they manage to survive in this harsh world. Thank God for people like us, who feed those poor creatures.'
Pigeons don't need feeding people! Save your food and give it to the homeless instead...
Do you ever get the urge to beat someone with a stick???
I get that urge all the time. Next time you see someone feeding pigeons, whether man, child or old lady, go and grab a stick and beat them hard with it.
I mean, what are they thinking?... 'Hey let's go out and feed the pigeons, those pigeons must be starving! God only knows how they manage to survive in this harsh world. Thank God for people like us, who feed those poor creatures.'
Pigeons don't need feeding people! Save your food and give it to the homeless instead...
Do you ever get the urge to beat someone with a stick???
I get that urge all the time. Next time you see someone feeding pigeons, whether man, child or old lady, go and grab a stick and beat them hard with it.
Why Coca-Cola is addictive?: scientific journal
Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to prove to you that Coca Cola is addictive, let me rephrase that, I shall allow you to prove for yourselves, the degenerating and debilitating effects of a Coca Cola addiction...
For this experiment, you will need a kid, probably between the ages of 7 and 9, any race or colour. If you do not have a kid handy, they are quite easy to make, failing that, borrow a kid from the neighbourhood. I stress that the colour of the kid is not important. Sit the kid in a sunny hot room with the television on, turn the heating up. Soon the subject of the experiment will become thirsty, enter the room with a glass of water, leave the glass of water in front of the kid, smile and leave. Upon returning, 20 minutes later, one should find that the water has not been touched. Onto stage 2 of the experiment.
What you will need:
a shot glass
a litre bottle of Coke
Bring the objects into the room on a tray. The kid will most likely be bored and irritable by now, so be conscious to smile to reassure the test subject. Now lay the shot glass in front of the child, then say, 'would you like some coke?', the subject will likely respond with a positive answer. Open the bottle of Coke, and tilt the bottle enough to fill the shot glass vessel. The child will take the glass, and drink the shot of Coke. Now that the child has had a taste of the addictive substance, remove it from the room (previous test subjects have been known to lick the empty shot glass). Come back into the room, and tell the child that if they would like some more Coke then they can just ask. Almost immediatly, the child will ask for more Coke.
This experiment, when performed on a variety of subjects yielded results on average of between 10-15 shots per child. In extreme cases, one test subject drank over 40 shots of the addicting liquid...
For this experiment, you will need a kid, probably between the ages of 7 and 9, any race or colour. If you do not have a kid handy, they are quite easy to make, failing that, borrow a kid from the neighbourhood. I stress that the colour of the kid is not important. Sit the kid in a sunny hot room with the television on, turn the heating up. Soon the subject of the experiment will become thirsty, enter the room with a glass of water, leave the glass of water in front of the kid, smile and leave. Upon returning, 20 minutes later, one should find that the water has not been touched. Onto stage 2 of the experiment.
What you will need:
a shot glass
a litre bottle of Coke
Bring the objects into the room on a tray. The kid will most likely be bored and irritable by now, so be conscious to smile to reassure the test subject. Now lay the shot glass in front of the child, then say, 'would you like some coke?', the subject will likely respond with a positive answer. Open the bottle of Coke, and tilt the bottle enough to fill the shot glass vessel. The child will take the glass, and drink the shot of Coke. Now that the child has had a taste of the addictive substance, remove it from the room (previous test subjects have been known to lick the empty shot glass). Come back into the room, and tell the child that if they would like some more Coke then they can just ask. Almost immediatly, the child will ask for more Coke.
This experiment, when performed on a variety of subjects yielded results on average of between 10-15 shots per child. In extreme cases, one test subject drank over 40 shots of the addicting liquid...
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