"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
8.29.2006
Sometimes... Existence is Futile
I wonder if the point of my own existence is to be a punishment toy for everyone else on the planet. If I jump off the top of the CN tower, and my body is splattered over the ground, would people laugh at my stupidity and cowardice to not continue with the torture? Maybe, the extreme guilt and my own conscience will eventually cause my own brain to implode.
8.25.2006
The Last Post Ever Post...
Hi, I sit at the computer. No idea. I think and think. No idea. I think, I stink. No idea. I have exhausted all my ideas. The End.
Thanks for reading folks!!!
Thanks for reading folks!!!
8.23.2006
Regarding Hatemail: Hooray!
Hi all,
I'd like to thank those who have been so kind to send me personal messages and comments, particulary those who have taken their time to send me hatemail.
Okay, just for the record, I really don't give a flying bat shit what you think about my posts; and for those who like to keep records, bat shit soars high.
I'm not a racist. I don't fuck old ladies. I don't rape animals. Infact, I think I'm fucking cool.
Please thank me for opening your minds, and realizing that life does not revolve around the brand of car that you drive, nor is it about how many times that you have jerked off to that crumpled old magazine cutout of Britney Spears.
Shit, just worship me for just being that god-like being who made you look twice at the world around you.
Peace out,
Zombiehellmonkey
I'd like to thank those who have been so kind to send me personal messages and comments, particulary those who have taken their time to send me hatemail.
Okay, just for the record, I really don't give a flying bat shit what you think about my posts; and for those who like to keep records, bat shit soars high.
I'm not a racist. I don't fuck old ladies. I don't rape animals. Infact, I think I'm fucking cool.
Please thank me for opening your minds, and realizing that life does not revolve around the brand of car that you drive, nor is it about how many times that you have jerked off to that crumpled old magazine cutout of Britney Spears.
Shit, just worship me for just being that god-like being who made you look twice at the world around you.
Peace out,
Zombiehellmonkey
Sperm Deal, Special Offer, Lowest Prices - Guaranteed
As many of my close friends already know, I make a living from selling sperm...
ZombieHellMonkey's Great Time Limited Sperm Offer:
At the ZombieHellMonkey sperm manufacturing company, we like to pride ourselves on our excellent range of sperm products. We guarantee customer satisfaction with a money-back guarantee should any of our products be faulty.
Fast forward: present day, Toronto, 2006, future.
I received a handwritten letter today. It caught my attention from the masses of fan mail that I tend to get on a daily basis because it was written by hand; people rarely use the old fashioned style of communication anymore, I've heard stories from my grandparents about how people would fashion words from a pen. But, I digress, allow me to shove my thoughts into a cohesive blob, a story if you will, of the events that followed.
The handwritten letter in the handwritten envelope was clipped to a photograph that was hand signed. The scrawly words seemed to have a sense of urgency. Whoever it was, they needed my sperm badly and were willing to send me five thousand dollars for it. I immediately set about to gather the tools that I would need for this important client.
I once read an article about a man from southern Texas who could train his sperm to leap through hoops of fire. The problem with sperm is that they are not the most intelligent creatures. My main concern was that my own sperm, would not be able to recognize the future mother. It was going to take alot of effort on my behalf to make sure that the sperm would know what to do by the time it reached the client.
The first stop was H&M, the clothing store for people who want to look trendy for cheap. I bought a floral dress, a ladies sunhat, stockings, pointy stiletto heels, a bra and some sexy revealing lace panties.
The next stop was at the sex store. I knew exactly what I wanted, a blow up sex doll, the cheapest kind; it had to be plastic, and have a realistic vagina. The more I spent on these items, the less I would make on the deal; business is business and you have to think about your profit margins. The sex doll was a good investment.
I rushed back to my bachelor love pad with the purchases and set about assembling the items. If I learnt anything while studying animation, it was that realism was important; one small detail out of place, and the effort would be wasted. I began to dress up the blow up doll in the clothes that I had bought for her. All the while I was doing this, I spoke to my sperm who slept like lions in the bossom of my testicles.
The final touch to the doll, was to stick the photograph of the said lady to it's face. I posed the blow up doll provocatively on the sofa, well, as provocative as a blow up sex doll gets. 'Meet your future, mother,' I said to my sperm, 'take a good look at her face, isn't she beautiful?' I looked at the photograph of the warty faced bitch and cringed. The plan was working, I was tricking my sperm into thinking that I was actually having intercourse with a real person!
I asked the blow up doll if they would like a glass of wine, they declined, so I ended up drinking the entire bottle. The alcohol had the effect of making me horny and I made a pass at the sperm's future mother, she ignored me. I placed my hand on her breast and gave a squeeze, her breasts were firm and hard; she let me carry on. I moved my hand up her stockinged thigh, no response. Feeling adventurous, I decided to slide my hand under her panties, no response. She wants it, wants it bad.
A few minutes later, we were lying on my bed, kissing passionately. I pulled her panties down, and felt myself slide inside her. 'Okay fellows,' I said under my breath, '... do your stuff... say hello to mummy!' I moved in and out of her like a piston inside a bouncy castle. Eventually, I felt my troops deploy and I collapsed like a sweaty pile of hot man flesh.
After a quick recovery, I started to scoop the gullible sperm out of the sex doll. This was five thousand smackaroonies in the bank...
ZombieHellMonkey's Great Time Limited Sperm Offer:
At the ZombieHellMonkey sperm manufacturing company, we like to pride ourselves on our excellent range of sperm products. We guarantee customer satisfaction with a money-back guarantee should any of our products be faulty.
Fast forward: present day, Toronto, 2006, future.
I received a handwritten letter today. It caught my attention from the masses of fan mail that I tend to get on a daily basis because it was written by hand; people rarely use the old fashioned style of communication anymore, I've heard stories from my grandparents about how people would fashion words from a pen. But, I digress, allow me to shove my thoughts into a cohesive blob, a story if you will, of the events that followed.
The handwritten letter in the handwritten envelope was clipped to a photograph that was hand signed. The scrawly words seemed to have a sense of urgency. Whoever it was, they needed my sperm badly and were willing to send me five thousand dollars for it. I immediately set about to gather the tools that I would need for this important client.
I once read an article about a man from southern Texas who could train his sperm to leap through hoops of fire. The problem with sperm is that they are not the most intelligent creatures. My main concern was that my own sperm, would not be able to recognize the future mother. It was going to take alot of effort on my behalf to make sure that the sperm would know what to do by the time it reached the client.
The first stop was H&M, the clothing store for people who want to look trendy for cheap. I bought a floral dress, a ladies sunhat, stockings, pointy stiletto heels, a bra and some sexy revealing lace panties.
The next stop was at the sex store. I knew exactly what I wanted, a blow up sex doll, the cheapest kind; it had to be plastic, and have a realistic vagina. The more I spent on these items, the less I would make on the deal; business is business and you have to think about your profit margins. The sex doll was a good investment.
I rushed back to my bachelor love pad with the purchases and set about assembling the items. If I learnt anything while studying animation, it was that realism was important; one small detail out of place, and the effort would be wasted. I began to dress up the blow up doll in the clothes that I had bought for her. All the while I was doing this, I spoke to my sperm who slept like lions in the bossom of my testicles.
The final touch to the doll, was to stick the photograph of the said lady to it's face. I posed the blow up doll provocatively on the sofa, well, as provocative as a blow up sex doll gets. 'Meet your future, mother,' I said to my sperm, 'take a good look at her face, isn't she beautiful?' I looked at the photograph of the warty faced bitch and cringed. The plan was working, I was tricking my sperm into thinking that I was actually having intercourse with a real person!
I asked the blow up doll if they would like a glass of wine, they declined, so I ended up drinking the entire bottle. The alcohol had the effect of making me horny and I made a pass at the sperm's future mother, she ignored me. I placed my hand on her breast and gave a squeeze, her breasts were firm and hard; she let me carry on. I moved my hand up her stockinged thigh, no response. Feeling adventurous, I decided to slide my hand under her panties, no response. She wants it, wants it bad.
A few minutes later, we were lying on my bed, kissing passionately. I pulled her panties down, and felt myself slide inside her. 'Okay fellows,' I said under my breath, '... do your stuff... say hello to mummy!' I moved in and out of her like a piston inside a bouncy castle. Eventually, I felt my troops deploy and I collapsed like a sweaty pile of hot man flesh.
After a quick recovery, I started to scoop the gullible sperm out of the sex doll. This was five thousand smackaroonies in the bank...
H A P P Y .B I R T H D A Y .K A R I
It's my friend Kari's special day, fellow blogger and photographer extraordinaire celebrates her 25th birthday today!
Happy Birthday Kari!
Happy Birthday Kari!
8.22.2006
Vee Hate Ze Wiggas
The doorbell rings, my friend Muhammed is standing at the door, looking handsome in his Hugo Boss SS uniform. He adjusts his shirt while standing tall and proud, then salutes me as soon as he sees me.
'What do you want?' I say as I rub the stubble on my chin.
'We have a wigga in custody, sir. Your presence is required immediately, Commander.'
I sigh and ask him to come in. We both remove our uniforms, pack them away neatly into our rucksacks, and make the trek across the ghetto neighbourhood to the warehouse. Once there, we find a quiet spot where we once again don our SS uniforms.
The warehouse was full with about fifty officers, composed of all races and walks of life. In the centre of the space, was a young white male in his early twenties, shaved blond hair and blue eyes. He was tied to a wooden chair with duct tape and gagged.
'Ungag him!' I order.
A couple of officers obediently and hurriedly remove the gag. He begins shouting obscenities, so I whack his leg with my cane to silence him.
'You are disgusting.' I say in my best German accent.
The wigga starts writhing in his chair and shouting, his spit flying across his face. 'This is fucking racism man, you oppress me muthafucka, ain't fucking right man!' He spits at me. I hit his leg again.
'Get the chainsaw!' I order. Joey, who's day job is a tramp, scurries away and returns almost immediately holding the requested tool.
'Zis is I chainsaw.' I cooly said to the wigga, as I point to the machine. 'It is zery usevul vor cutting through human flesh.' The wigga screams, bouncing up and down in his chair. I bash his leg and he becomes quiet. 'Vee vill untie you, but if you do not comply, vee vill slowly remove your limbs, vun by vun...' I pause for dramatic effect, 'Do you understand?' The wigga nods compliantly.
The wigga is untied and I order him to stand up. I continue, 'Vee vill make you a usevul member of society. You vill learn to valk and talk.' An officer draws a chalk line on the floor. 'You vill valk along ze straight line along ze floor, with your back and legs straight. If you fail to do zis, then your legs vill be deemed useless and vee vill cut zem off.' I pause once again for dramatic effect, 'Do you understand?' He nods. 'Begin valking!' I shout.
With all the grace of a supermodel who has toured the world's catwalks, the wigga proceeds carefully along the chalk line. 'Zere gut!' I reply, applauding a dull clap in my tight black leather SS gloves. 'You vill continue to valk zat vay wiv ze grace of Grace Kelly, from now on, or vee vill find you and cut of your legs!'
There is the sound of sobbing from the corner, it is the wigga's dried up and wrinkled crack whore. The sound of a truncheon against flesh and bone abruptly ends the noise.
I dab a hankerchief across my lips. 'Now you vill learn to talk!' I pull out a blade from my pocket, and hold it's gleaming edge into the light filtering down from the glass skylights, 'othervise, vee vill cut...' I make a slashing action with the knife, '...off your lips.' I grin evilly.
'What do you want?' I say as I rub the stubble on my chin.
'We have a wigga in custody, sir. Your presence is required immediately, Commander.'
I sigh and ask him to come in. We both remove our uniforms, pack them away neatly into our rucksacks, and make the trek across the ghetto neighbourhood to the warehouse. Once there, we find a quiet spot where we once again don our SS uniforms.
The warehouse was full with about fifty officers, composed of all races and walks of life. In the centre of the space, was a young white male in his early twenties, shaved blond hair and blue eyes. He was tied to a wooden chair with duct tape and gagged.
'Ungag him!' I order.
A couple of officers obediently and hurriedly remove the gag. He begins shouting obscenities, so I whack his leg with my cane to silence him.
'You are disgusting.' I say in my best German accent.
The wigga starts writhing in his chair and shouting, his spit flying across his face. 'This is fucking racism man, you oppress me muthafucka, ain't fucking right man!' He spits at me. I hit his leg again.
'Get the chainsaw!' I order. Joey, who's day job is a tramp, scurries away and returns almost immediately holding the requested tool.
'Zis is I chainsaw.' I cooly said to the wigga, as I point to the machine. 'It is zery usevul vor cutting through human flesh.' The wigga screams, bouncing up and down in his chair. I bash his leg and he becomes quiet. 'Vee vill untie you, but if you do not comply, vee vill slowly remove your limbs, vun by vun...' I pause for dramatic effect, 'Do you understand?' The wigga nods compliantly.
The wigga is untied and I order him to stand up. I continue, 'Vee vill make you a usevul member of society. You vill learn to valk and talk.' An officer draws a chalk line on the floor. 'You vill valk along ze straight line along ze floor, with your back and legs straight. If you fail to do zis, then your legs vill be deemed useless and vee vill cut zem off.' I pause once again for dramatic effect, 'Do you understand?' He nods. 'Begin valking!' I shout.
With all the grace of a supermodel who has toured the world's catwalks, the wigga proceeds carefully along the chalk line. 'Zere gut!' I reply, applauding a dull clap in my tight black leather SS gloves. 'You vill continue to valk zat vay wiv ze grace of Grace Kelly, from now on, or vee vill find you and cut of your legs!'
There is the sound of sobbing from the corner, it is the wigga's dried up and wrinkled crack whore. The sound of a truncheon against flesh and bone abruptly ends the noise.
I dab a hankerchief across my lips. 'Now you vill learn to talk!' I pull out a blade from my pocket, and hold it's gleaming edge into the light filtering down from the glass skylights, 'othervise, vee vill cut...' I make a slashing action with the knife, '...off your lips.' I grin evilly.
Whores in My Bed
I woke up stressed today. Grrrr stressed. I woke up and I was just so fucking stressed. I paced around the room, growling and scratching my head, then took deep angry inhalations of the scalp residue on my fingertips. I was sexually fustrated. I needed a fucking fuck -fuck!
I found five hundred bucks hidden under my mattress and found an escort agency listed at the back of Now Magazine. For those who don't know, Now Magazine is a free newspaper covering cultural news and events around Toronto; it's got great articles, and an even better back section that caters to the needs of angry, stressed and sexually fustrated Torontonians.
So I screamed 'fuck' at the top of my voice as I stared at the phone, I gripped the notes so hard that the bills could be heard crunching, the paper tearing into my flesh. I screamed 'fuck' at the phone again, but it did not respond, I went over to the phone. I tapped the number in with much skill and agility, I even managed a self satisfied smirk at how clever I was.
'Good evening!' said a cheerful little voice on the other side of line, 'Nuremburger Escorts, how can I help you?'
'I need to fuck. Excuse me, I'll rephrase that... I need to fuck some stinky old whores.' I shouted.
'You'd like to book an escort tonight?'
'I need to fuck. I need about three bitches, preferably stinky and old.' I replied impatiently.
'I'm sorry, our oldest escorts are twenty-five.'
'Get some fucking stinky old whores and I'll pay double.'
'Hold on one minute sir.' she put me on hold, a few minutes later a man spoke on the other side.
'Hello sir, we'll be more than happy to accomodate your request...'
I had arranged to meet the bitches at McDonalds on Yonge Street. The agency didn't send escorts to the client's location. After the phonecall, I put down the receiver, tore the telephone cord out of its socket and threw the telephone through the glass window.
Not long after the designated time, three old whores did turn up. Two were wheelchair bound, and the third was in a zimmer frame. The agency had done a great job and managed to find these ladies that fit my age requirement of over eighty years old.
'I'm hungry.' said the toothless old bitch in the zimmer frame. The other two in the wheelchair nodded in agreement.
'For fuck's sake!' I snapped, 'I need a fuck!'
'No fucking young man, until we eat...'
'Okay, okay, let's go into McDonald's...' I said.
They expected me to pay for the meal, so I bought a large fries to share between the three of them. We sat at a table next to the women's toilets, and I watched them suck their fries while I anxiously looked at the time.
'My name's Doris.' said one of the old slags.
'Eat faster bitch!' I reply.
'So how long have you been in the escort business for Doris?' says another crippled old slapper.
'Only a month, I'm saving up to buy my grand daughter a Christmas present.' replies Doris.
I grab the fries on the tray, and then toss them across the room. 'Okay, let's go. I'm stressed out...' I say.
After carrying all three of the old biddies, not to mention their wheels chairs, zimmer frame and oxygen tank, up the four flights of stairs to my room, I fall down on the bed, exhausted. A few minutes later, a horrid smell fills my nasal cavities. I open my eyes and notice the old bints removing their clothing. These old bitches have already had a headstart in decomposition; the fucking cheating slags!
The old bitches leap on top of me and tear my clothes off with their teeth.
'You've got a small room,' said one of the whores, 'but you've got a big penis for a Chinese guy.'
They raped every inch of me against my will. Forcing me to ejaculate all over their wrinkled saggy bodies. They kept sucking me long after I was drained. They licked my body and forced me to stick my fingers into their stinky soiled twats.
When they left, I discovered that the five hundred bucks that I had left on the coffee table had doubled into a thousand bucks.
I found five hundred bucks hidden under my mattress and found an escort agency listed at the back of Now Magazine. For those who don't know, Now Magazine is a free newspaper covering cultural news and events around Toronto; it's got great articles, and an even better back section that caters to the needs of angry, stressed and sexually fustrated Torontonians.
So I screamed 'fuck' at the top of my voice as I stared at the phone, I gripped the notes so hard that the bills could be heard crunching, the paper tearing into my flesh. I screamed 'fuck' at the phone again, but it did not respond, I went over to the phone. I tapped the number in with much skill and agility, I even managed a self satisfied smirk at how clever I was.
'Good evening!' said a cheerful little voice on the other side of line, 'Nuremburger Escorts, how can I help you?'
'I need to fuck. Excuse me, I'll rephrase that... I need to fuck some stinky old whores.' I shouted.
'You'd like to book an escort tonight?'
'I need to fuck. I need about three bitches, preferably stinky and old.' I replied impatiently.
'I'm sorry, our oldest escorts are twenty-five.'
'Get some fucking stinky old whores and I'll pay double.'
'Hold on one minute sir.' she put me on hold, a few minutes later a man spoke on the other side.
'Hello sir, we'll be more than happy to accomodate your request...'
I had arranged to meet the bitches at McDonalds on Yonge Street. The agency didn't send escorts to the client's location. After the phonecall, I put down the receiver, tore the telephone cord out of its socket and threw the telephone through the glass window.
Not long after the designated time, three old whores did turn up. Two were wheelchair bound, and the third was in a zimmer frame. The agency had done a great job and managed to find these ladies that fit my age requirement of over eighty years old.
'I'm hungry.' said the toothless old bitch in the zimmer frame. The other two in the wheelchair nodded in agreement.
'For fuck's sake!' I snapped, 'I need a fuck!'
'No fucking young man, until we eat...'
'Okay, okay, let's go into McDonald's...' I said.
They expected me to pay for the meal, so I bought a large fries to share between the three of them. We sat at a table next to the women's toilets, and I watched them suck their fries while I anxiously looked at the time.
'My name's Doris.' said one of the old slags.
'Eat faster bitch!' I reply.
'So how long have you been in the escort business for Doris?' says another crippled old slapper.
'Only a month, I'm saving up to buy my grand daughter a Christmas present.' replies Doris.
I grab the fries on the tray, and then toss them across the room. 'Okay, let's go. I'm stressed out...' I say.
After carrying all three of the old biddies, not to mention their wheels chairs, zimmer frame and oxygen tank, up the four flights of stairs to my room, I fall down on the bed, exhausted. A few minutes later, a horrid smell fills my nasal cavities. I open my eyes and notice the old bints removing their clothing. These old bitches have already had a headstart in decomposition; the fucking cheating slags!
The old bitches leap on top of me and tear my clothes off with their teeth.
'You've got a small room,' said one of the whores, 'but you've got a big penis for a Chinese guy.'
They raped every inch of me against my will. Forcing me to ejaculate all over their wrinkled saggy bodies. They kept sucking me long after I was drained. They licked my body and forced me to stick my fingers into their stinky soiled twats.
When they left, I discovered that the five hundred bucks that I had left on the coffee table had doubled into a thousand bucks.
8.20.2006
Travelling Across Water
I had a great day on Toronto's Centre Island today having a picnic with a group of fellow writers...
I found the ferry ride across the lake a very soothing and calming experience. Travelling over water reminded me of the Truman Show.
Truman Burbank, the protagonist of the Truman Show, is a character that each one of us might relate to. In a world which increasingly resembles the one in the movie, we have to ask ourselves how much of our own realities are being artificially fabricated around us.
It was certainly nice to get away from the city, but the island itself was not devoid of commercial opportunities. It's not a day trip away from the city, but an alternative consumer experience. It seems wherever you go, you can't escape brand name exposure. As soon as we got of the boat, what do we see? A Pizza Pizza Store. There also happened to be a promotion, where they were handing out Pam canola oil spray and Egg Beaters samples.
Apparently, the brands are now invading my own blog.
Truman lives in a world where nothing is real. His friends are not really his friends, his wife is not really his wife, his neighbours are not really his neighbours... etc. But, in the illusion, he finds something that is real to him, the girl he meets at university. She is the truth, a small fragment of what is honest and pure; untainted by lies.
I wonder if as individuals, we are all searching for that beacon of hope, a candle's flame to help us find our way. Would we recognize it if we saw it? I cannot answer that. I'm a lost sheep and I don't want to join the herd; since the herd is also my wolf.
I found the ferry ride across the lake a very soothing and calming experience. Travelling over water reminded me of the Truman Show.
Truman Burbank, the protagonist of the Truman Show, is a character that each one of us might relate to. In a world which increasingly resembles the one in the movie, we have to ask ourselves how much of our own realities are being artificially fabricated around us.
It was certainly nice to get away from the city, but the island itself was not devoid of commercial opportunities. It's not a day trip away from the city, but an alternative consumer experience. It seems wherever you go, you can't escape brand name exposure. As soon as we got of the boat, what do we see? A Pizza Pizza Store. There also happened to be a promotion, where they were handing out Pam canola oil spray and Egg Beaters samples.
Apparently, the brands are now invading my own blog.
Truman lives in a world where nothing is real. His friends are not really his friends, his wife is not really his wife, his neighbours are not really his neighbours... etc. But, in the illusion, he finds something that is real to him, the girl he meets at university. She is the truth, a small fragment of what is honest and pure; untainted by lies.
I wonder if as individuals, we are all searching for that beacon of hope, a candle's flame to help us find our way. Would we recognize it if we saw it? I cannot answer that. I'm a lost sheep and I don't want to join the herd; since the herd is also my wolf.
8.19.2006
A Strange Dream about Pee
I had the strangest dream last night...
Me and a group of friends met up at a girl's place to have a few drinks before we would head to a nightclub. I was formally attired in a three piece suit, everyone else was dressed as a gangster or moll; I suppose the theme of that night was 'gangsters and molls'...
The host's appartment had a small living room and a huge bathroom which probably took up about two thirds of the total space. After having had a few drinks, I caught myself in the mirror, and decided that I needed to shave, luckily I had a disposable razor blade in my pocket, thus, I made my way to the bathroom.
The enormous washroom was uncluttered and extremely well lit. The sky blue tiles were sparkling clean and gleaming in the light through the large window. I felt the urge to pee, so I decided to walk over to the toilet.
Unusually, the toilet was on a small raised platform, with barely enough room to stand. Suddenly, I felt extremely drunk. It was the alcohol that I had been drinking earlier; it finally caught up with me. I staggered back and forth, trying hard not to step of the edge. I struggled to undo my zipper, and when it was undone, a large part of my trousers flapped annoyingly in the path of where I wanted to pee.
It was gradually getting harder to focus as my vision began to bounce randomly. I felt myself half kneeling on the rim of the toilet as I tried to stabilize myself to no avail. I kept slipping. I decided that it would be easier to try to sit down on the seat, but the seat had an uneven area, so I began to rotate it until it would fit my arse. All this time, the incredibly long flap of my trousers was dangling in the pee that somebody had left previously in the bowl.
At one point, I felt my hands getting sticky from the dried urine on the rim, as I raised my hands to look at them, I fell onto the floor which was covered in shit. I gripped the porcelain and raised myself once again. I managed to stand up successfully, and just when I was about to finally relieve my bladder, I noticed a figure sitting in the corner of the room. It was a guy reading a book on a wooden chair.
'How long have you been there?' I asked.
'Long enough to see you make a fool of yourself!' he replied.
'I didn't see you when I came in, I think I'm going blind.' I slurred.
Me and a group of friends met up at a girl's place to have a few drinks before we would head to a nightclub. I was formally attired in a three piece suit, everyone else was dressed as a gangster or moll; I suppose the theme of that night was 'gangsters and molls'...
The host's appartment had a small living room and a huge bathroom which probably took up about two thirds of the total space. After having had a few drinks, I caught myself in the mirror, and decided that I needed to shave, luckily I had a disposable razor blade in my pocket, thus, I made my way to the bathroom.
The enormous washroom was uncluttered and extremely well lit. The sky blue tiles were sparkling clean and gleaming in the light through the large window. I felt the urge to pee, so I decided to walk over to the toilet.
Unusually, the toilet was on a small raised platform, with barely enough room to stand. Suddenly, I felt extremely drunk. It was the alcohol that I had been drinking earlier; it finally caught up with me. I staggered back and forth, trying hard not to step of the edge. I struggled to undo my zipper, and when it was undone, a large part of my trousers flapped annoyingly in the path of where I wanted to pee.
It was gradually getting harder to focus as my vision began to bounce randomly. I felt myself half kneeling on the rim of the toilet as I tried to stabilize myself to no avail. I kept slipping. I decided that it would be easier to try to sit down on the seat, but the seat had an uneven area, so I began to rotate it until it would fit my arse. All this time, the incredibly long flap of my trousers was dangling in the pee that somebody had left previously in the bowl.
At one point, I felt my hands getting sticky from the dried urine on the rim, as I raised my hands to look at them, I fell onto the floor which was covered in shit. I gripped the porcelain and raised myself once again. I managed to stand up successfully, and just when I was about to finally relieve my bladder, I noticed a figure sitting in the corner of the room. It was a guy reading a book on a wooden chair.
'How long have you been there?' I asked.
'Long enough to see you make a fool of yourself!' he replied.
'I didn't see you when I came in, I think I'm going blind.' I slurred.
8.17.2006
Hunger in the Zombie Apocalypse
I’ve decided to make this a tribute post to Pope Richard Corey who writes a brilliant ongoing zombie story blog which is humourous survival horror with plenty of witty and intelligent word play. I hope you will support him by visiting his site, 'Serial of the Dead'.
I’m still reading his stories, but I’ve been inspired to write a short zombie story dedicated to him:
‘Dad, I’m hungry.’ moaned his daughter Sally. They were all in fact starving, they hadn’t eaten for days, and the need to nourish their bodies had manifested like an angry debt collector who now demanded payment for the time abided by the body’s ability to endure a fast.
There were four of them; a nuclear family unit that consisted of parents Jake and Louise, and their young offspring, Sarah and Tommy. Stranded and held captive in the basement of their own home by a zombie uprising that had taken over the country in a matter of weeks.
The eight year old, Sally was too weak to cry but not adverse to complaining. ‘I’m hungry dad…’ she repeated. Jake was unresponsively lying on the floor staring at the ceiling.
‘She’s right Jake.’ Said Louise as she slowly shuffled over to comfort her daughter with a blanket wrapped around her shivering body. ‘We’re all hungry… how can we carry on like this?… it’s just too painful to endure.’
‘Fuck…’ spat Jake.
‘Jake, please…’ scolded Louise.
Jake knew he had to do something. He was ashamed; guilty that he was unable to care for his family. He had prided himself a couple of weeks ago for managing to prepare in anticipation of the invasion after watching the earliest news reportage about the carnage in the big cities. Now, he lay there, scared shitless, not for himself but for his family. He would rather die honourably than let his family die.
With a tremendous effort he managed to raise himself off the icy concrete floor. ‘Daddy’s not going to be gone long kids… Daddy’s just going to the store to pick up some items.’ He hugged his kids, they were limp and dazed. He kissed Louise, who forced a worried smile with dry cracked lips; she knew that if he did not succeed then they would all die anyway, but she hated the idea that he might suffer an unbearably horrific death.
‘Be careful, Jake.’ she said, knowing that her words did nothing for his safety, yet it was comforting to her that she spoke them.
Jake proceeded to the cellar door. He unbolted three of the locks and took a deep breath before he unbolted the final fourth. The door creaked cautiously open. He quickly scanned the area, and he could immediately feel the adrenaline rush that demanded energy that he couldn’t afford to waste; for a moment, he felt his vision waver and then it returned with an enforced clarity.
The room he entered was the kitchen. He didn’t bother to search it because he knew that there was no food; he had moved all the supplies into the basement. He closed the cellar door behind him, and he heard Louise lock it from the other side. Looking through the smashed kitchen window, he could see about fifteen zombies wandering around aimlessly in the garden; they tended to do that. He heard movement in another part of the house. 'Think, think, THINK!!!' he said to himself, he panicked and ran like a headless chicken through the kitchen door that swung loosely on a single hinge.
Louise was worried; Jake had been gone for almost two hours now. Suddenly, knocking could be heard at the door. The door had been banging relentlessly over the past few weeks, but this was not a zombie smashing it’s head against it, it was an intelligent knock; it was an urgent knock, the kind of knock that unabashedly said, ‘Quick, quick, let me in… oh my god, quick, oh my god, I’m gonna die if you don’t fucking hurry up!’ She knew it was him, and ran to the door with renewed morale.
Jake was standing with his back against the door, his eyes were flitting wildly like a hunted animal, ‘Quick! Help me drag this in…’ he urged as soon as he felt the door open.
‘Jesus Christ Jake, I’m not bringing that into the basement!’ she defied.
‘I haven’t got time to argue with you, the shop was closed, they don’t open on Sundays! Just do what I say!’
They dragged the decapitated corpse of a ragged zombie through the door and quickly bolted it. ‘Dinners up kids!’ shouted Jake as he wiped sweat from his brow.
For about fifteen minutes, the sound of a chainsaw chewing through flesh, tendons and bone could be heard from the utilities room in the basement. After much stubborn protest, Jake had managed to get Louise to preheat the electric oven that they had helped migrate from upstairs. While Jake was sawing up the zombie, his wife was trying to convince him that it wasn’t right to eat dead people. ‘It’s not fucking dead people,’ he retorted, ‘this thing stopped being a person when it became a zombie,’ he wiped a splatter of blood from his lips, ‘and now, I’m going to perform the magical act of turning this into good wholesome food.’
The zombie flesh could be smelt sizzling in it’s own fats for the next hour and a half. Jake had decided to cook it on slow heat so that it would retain it’s flavour and the skin would be crispy. ‘Just like cooking pork.’ he casually told his wife.
A slice of the thigh area, a few fingers and a thumb were placed on a platter. Jake made a gravy from the oil that he used to baste the flesh. The kids stared dumbly at the steaming zombie parts on the dinner table. Jake picked up a thumb, the way he had sliced it, made it look like a chicken drumstick, he held it before Sally who stared wide eyed at it. ‘It’s a thumb!’ she said in shock before she started screaming hysterically.
‘No Sally, it’s food, you’ve got to eat this to stay alive, it’s just like chicken, you like chicken right? Please honey, daddy doesn’t ask much from you, just eat it please!’ he pleaded.
She screamed again while shaking her head with her hands over her ears and her eyes clenched shut, ‘I don’t want to eat dead people, I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to…’
‘Jake, you can’t force her to eat…’ reasoned Louise.
‘Be quiet Louise!’ snapped Jake, ‘She’s gonna eat this good food that daddy made whether she likes it or not!’ He took a bite of the thumb, ‘Mmmmm, so yummy!’ then grabbed her wrist and thrust the zombie’s thumb into her hand. ‘Now, eat it Sally!’
The six year old, Tommy was frozen in shock. He was staring at the fingers on the platter. Sally screamed again and threw the thumb across the room. Jake smashed his fist furiously onto the table. ‘I want burgers daddy, I don’t like eating dead people!’ said Tommy. Jake paused at the comment, and suddenly began laughing loudly.
An hour later, the family were sitting at the table eating burgers. They didn’t have any buns, but they had plenty of gravy. Jake had cut a huge slice of the zombie’s rump, minced the flesh and fried the patties that he had moulded with some left over ingredients.
I’m still reading his stories, but I’ve been inspired to write a short zombie story dedicated to him:
‘Dad, I’m hungry.’ moaned his daughter Sally. They were all in fact starving, they hadn’t eaten for days, and the need to nourish their bodies had manifested like an angry debt collector who now demanded payment for the time abided by the body’s ability to endure a fast.
There were four of them; a nuclear family unit that consisted of parents Jake and Louise, and their young offspring, Sarah and Tommy. Stranded and held captive in the basement of their own home by a zombie uprising that had taken over the country in a matter of weeks.
The eight year old, Sally was too weak to cry but not adverse to complaining. ‘I’m hungry dad…’ she repeated. Jake was unresponsively lying on the floor staring at the ceiling.
‘She’s right Jake.’ Said Louise as she slowly shuffled over to comfort her daughter with a blanket wrapped around her shivering body. ‘We’re all hungry… how can we carry on like this?… it’s just too painful to endure.’
‘Fuck…’ spat Jake.
‘Jake, please…’ scolded Louise.
Jake knew he had to do something. He was ashamed; guilty that he was unable to care for his family. He had prided himself a couple of weeks ago for managing to prepare in anticipation of the invasion after watching the earliest news reportage about the carnage in the big cities. Now, he lay there, scared shitless, not for himself but for his family. He would rather die honourably than let his family die.
With a tremendous effort he managed to raise himself off the icy concrete floor. ‘Daddy’s not going to be gone long kids… Daddy’s just going to the store to pick up some items.’ He hugged his kids, they were limp and dazed. He kissed Louise, who forced a worried smile with dry cracked lips; she knew that if he did not succeed then they would all die anyway, but she hated the idea that he might suffer an unbearably horrific death.
‘Be careful, Jake.’ she said, knowing that her words did nothing for his safety, yet it was comforting to her that she spoke them.
Jake proceeded to the cellar door. He unbolted three of the locks and took a deep breath before he unbolted the final fourth. The door creaked cautiously open. He quickly scanned the area, and he could immediately feel the adrenaline rush that demanded energy that he couldn’t afford to waste; for a moment, he felt his vision waver and then it returned with an enforced clarity.
The room he entered was the kitchen. He didn’t bother to search it because he knew that there was no food; he had moved all the supplies into the basement. He closed the cellar door behind him, and he heard Louise lock it from the other side. Looking through the smashed kitchen window, he could see about fifteen zombies wandering around aimlessly in the garden; they tended to do that. He heard movement in another part of the house. 'Think, think, THINK!!!' he said to himself, he panicked and ran like a headless chicken through the kitchen door that swung loosely on a single hinge.
Louise was worried; Jake had been gone for almost two hours now. Suddenly, knocking could be heard at the door. The door had been banging relentlessly over the past few weeks, but this was not a zombie smashing it’s head against it, it was an intelligent knock; it was an urgent knock, the kind of knock that unabashedly said, ‘Quick, quick, let me in… oh my god, quick, oh my god, I’m gonna die if you don’t fucking hurry up!’ She knew it was him, and ran to the door with renewed morale.
Jake was standing with his back against the door, his eyes were flitting wildly like a hunted animal, ‘Quick! Help me drag this in…’ he urged as soon as he felt the door open.
‘Jesus Christ Jake, I’m not bringing that into the basement!’ she defied.
‘I haven’t got time to argue with you, the shop was closed, they don’t open on Sundays! Just do what I say!’
They dragged the decapitated corpse of a ragged zombie through the door and quickly bolted it. ‘Dinners up kids!’ shouted Jake as he wiped sweat from his brow.
For about fifteen minutes, the sound of a chainsaw chewing through flesh, tendons and bone could be heard from the utilities room in the basement. After much stubborn protest, Jake had managed to get Louise to preheat the electric oven that they had helped migrate from upstairs. While Jake was sawing up the zombie, his wife was trying to convince him that it wasn’t right to eat dead people. ‘It’s not fucking dead people,’ he retorted, ‘this thing stopped being a person when it became a zombie,’ he wiped a splatter of blood from his lips, ‘and now, I’m going to perform the magical act of turning this into good wholesome food.’
The zombie flesh could be smelt sizzling in it’s own fats for the next hour and a half. Jake had decided to cook it on slow heat so that it would retain it’s flavour and the skin would be crispy. ‘Just like cooking pork.’ he casually told his wife.
A slice of the thigh area, a few fingers and a thumb were placed on a platter. Jake made a gravy from the oil that he used to baste the flesh. The kids stared dumbly at the steaming zombie parts on the dinner table. Jake picked up a thumb, the way he had sliced it, made it look like a chicken drumstick, he held it before Sally who stared wide eyed at it. ‘It’s a thumb!’ she said in shock before she started screaming hysterically.
‘No Sally, it’s food, you’ve got to eat this to stay alive, it’s just like chicken, you like chicken right? Please honey, daddy doesn’t ask much from you, just eat it please!’ he pleaded.
She screamed again while shaking her head with her hands over her ears and her eyes clenched shut, ‘I don’t want to eat dead people, I don’t want to, I don’t want to, I don’t want to…’
‘Jake, you can’t force her to eat…’ reasoned Louise.
‘Be quiet Louise!’ snapped Jake, ‘She’s gonna eat this good food that daddy made whether she likes it or not!’ He took a bite of the thumb, ‘Mmmmm, so yummy!’ then grabbed her wrist and thrust the zombie’s thumb into her hand. ‘Now, eat it Sally!’
The six year old, Tommy was frozen in shock. He was staring at the fingers on the platter. Sally screamed again and threw the thumb across the room. Jake smashed his fist furiously onto the table. ‘I want burgers daddy, I don’t like eating dead people!’ said Tommy. Jake paused at the comment, and suddenly began laughing loudly.
An hour later, the family were sitting at the table eating burgers. They didn’t have any buns, but they had plenty of gravy. Jake had cut a huge slice of the zombie’s rump, minced the flesh and fried the patties that he had moulded with some left over ingredients.
The Writers Society
Dear Person,
it is with utmost regret that we hereby inform you that your application to participate in our writing society formal soiree has been declined.
regards,
Secretary of The Writers' Writing Society.
I turned up anyway.
The function was being held in the large mansion of a publishing tycoon. I had never been to a soiree before, so I assumed that I had to bring my own food. I was stopped by a couple of elderly women who had set up a small desk in the foyer. 'Sorry sir, you can't bring that in here.' said the taller of the ladies, as she pointed to my food.
'I've brought it for the party.' I replied.
'Please leave it outside.'
I did not want to argue with these women, so I dragged the pig outside and secured it's string leash to the exhaust pipe of a limousine that was parked in the driveway. It grunted in protest. A few seconds later, the limousine drove off, dragging the creature on it's side along the gravel as it squealed loudly. I tried to get my food back, but it was too late, the driver who was oblivious to the extra passenger was already at the exit of the front garden and about to join the highway.
I went back into the house. The two women I had seen earlier were sipping red wine at the desk. They were busy discussing how tasty the the small triangular pieces of toast that they nibbled were. I hastily snuck past them and entered a large doorway into the main room.
The formally attired crowd was composed of small groups of people who were engaged in superfluous self promotion. Finally, I am here, where I belong, amongst the company of fellow writers, I thought. I pushed through the throng towards the long table where there was an assortment of different types of cooked creatures and small triangular morsels of toast.
As I spread some mashed pig's liver onto my toast, I noticed a tall lithe girl standing next to the table staring at me. I caught her eye, and she smirked at me.
'That's an interesting t-shirt.' she began as she motioned her eyes to the A-Team t-shirt that adorned my muscular body.
'Thanks. I'm a big fan of the A-Team. Do you like them?' I replied enthusiastically.
'It's a very badly written show.'
'You're a writer then.' I asked.
'We're all writers here darling, and we're all very serious about what we do.' She sniffed at me, glanced around the room, and directed her nostrils at me, 'If you're not in the business of writing, then you shouldn't be here.'
'I write mainly as a hobby, although I do have some work that I will volunteer for submission to a local theatre company.'
She laughed. 'I said,' she emphasized, 'that we are serious writers, darling. We're not hobbyists, we write with the intent to be published.' With that, she walked away, disappearing into the mesh of people.
it is with utmost regret that we hereby inform you that your application to participate in our writing society formal soiree has been declined.
regards,
Secretary of The Writers' Writing Society.
I turned up anyway.
The function was being held in the large mansion of a publishing tycoon. I had never been to a soiree before, so I assumed that I had to bring my own food. I was stopped by a couple of elderly women who had set up a small desk in the foyer. 'Sorry sir, you can't bring that in here.' said the taller of the ladies, as she pointed to my food.
'I've brought it for the party.' I replied.
'Please leave it outside.'
I did not want to argue with these women, so I dragged the pig outside and secured it's string leash to the exhaust pipe of a limousine that was parked in the driveway. It grunted in protest. A few seconds later, the limousine drove off, dragging the creature on it's side along the gravel as it squealed loudly. I tried to get my food back, but it was too late, the driver who was oblivious to the extra passenger was already at the exit of the front garden and about to join the highway.
I went back into the house. The two women I had seen earlier were sipping red wine at the desk. They were busy discussing how tasty the the small triangular pieces of toast that they nibbled were. I hastily snuck past them and entered a large doorway into the main room.
The formally attired crowd was composed of small groups of people who were engaged in superfluous self promotion. Finally, I am here, where I belong, amongst the company of fellow writers, I thought. I pushed through the throng towards the long table where there was an assortment of different types of cooked creatures and small triangular morsels of toast.
As I spread some mashed pig's liver onto my toast, I noticed a tall lithe girl standing next to the table staring at me. I caught her eye, and she smirked at me.
'That's an interesting t-shirt.' she began as she motioned her eyes to the A-Team t-shirt that adorned my muscular body.
'Thanks. I'm a big fan of the A-Team. Do you like them?' I replied enthusiastically.
'It's a very badly written show.'
'You're a writer then.' I asked.
'We're all writers here darling, and we're all very serious about what we do.' She sniffed at me, glanced around the room, and directed her nostrils at me, 'If you're not in the business of writing, then you shouldn't be here.'
'I write mainly as a hobby, although I do have some work that I will volunteer for submission to a local theatre company.'
She laughed. 'I said,' she emphasized, 'that we are serious writers, darling. We're not hobbyists, we write with the intent to be published.' With that, she walked away, disappearing into the mesh of people.
8.15.2006
Desperation Point: The Hit Job on David Maccaroni
My phone was broken; it had been ringing incessantly around the clock for the past two weeks. David Maccaroni had sucked the life out of my phone, he's a human mosquito; but he makes a more annoying sound. In desperation, I called my friend Baz in London from a phone box.
'Yeah Baz speaking.' said the gruff voice on the other side.
'Hey Baz it's me Lee, how you doing?'
'Who?'
'You know, the Chinese guy who went to Canada.'
'Hey mate! hows it going?'
'Look I need a favour...'
'Whatever it is, it'll cost ya.'
So I went on to explain to Baz how this guy called David Maccaroni was beginning to annoy me by calling me all the time and telling me how bored he was. I told him, that I would be more than willing to cover his 'expenses' if he would help me 'get rid of the guy'. He would arrive the next day.
David Maccaroni was sitting on my doorstep when I got home. He looked irritated, but mostly bored. 'Hey dude man, hey, I've been trying to call you man, but I think there's something wrong with your phone man.' he whined. I nodded. 'Dude, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tomorrow night? me and a bunch of friends are going out for a drink at a really cool bar.'
I smiled coolly, 'Sure Dave, mind if I bring a friend?'
We met at the Pink Rhino, a trendy bar in the trendiest part of Queen Street, Downtown. David Maccaroni introduced two of his buddies to me and Baz, John Bologna and Steve Pistachio.
There was a horrid stench coming from one of his friends that reminded me of a past roommate's waste paper basket which was always filled to the brim with stale cum tissues. Neither John or Steve made eye contact when they spoke to anyone. Steve Pistachio was busy staring at the waitress, she came over and he quickly turned away to stare at the beer mat that he was playing with his grubby fingers.
'Can I get you something to drink?' she chirped with a smile.
Dave brushed his thin hair back, 'Yes, what beers do you have on tap?'
'We have Keiths, Rickards, Pilchards, Mongroes, Wickets, Midgets, Pansies and Roys.'
Dave was staring at her breasts, 'Ummm, which one is good?'
'They're all good, the Mongroes beer is on special offer at the moment.'
'We'll take the special offer beer in that case!' said Dave delightedly at her breasts without even bothering to confer with the rest of us.
'A pitcher?'
'Yes! that will be great, thank you miss.'
John Bologna was staring at me like I was a television set. He eventually spoke, 'Do you like pineapples?'
'Yes, I love pineapples, probably my favourite fruit.' I replied.
'I don't like them.'
'Why?'
'I dunno.' He shrugged his shoulders and stared into a space about twenty six centimetres behind my back, and sixteen centimetres above my shoulder.
'You look like Harrison Ford.' said Baz unexpectedly to Steve Pistachio.
'I've been told that.' replied Steve.
'Harrison Ford fucking kicked arse in Star Wars. I liked the way he went fucking ape shit and blew those stormtroopers apart. He's a fucking psycho.'
Steve mumbled something under his breath, shifted uncomfortably and then began to play with the beer mat again.
'Mannn, that waitress was pretty hot eh?' said David after about ten minutes of sustained group silence where we were just staring at the wood table.
'Yeah, if you're into that sort of thing Dave.' I replied monotonously.
'Dude, she had a yummy set of perfect breasts, hmmm yeah!' he laughed.
'Fake breasts Dave, they were fake...'
'What the hell are you talking about dude? they were f-i-i-i-i-ne!" he laughed mockingly and looked at his friends.
'Dave, the "she" that you were talking about was a fucking transvestite; you hate that shit, you hate gay people.'
'Mannn, I don't like your tone man, you're trying to say that I'm gay or something?'
'Dave,' I began condescendingly, 'we're in a gay bar... you chose to come to a fucking gay bar! There was a notice outside that said that there's going to be a drag queen show in about half an hour!'
'Dude, are you serious?' panicked Dave, 'we have to get out of here man!' At that moment, the waitress arrived with the pitcher of beer.
The Harrison Ford look alike was hunched over his beer, eyes darting nervously around the room as he rotated the glass between his fingers. John Bologna was staring at the bubbles in his beer. Baz watched Dave, as a lion watches it's next meal. 'Hey guys, we should drink up, I don't know about you guys, but I'm bored, this is so sad man, we gotta go and do something interesting!' said Dave.
The next morning, Dave's naked body was discovered by the police. He had been tied up, gagged and left floating on a rubber dinghy on the lake. A twelve inch dildo had been brutally rammed up his arse and held in place by duct tape. A plastic blow up alien sex doll had been strapped to his midriff. He was so high on a cocktail of ecstacy, tequila and psychedelic drugs, that he was still busy pumping the doll when they had discovered him.
'Yeah Baz speaking.' said the gruff voice on the other side.
'Hey Baz it's me Lee, how you doing?'
'Who?'
'You know, the Chinese guy who went to Canada.'
'Hey mate! hows it going?'
'Look I need a favour...'
'Whatever it is, it'll cost ya.'
So I went on to explain to Baz how this guy called David Maccaroni was beginning to annoy me by calling me all the time and telling me how bored he was. I told him, that I would be more than willing to cover his 'expenses' if he would help me 'get rid of the guy'. He would arrive the next day.
David Maccaroni was sitting on my doorstep when I got home. He looked irritated, but mostly bored. 'Hey dude man, hey, I've been trying to call you man, but I think there's something wrong with your phone man.' he whined. I nodded. 'Dude, I was wondering if you wanted to hang out tomorrow night? me and a bunch of friends are going out for a drink at a really cool bar.'
I smiled coolly, 'Sure Dave, mind if I bring a friend?'
We met at the Pink Rhino, a trendy bar in the trendiest part of Queen Street, Downtown. David Maccaroni introduced two of his buddies to me and Baz, John Bologna and Steve Pistachio.
There was a horrid stench coming from one of his friends that reminded me of a past roommate's waste paper basket which was always filled to the brim with stale cum tissues. Neither John or Steve made eye contact when they spoke to anyone. Steve Pistachio was busy staring at the waitress, she came over and he quickly turned away to stare at the beer mat that he was playing with his grubby fingers.
'Can I get you something to drink?' she chirped with a smile.
Dave brushed his thin hair back, 'Yes, what beers do you have on tap?'
'We have Keiths, Rickards, Pilchards, Mongroes, Wickets, Midgets, Pansies and Roys.'
Dave was staring at her breasts, 'Ummm, which one is good?'
'They're all good, the Mongroes beer is on special offer at the moment.'
'We'll take the special offer beer in that case!' said Dave delightedly at her breasts without even bothering to confer with the rest of us.
'A pitcher?'
'Yes! that will be great, thank you miss.'
John Bologna was staring at me like I was a television set. He eventually spoke, 'Do you like pineapples?'
'Yes, I love pineapples, probably my favourite fruit.' I replied.
'I don't like them.'
'Why?'
'I dunno.' He shrugged his shoulders and stared into a space about twenty six centimetres behind my back, and sixteen centimetres above my shoulder.
'You look like Harrison Ford.' said Baz unexpectedly to Steve Pistachio.
'I've been told that.' replied Steve.
'Harrison Ford fucking kicked arse in Star Wars. I liked the way he went fucking ape shit and blew those stormtroopers apart. He's a fucking psycho.'
Steve mumbled something under his breath, shifted uncomfortably and then began to play with the beer mat again.
'Mannn, that waitress was pretty hot eh?' said David after about ten minutes of sustained group silence where we were just staring at the wood table.
'Yeah, if you're into that sort of thing Dave.' I replied monotonously.
'Dude, she had a yummy set of perfect breasts, hmmm yeah!' he laughed.
'Fake breasts Dave, they were fake...'
'What the hell are you talking about dude? they were f-i-i-i-i-ne!" he laughed mockingly and looked at his friends.
'Dave, the "she" that you were talking about was a fucking transvestite; you hate that shit, you hate gay people.'
'Mannn, I don't like your tone man, you're trying to say that I'm gay or something?'
'Dave,' I began condescendingly, 'we're in a gay bar... you chose to come to a fucking gay bar! There was a notice outside that said that there's going to be a drag queen show in about half an hour!'
'Dude, are you serious?' panicked Dave, 'we have to get out of here man!' At that moment, the waitress arrived with the pitcher of beer.
The Harrison Ford look alike was hunched over his beer, eyes darting nervously around the room as he rotated the glass between his fingers. John Bologna was staring at the bubbles in his beer. Baz watched Dave, as a lion watches it's next meal. 'Hey guys, we should drink up, I don't know about you guys, but I'm bored, this is so sad man, we gotta go and do something interesting!' said Dave.
The next morning, Dave's naked body was discovered by the police. He had been tied up, gagged and left floating on a rubber dinghy on the lake. A twelve inch dildo had been brutally rammed up his arse and held in place by duct tape. A plastic blow up alien sex doll had been strapped to his midriff. He was so high on a cocktail of ecstacy, tequila and psychedelic drugs, that he was still busy pumping the doll when they had discovered him.
8.13.2006
David Maccaroni: The Return
I had just hung up the phone, slam dunked it to execute the voice on the other side; I had been a victim to the conversation of David Maccaroni.
A few second later the phone rang again. I didn't want to pick it up, I already knew who it was. It demanded attention, it wanted, it needed. The ringing ceased as the answering machine clicked in, 'Hey, unfortunately I'm not available right now, please leave your name and your number, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.'
'Hey dude, this is Dave Maccaroni calling at 3.27pm, I think you got cut off or something, please call me back on 416 657 2364, thanks.' There was a slight pause as if he wanted to add something else to his message, then he put the phone down.
Ten minutes later the phone rang again. I lit a cigarette and sat back as the answering machine recorded, 'Hey man, it's Dave Maccaroni calling at 3.37pm, wassup? just wondering how you're doing? Give me a call back man on 416 657 2364 when you get a chance. Thanks. Bye.'
This procedure was repeated every ten minutes for the next two hours. I decided to call the bastard back.
'Hello, David Maccaroni speaking.'
'Dave, stop calling me.'
'Oh hey man! wassup? Been wanting to talk to you all day, man!'
'You're a freak Dave! you need to get a fucking life.'
'Dude, man, I don't like the tone of voice that you're using with me. I don't like that man.'
'You know what? I don't give a fucking shit. Don't call me any more.'
'Mannnn, what's your problem man? Dude, I thought we were friends, man. You're like my best friend man...'
'Look Dave, I don't think I can be friends with someone who calls me up all the time, just to tell me how bored they are; you need to get some hobbies... seriously.'
'I've got hobbies man, what the hell are you talking about? I watch television, play computer games, drink beer, and talk on my phone.' he replied belligerently.
'I've got to go out.' I put the phone down.
It rang about thirty seconds later.
A few second later the phone rang again. I didn't want to pick it up, I already knew who it was. It demanded attention, it wanted, it needed. The ringing ceased as the answering machine clicked in, 'Hey, unfortunately I'm not available right now, please leave your name and your number, and I'll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.'
'Hey dude, this is Dave Maccaroni calling at 3.27pm, I think you got cut off or something, please call me back on 416 657 2364, thanks.' There was a slight pause as if he wanted to add something else to his message, then he put the phone down.
Ten minutes later the phone rang again. I lit a cigarette and sat back as the answering machine recorded, 'Hey man, it's Dave Maccaroni calling at 3.37pm, wassup? just wondering how you're doing? Give me a call back man on 416 657 2364 when you get a chance. Thanks. Bye.'
This procedure was repeated every ten minutes for the next two hours. I decided to call the bastard back.
'Hello, David Maccaroni speaking.'
'Dave, stop calling me.'
'Oh hey man! wassup? Been wanting to talk to you all day, man!'
'You're a freak Dave! you need to get a fucking life.'
'Dude, man, I don't like the tone of voice that you're using with me. I don't like that man.'
'You know what? I don't give a fucking shit. Don't call me any more.'
'Mannnn, what's your problem man? Dude, I thought we were friends, man. You're like my best friend man...'
'Look Dave, I don't think I can be friends with someone who calls me up all the time, just to tell me how bored they are; you need to get some hobbies... seriously.'
'I've got hobbies man, what the hell are you talking about? I watch television, play computer games, drink beer, and talk on my phone.' he replied belligerently.
'I've got to go out.' I put the phone down.
It rang about thirty seconds later.
My Blog: The Empire
This, my blog, an empire, a testimony to dedicated posting. I have created this from the ground up, written a little every day, piece by piece, block by block I built my empire.
Tour guide: And here we have the empire of Zombiehellmonkey, take a look around, look at the wonders of this amazing world that he has created, day by day, block by block... Ummm, excuse me Ms, you're not allowed through that door...
Visitor: Why? What's in there?
Tour guide: It's out of bounds, that's all I can say. Please Ms, step away.
Unbeknownst to the visitor, there was a creature in the cupboard. The creature was warped and demented but dead. It's face was contorted by a petrified look of terror.
Visitor: I paid good money to go on this tour, I demand to see what is inside this cupboard!
Tour guide: I'm sorry Ms, but if you don't step away from that door, I'm going to have to call security.
to be continued...
Tour guide: And here we have the empire of Zombiehellmonkey, take a look around, look at the wonders of this amazing world that he has created, day by day, block by block... Ummm, excuse me Ms, you're not allowed through that door...
Visitor: Why? What's in there?
Tour guide: It's out of bounds, that's all I can say. Please Ms, step away.
Unbeknownst to the visitor, there was a creature in the cupboard. The creature was warped and demented but dead. It's face was contorted by a petrified look of terror.
Visitor: I paid good money to go on this tour, I demand to see what is inside this cupboard!
Tour guide: I'm sorry Ms, but if you don't step away from that door, I'm going to have to call security.
to be continued...
8.11.2006
Oh Hamster!! Why did you leave me??!!
It's been over ten years now since my hamster died. Only recently, have I been able to talk about it...
His name was, 'Hamster', I thought it was somewhat appropriate although many people didn't think so; they thought he deserved a more human sounding name, but I knew that he wasn't human, and so did he.
He was a Russian hamster who enjoyed life as much as say a crocodile or a rare African antelope. I remember that he used to keep me up at night, spinning his little wheel until the daylight hours, then he would carry on through the day; he was an exercise freak. It really is a priviledge to be the owner of such a fitness fanatic; but exercise is what eventually killed the little guy when his tiny heart just couldn't handle it any more.
One morning, I came out of the shower, I was naked, Hamster was staring at me funny. I was embarassed. It's never easy to explain to your pet, when they accidently see you nude. I think he was more shocked than surprised, I mean, there was no hot water left, and the cold water left my breeding parts in a state of shrunken indecision. He eventually forgave me; he had to, otherwise I would have cut off his food supply.
Winters weren't so harsh and miserable when Hamster was around. When the gas company decided to cut me off, I would have frozen, if it weren't for Hamster to keep my hands warm.
He would often pee in my palms as a way to thank me for being such a kind master, or kick his poop flavoured tic tacs out of the cage to get my attention.
He taught me how to store food in my mouth and take it from one room to another where I would spit it out and eat it later. I taught him to fly, but it took him a while to learn how to break his fall; the good thing was, that he was determined to learn to fly, never gave up.
One morning, I came downstairs to notice that there was no activity in the cage. Silence, as silent as a dead hamster. He was dead. As stiff as a stick. Hard as a door knob. I scooped him up, dug a shallow grave for him, placed him gently inside and covered him slowly with the dirt that once gave life to man. I poured water onto the grave, hoping that he might grow into a beautiful oak tree, oneday.
His name was, 'Hamster', I thought it was somewhat appropriate although many people didn't think so; they thought he deserved a more human sounding name, but I knew that he wasn't human, and so did he.
He was a Russian hamster who enjoyed life as much as say a crocodile or a rare African antelope. I remember that he used to keep me up at night, spinning his little wheel until the daylight hours, then he would carry on through the day; he was an exercise freak. It really is a priviledge to be the owner of such a fitness fanatic; but exercise is what eventually killed the little guy when his tiny heart just couldn't handle it any more.
One morning, I came out of the shower, I was naked, Hamster was staring at me funny. I was embarassed. It's never easy to explain to your pet, when they accidently see you nude. I think he was more shocked than surprised, I mean, there was no hot water left, and the cold water left my breeding parts in a state of shrunken indecision. He eventually forgave me; he had to, otherwise I would have cut off his food supply.
Winters weren't so harsh and miserable when Hamster was around. When the gas company decided to cut me off, I would have frozen, if it weren't for Hamster to keep my hands warm.
He would often pee in my palms as a way to thank me for being such a kind master, or kick his poop flavoured tic tacs out of the cage to get my attention.
He taught me how to store food in my mouth and take it from one room to another where I would spit it out and eat it later. I taught him to fly, but it took him a while to learn how to break his fall; the good thing was, that he was determined to learn to fly, never gave up.
One morning, I came downstairs to notice that there was no activity in the cage. Silence, as silent as a dead hamster. He was dead. As stiff as a stick. Hard as a door knob. I scooped him up, dug a shallow grave for him, placed him gently inside and covered him slowly with the dirt that once gave life to man. I poured water onto the grave, hoping that he might grow into a beautiful oak tree, oneday.
There's no excuse to be bored
There is one thing worse than being eaten by a shark, that is being eaten alive by a fellow human being. No actually, allow me to change my mind, because words on a page do change, the worse thing is someone telling you that they are bored. It's alright for kids to say it, they're still discovering the joys of free thought, but for an adult? It's absolutely and unflinchingly wrong.
The phone rings... I pick it up. It's my 'friend', David Maccaroni. 'Hey man, dude, I'm bored, I just don't know what to do with myself. There's nothing on television, and I've got nothing to do...' I press the mute button and call him a fuckwit retard.
Unmute. 'Hey David, wassup? How are you doing? How's life?'
'Boring man. Nothing to do. Bored, bored, bored out of my wits, man. I'm just really...'
'...bored?'
'Yeah man, I'm like oh my god man, like there's nothing to do...'
'So you decided to call me?' I reply nonchalantly.
'Yeah man, just wondering what you're up to and if you're as bored as me?'
'I never get bored David, always finding things to do with my time. Maybe you should try hibernating or cryogenically freezing yourself until mankind discovers a cure for boredom?' I reply sarcastically, in my favourite retard tone of voice.
Pause and silence on the other end. 'Ha, ha, ha, very funny man. It took me a while to get that joke, but I got it now,' he sighs, 'but seriously man, I'm so darned bored outta my skull...'
'Actually, I'm starting to feel a little bored right now...' I reply.
'Oh cool! Maybe we should hang out or something, go for a drink?'
'Oh man! A 747 passenger plane just crashed into the roof of my house! Gotta go!' I hang up.
The phone rings... I pick it up. It's my 'friend', David Maccaroni. 'Hey man, dude, I'm bored, I just don't know what to do with myself. There's nothing on television, and I've got nothing to do...' I press the mute button and call him a fuckwit retard.
Unmute. 'Hey David, wassup? How are you doing? How's life?'
'Boring man. Nothing to do. Bored, bored, bored out of my wits, man. I'm just really...'
'...bored?'
'Yeah man, I'm like oh my god man, like there's nothing to do...'
'So you decided to call me?' I reply nonchalantly.
'Yeah man, just wondering what you're up to and if you're as bored as me?'
'I never get bored David, always finding things to do with my time. Maybe you should try hibernating or cryogenically freezing yourself until mankind discovers a cure for boredom?' I reply sarcastically, in my favourite retard tone of voice.
Pause and silence on the other end. 'Ha, ha, ha, very funny man. It took me a while to get that joke, but I got it now,' he sighs, 'but seriously man, I'm so darned bored outta my skull...'
'Actually, I'm starting to feel a little bored right now...' I reply.
'Oh cool! Maybe we should hang out or something, go for a drink?'
'Oh man! A 747 passenger plane just crashed into the roof of my house! Gotta go!' I hang up.
Weiner soup, the best thing since sliced bread?... Probably
I eat pretty good for someone who only buys groceries five times a week.
Weiners, or hot dogs as non-Americans call them are the most awesome thing; they're easy to prepare and so many ways to do it.
Basically a weiner is a diced up cow in a tubelike package that is convenient and small enough to carry in a ladies handbag. They make weiners with a cow mincing machine. It is a giant steel funnel, at the bottom of which, are large blades that turn at a high velocity, chopping the creature's flesh into a slush. The cows line up at the top of a cliff, and a dog barks at them until they jump into the mincer. They come out as weiners on the otherside. Sometimes a factory worker will accidently fall in; but the percentage of beef will always be higher, the human ingredient is usually called 'mechanically separated chicken'.
I'm going to share a recipe of mine that's ideal as an appetizer or for entertaining friends or impressing your boss. It's called weiner soup.
The most important ingredient is water. Place the water in a large pot, and bring to a boil. Open a packet of weiners and put about twenty into the boiling water. Turn down the heat and allow to simmer for about two hours.
The secret to making great weiner soup, is to add salt; not too much, and not too little.
Once the soup is ready, serve and present in your most expensive bone china soup bowls. Be careful, it's hot! You'll get that job promotion that you've always wanted!
Weiners, or hot dogs as non-Americans call them are the most awesome thing; they're easy to prepare and so many ways to do it.
Basically a weiner is a diced up cow in a tubelike package that is convenient and small enough to carry in a ladies handbag. They make weiners with a cow mincing machine. It is a giant steel funnel, at the bottom of which, are large blades that turn at a high velocity, chopping the creature's flesh into a slush. The cows line up at the top of a cliff, and a dog barks at them until they jump into the mincer. They come out as weiners on the otherside. Sometimes a factory worker will accidently fall in; but the percentage of beef will always be higher, the human ingredient is usually called 'mechanically separated chicken'.
I'm going to share a recipe of mine that's ideal as an appetizer or for entertaining friends or impressing your boss. It's called weiner soup.
The most important ingredient is water. Place the water in a large pot, and bring to a boil. Open a packet of weiners and put about twenty into the boiling water. Turn down the heat and allow to simmer for about two hours.
The secret to making great weiner soup, is to add salt; not too much, and not too little.
Once the soup is ready, serve and present in your most expensive bone china soup bowls. Be careful, it's hot! You'll get that job promotion that you've always wanted!
8.10.2006
Computer Nerds are the New Jocks
I'm quite lucky that I didn't turn into a computer nerd. At the age of ten, my uncle (who is no longer my uncle), gave me his old Apple II computer. The bloody thing didn't work, the graphics card was fried, but I had a tonne of books and read every single one, teaching myself Apple Basic and Database before I got a new card. Fortunately, an interest in art prevented me from pursuing the path of technology and becoming a computer whizz.
The nerds who made big bucks in the early nineties as teenage software geniuses have all grown up to be the new jocks of this decade. Their spines twisted and bent from years in front of a computer, scrawny and short, Lasik eye surgery replacing thick rimmed spectacles, they're still the same guys but with money. I see these grown boys driving around in their expensive toys with hot young and stupid blondes, reliving the teenage years that they missed out on.
I'm telling you, these new jocks are more dangerous than the sporting types. They're bitter about how the world bullied them when they were younger, they have no concept of how to treat women but as sex objects as they had no girlfriends in their youth. If you upset these guys or you don't want to sleep with them, they'll hack and destroy your computer and post your private photos on the internet.
The original jocks will have grown up to be hard working family types, many will have learnt from experience to be nicer people. The new jocks have no social experience, having spent most of their life acquiring computer skills and exchanging Playboy images on the internet bulletin boards. They'll have the spending power to be complete arseholes, viewing it as a form of justice on how badly mistreated they were on the school playground.
How to recognize these new jocks? Late 20s to early 30s, socially immature, undeveloped personality, usually of stunted growth and rather plain looking. They get irritated easily by better looking people, and their own insecurities makes them all too ready to exact bitter revenge on whoever they believe deserves their comeuppance.
The nerds who made big bucks in the early nineties as teenage software geniuses have all grown up to be the new jocks of this decade. Their spines twisted and bent from years in front of a computer, scrawny and short, Lasik eye surgery replacing thick rimmed spectacles, they're still the same guys but with money. I see these grown boys driving around in their expensive toys with hot young and stupid blondes, reliving the teenage years that they missed out on.
I'm telling you, these new jocks are more dangerous than the sporting types. They're bitter about how the world bullied them when they were younger, they have no concept of how to treat women but as sex objects as they had no girlfriends in their youth. If you upset these guys or you don't want to sleep with them, they'll hack and destroy your computer and post your private photos on the internet.
The original jocks will have grown up to be hard working family types, many will have learnt from experience to be nicer people. The new jocks have no social experience, having spent most of their life acquiring computer skills and exchanging Playboy images on the internet bulletin boards. They'll have the spending power to be complete arseholes, viewing it as a form of justice on how badly mistreated they were on the school playground.
How to recognize these new jocks? Late 20s to early 30s, socially immature, undeveloped personality, usually of stunted growth and rather plain looking. They get irritated easily by better looking people, and their own insecurities makes them all too ready to exact bitter revenge on whoever they believe deserves their comeuppance.
Hacked Computer
I'm still seething with anger after the incident at Futureshop, where I had left my laptop to have it's hinges repaired. The techie had demanded the password to the operating system, yet I had refused to give it since I saw no reason why they would need it. I did get the computer back, but the password file had been deleted, so basically the user passwords had been reset; the bastards accessed my computer anyway. The guy is probably reading this post right now, I hope that my blog doesn't disappear mysteriously overnight...
8.09.2006
An Investment in Knowledge
As my regular readers all know, I like to make a serious post from time to time...
Benjamin Franklin once said, 'An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.'
If you don't know anything about how to make your money work for you, you could end up working as a slave to taxes and inflation for the rest of your life.
You may have the best job in the world right now, but if you don't know how to invest your hard earned cash, you could end up in debt before you reach the age of fifty.
I'd like to recommend a few good books, a worthwhile investment, to those who see themselves on the hamster wheel of life.
Investing For Canadians FOR DUMMIES - Eric Tyson, Tony Martin
Stock Investing For Canadians FOR DUMMIES - Andrew Dagys, Paul Mladjenovic
How to Make Money in Stocks: A Winning System in Good Times or Bad - William J. O'Neil
Benjamin Franklin once said, 'An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest.'
If you don't know anything about how to make your money work for you, you could end up working as a slave to taxes and inflation for the rest of your life.
You may have the best job in the world right now, but if you don't know how to invest your hard earned cash, you could end up in debt before you reach the age of fifty.
I'd like to recommend a few good books, a worthwhile investment, to those who see themselves on the hamster wheel of life.
Investing For Canadians FOR DUMMIES - Eric Tyson, Tony Martin
Stock Investing For Canadians FOR DUMMIES - Andrew Dagys, Paul Mladjenovic
How to Make Money in Stocks: A Winning System in Good Times or Bad - William J. O'Neil
8.08.2006
Google Ads: What is the point, really?
Google Ads, you sign up to put adverts on your blog, and you get paid for every time someone clicks on them. Makes perfect sense, right?... NO, they suck, the whole idea sucks, and their babies suck too.
When was the last time you clicked an ad on someone's blog site? The answer is probably, never. Everytime I see someone with ads on their blog site, I cannot help but giggle at the unhealthy optimism afforded by internet capitalism.
If you want to make advertising pay, you have to sell the space on your popular blog site to the companies who want exposure.
Remove those disgusting pay-per-click ad banners off your sites, nobody reads them; they just make you look stupid.
When was the last time you clicked an ad on someone's blog site? The answer is probably, never. Everytime I see someone with ads on their blog site, I cannot help but giggle at the unhealthy optimism afforded by internet capitalism.
If you want to make advertising pay, you have to sell the space on your popular blog site to the companies who want exposure.
Remove those disgusting pay-per-click ad banners off your sites, nobody reads them; they just make you look stupid.
The Half Eaten Samosa
I woke up with a terrible hangover today as well as a flea bitten face. I was thirsty; I had a craving for an ice cold smoothie to massage my throat and chill the bile that was climbing up my digestive tract; but I couldn't get one, so I had to settle for sucking the moisture out of a teabag that had been left in a cup.
There was the used condom lying there on the floor from the night before, my liquid pearl in a latex prison.
I scoured the frige for food, all I found was a half eaten vegetable and chicken samosa, there was slight mould growing along the bitten edges. A pot of sauce came with the samosa. I grabbed the items and made for the table, but accidently tripped on the fan cord and fell on the floor with a loud KLA-THLUMPONK.
The samosa skidded across the floor to smack into the skirting board, the pot of sauce flew up in the air to land all over my bed. I picked myself up, cursing. The sauce was gone, and the samosa was lying in three broken pieces on the dusty floor besides a couple of dead cockroaches. I scooped the food back onto the plate.
The samosa was dry and hard to swallow, I could have done with the sauce which was now only a dark stain on my bedsheets. I looked at the discarded condom on the floor... hmmm, I thought.
There was the used condom lying there on the floor from the night before, my liquid pearl in a latex prison.
I scoured the frige for food, all I found was a half eaten vegetable and chicken samosa, there was slight mould growing along the bitten edges. A pot of sauce came with the samosa. I grabbed the items and made for the table, but accidently tripped on the fan cord and fell on the floor with a loud KLA-THLUMPONK.
The samosa skidded across the floor to smack into the skirting board, the pot of sauce flew up in the air to land all over my bed. I picked myself up, cursing. The sauce was gone, and the samosa was lying in three broken pieces on the dusty floor besides a couple of dead cockroaches. I scooped the food back onto the plate.
The samosa was dry and hard to swallow, I could have done with the sauce which was now only a dark stain on my bedsheets. I looked at the discarded condom on the floor... hmmm, I thought.
8.07.2006
Prostitution in the Name of Comedy
I have just had sex with a prostitute.
I had been drinking all day at the Fiddler's Green pub, and on the journey home I realized that I needed tissue paper and shower gel, so I ventured into the nearby Rabba's and bought some chips and toilet paper.
A young prostitute was standing on the street corner, she asked me for a cigarette, 'Sorry babe I got none, I don't smoke!' I said.
'Awww, that's a shame, you wanna good time?'
I pulled out my wallet to find I had forty bucks in it, 'I've only got forty bucks...'
'Okay, that's cool, where do you live?'
I looked at my toilet paper; it was a choice between jerking off or having sex. She looked kinda sexy, high heels, black stockings and a nice arse. 'Uh, I dunno, I don't really do prostitutes, but I haven't had sex in months...'
'That's cool, you want me to come home with you?'
'Uh... Okay.' I said, drunkenly, while staring at her legs.
We got back and started kissing. 'Wow, your room is really small, but you have a big penis for a Chinese guy...'
We did the dirty for about half an hour, all I could afford, and I almost passed out half way.
'I need to sleep now, here's the forty bucks.' I said as I handed the cash over for the evil deed. 'If I wasn't using a condom, I'd probably have to charge you because I'm putting out grade A comedy genes, most women will kill for that.' She took the money and left without a word.
I had been drinking all day at the Fiddler's Green pub, and on the journey home I realized that I needed tissue paper and shower gel, so I ventured into the nearby Rabba's and bought some chips and toilet paper.
A young prostitute was standing on the street corner, she asked me for a cigarette, 'Sorry babe I got none, I don't smoke!' I said.
'Awww, that's a shame, you wanna good time?'
I pulled out my wallet to find I had forty bucks in it, 'I've only got forty bucks...'
'Okay, that's cool, where do you live?'
I looked at my toilet paper; it was a choice between jerking off or having sex. She looked kinda sexy, high heels, black stockings and a nice arse. 'Uh, I dunno, I don't really do prostitutes, but I haven't had sex in months...'
'That's cool, you want me to come home with you?'
'Uh... Okay.' I said, drunkenly, while staring at her legs.
We got back and started kissing. 'Wow, your room is really small, but you have a big penis for a Chinese guy...'
We did the dirty for about half an hour, all I could afford, and I almost passed out half way.
'I need to sleep now, here's the forty bucks.' I said as I handed the cash over for the evil deed. 'If I wasn't using a condom, I'd probably have to charge you because I'm putting out grade A comedy genes, most women will kill for that.' She took the money and left without a word.
8.06.2006
Macaroni & Cheese Dinner From a Box
I've been in Canada for so long now, that I'm starting to turn Italian.
Canada is most famous for Kraft dinner. That's a dinner in a box, some pasta and some cheese powder; just add water and heat it up. It's so great living in the future isn't it?!
Today, was a special occasion; I cooked my first Kraft dinner, well to be honest, it wasn't really Kraft, it was a no name brand, but close enough. Sometimes, one likes to take a break from tearing the flesh from animal bones so one can enjoy something man-made and artificial instead.
I ripped open the box of macaroni cheese dinner with my teeth, after I had tossed it around the room and chased it a few times. There was the dried macaroni, and a bag of flourescent orange powder...
The powder looked like it had not originated from this planet; it was almost crystalline and seemed to glow significantly. A quick check on Google, revealed that the powder was indeed alien; manufactured in an offworld human slave colony that was over thirty light years away. The alien overlords had been trading our precious metals in return for their cheese mixture.
The meal had the texture of mini intestines; slimy and slippery. The box made two breakfast bowls full, I ate while gagging repeatedly. I looked up at the stars through the window as I forced the food down my throat, I am eating soylent green.
Canada is most famous for Kraft dinner. That's a dinner in a box, some pasta and some cheese powder; just add water and heat it up. It's so great living in the future isn't it?!
Today, was a special occasion; I cooked my first Kraft dinner, well to be honest, it wasn't really Kraft, it was a no name brand, but close enough. Sometimes, one likes to take a break from tearing the flesh from animal bones so one can enjoy something man-made and artificial instead.
I ripped open the box of macaroni cheese dinner with my teeth, after I had tossed it around the room and chased it a few times. There was the dried macaroni, and a bag of flourescent orange powder...
The powder looked like it had not originated from this planet; it was almost crystalline and seemed to glow significantly. A quick check on Google, revealed that the powder was indeed alien; manufactured in an offworld human slave colony that was over thirty light years away. The alien overlords had been trading our precious metals in return for their cheese mixture.
The meal had the texture of mini intestines; slimy and slippery. The box made two breakfast bowls full, I ate while gagging repeatedly. I looked up at the stars through the window as I forced the food down my throat, I am eating soylent green.
8.04.2006
A Day in the Life of a Karaoke Professional
I wake up, I'm tired, damn tired. I'm so tired that if I try to pull myself out of bed, my skin drags me back down. My eyelids are so heavy that they hang lower than my balls. I'm so damn tired that I can't move. You guessed it; I'm a karaoke professional.
When I manage to get myself out of bed, I drag myself to the shower. The journey is tedious and gruesome; I drag myself through the empty beer cans, pizza boxes, vomit and dead cockroaches. Sometimes I don't make it; it's tough, but I know that my salvation is the shower.
The cool water washes away the tiredness and the life seeps back into my weak and bony body. I growl as the energy floods my brain, bringing lyrics into my memory. I begin to sing the songs I know so well now. They greet my voice like a long lost friend and I remember what I am, a karaoke master.
Breakfast is leftover pizza from the night before, I scrape the plastic cheese and tomato bits off the cover of the boxes. Eating them like a beggar. Then I swill it down with warm beer thats been brewed overnight by cigarette butts. It's 8pm, I don't have long to get ready, my friend Joey will be picking me up soon.
With my revitalized vigor, I bounce to my room. I search the mountains of mouldy clothing on the floor for the cleanest item to throw onto my body. Soon I will sparkle on stage like a diamond, bringing happiness to the world. I sing, therefore I am.
When I manage to get myself out of bed, I drag myself to the shower. The journey is tedious and gruesome; I drag myself through the empty beer cans, pizza boxes, vomit and dead cockroaches. Sometimes I don't make it; it's tough, but I know that my salvation is the shower.
The cool water washes away the tiredness and the life seeps back into my weak and bony body. I growl as the energy floods my brain, bringing lyrics into my memory. I begin to sing the songs I know so well now. They greet my voice like a long lost friend and I remember what I am, a karaoke master.
Breakfast is leftover pizza from the night before, I scrape the plastic cheese and tomato bits off the cover of the boxes. Eating them like a beggar. Then I swill it down with warm beer thats been brewed overnight by cigarette butts. It's 8pm, I don't have long to get ready, my friend Joey will be picking me up soon.
With my revitalized vigor, I bounce to my room. I search the mountains of mouldy clothing on the floor for the cleanest item to throw onto my body. Soon I will sparkle on stage like a diamond, bringing happiness to the world. I sing, therefore I am.
8.02.2006
Indecision: it's a waste of life...
My life is trickling away; day by day, hour by hour. Therefore, it is with utmost urgency that I tell you this story:
A friend of mine told me about a fantastically posh restaurant called KFC. It stands for Kentucky Fried Chicken. What is a chicken? Well, allow me to explain...
There are these creatures with beaks and wings who once ran around a field all day pecking at the ground while making peculiar 'bok bok bok' noises. They chose to live the life of riley, courtesy of the Alien Overlords; preferring to chill out and eat healthily. So who cares that they're not being stressed out in an unatural office environment and working overtime? -Initially, a few did.
So a bunch of humans decided to round up the strange creatures and put them in cages so they could eat their eggs and devour their flesh. 'This will teach them to be lazy,' said the very first farmer, 'I slave away in the office all day and get so stressed out that my outlet will be to stuff them into small cages and allow them to experience the very thing that has made me the bitter monster that I am.'
The arms, legs and head of the creatures are sliced off. The arms, breast and thighs are shipped off to supermarkets and fast food outlets. This is where the story begins:
So I was waiting in line for some pieces of deep fried chicken creature. It was Toonie Tuesday; a special offer for two pieces and fries. I could smell the deep fried lumps of flesh and my mouth was watering spasmodically. I had the hunger and, 'I must, I must the flesh of a creature for the insatiable lust of my belly; Mistress Hunger drags her long sharp nails along the inside walls of my innards.'
The woman before me was in the process of ordering. She could/would not decide. She was treating the exchange as though it were the purchase of a brand new car from a dealership showroom. Stupid, stinky bitch, it's called fast food for a reason: you get your fried creature flesh, give your money, and eat it like a savage. I clenched my teeth tighter, my knuckles were white with rage; I needed MEAT.
I looked at my watch... 5 seconds... 15 seconds... 5 minutes... My fucking life is ticking away! I am dying for God's sake! I hoped that I did not shout that out loud by accident. I cannot waste my precious life time waiting for some idiot to make up their mind whether to buy ten or fifteen pieces of chicken!!! I wanted my extra greasy, swimming in extra greasy, greasy, greasy, fatty chicken oils, please give me a heart attack, oily, oily, dripping in grease, clog up your heart, cholestral, oily grease but very delicious fried chicken limbs, NOW!!!
A friend of mine told me about a fantastically posh restaurant called KFC. It stands for Kentucky Fried Chicken. What is a chicken? Well, allow me to explain...
There are these creatures with beaks and wings who once ran around a field all day pecking at the ground while making peculiar 'bok bok bok' noises. They chose to live the life of riley, courtesy of the Alien Overlords; preferring to chill out and eat healthily. So who cares that they're not being stressed out in an unatural office environment and working overtime? -Initially, a few did.
So a bunch of humans decided to round up the strange creatures and put them in cages so they could eat their eggs and devour their flesh. 'This will teach them to be lazy,' said the very first farmer, 'I slave away in the office all day and get so stressed out that my outlet will be to stuff them into small cages and allow them to experience the very thing that has made me the bitter monster that I am.'
The arms, legs and head of the creatures are sliced off. The arms, breast and thighs are shipped off to supermarkets and fast food outlets. This is where the story begins:
So I was waiting in line for some pieces of deep fried chicken creature. It was Toonie Tuesday; a special offer for two pieces and fries. I could smell the deep fried lumps of flesh and my mouth was watering spasmodically. I had the hunger and, 'I must, I must the flesh of a creature for the insatiable lust of my belly; Mistress Hunger drags her long sharp nails along the inside walls of my innards.'
The woman before me was in the process of ordering. She could/would not decide. She was treating the exchange as though it were the purchase of a brand new car from a dealership showroom. Stupid, stinky bitch, it's called fast food for a reason: you get your fried creature flesh, give your money, and eat it like a savage. I clenched my teeth tighter, my knuckles were white with rage; I needed MEAT.
I looked at my watch... 5 seconds... 15 seconds... 5 minutes... My fucking life is ticking away! I am dying for God's sake! I hoped that I did not shout that out loud by accident. I cannot waste my precious life time waiting for some idiot to make up their mind whether to buy ten or fifteen pieces of chicken!!! I wanted my extra greasy, swimming in extra greasy, greasy, greasy, fatty chicken oils, please give me a heart attack, oily, oily, dripping in grease, clog up your heart, cholestral, oily grease but very delicious fried chicken limbs, NOW!!!
Being Retarded: It creates chatter...
The other day, after I had finished my Burger King meal, I was tempted to throw the tray into the waste bin with the rest of the rubbish .
Your Life: live it like a true monkey
Never let anyone tell you how to live your life; apart from your parents... but who listens to their parents anyway?
We're all highly evolved self righteous monkeys. God invented the stick so we could beat our neighbours with it if any of them did anything that we disagreed with. If everyone had a stick, we'd constantly be beating each other and not get much work done.
So basically, the moral of the story is not to worry what the person next to you is doing because it's none of your business, and besides, you should be busy setting the example by beating yourself with your own stick...
We're all highly evolved self righteous monkeys. God invented the stick so we could beat our neighbours with it if any of them did anything that we disagreed with. If everyone had a stick, we'd constantly be beating each other and not get much work done.
So basically, the moral of the story is not to worry what the person next to you is doing because it's none of your business, and besides, you should be busy setting the example by beating yourself with your own stick...
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