What's Eating ZombieHellMonkey_Grape?

So, he said, "I'm going to be quite busy", he said.

I am in the process of writing my paperback novel, so he said.

That's right, he said. He said tagged itself like a parasite to his words, he said. A self replicating he said.

Oh! halt all!

I am currently writing my novel. It's ground breaking, cutting edges with a blunt knife, never been done before, only because I don't know the rules, f-i-c-t-i-o-n.

That outline took long enough to write; the idea itself was sitting in my head for a couple of months before my brain ran out of storage space and I had to cast it in ink.

MySpace: A Good Reason to Hate It

MySpace, that ugly site on the internet for wannabe bloggers who can't spell.

You've probably guessed that I'm not a fan of Myspace.com, that's because I have taste, and plus I am a graphic designer. In the evolution of all things internet, I'm surprised that Myspace lasted as long as it did.

If I were to define Myspace, it would be a cross between an internet dating site and a streaming porn server. The users are obsessed with the way they look and the people that appear on their friends list. If you really care about how others perceive you, I wouldn't invest spending time building your Myspace page.

For internet networking, I'm currently subscribed to Facebook.com, a classier site which has been developed with forethought and considerable planning. If Facebook was a car it would be a BMW, although not supremely aesthetic like a Lamborghini, it is functional and efficient; Myspace would be equivalent to a Skoda, not very pretty, gets you about, but when you sit in it, you look like a bit of an idiot.

For further information on MySpace hatred go to: ifuckinghatemyspace.com

Nutrition and Freedom: Speed Blog Series Part I

Welcome to part 1 of the speed blog series. Since I will be spending less time on my blog over the next few months, I've decided to condense my usual long rants.

Here is Part 1: Nutrition

I've always associated the idea of nutrition with freedom. In order for the mind to function properly, the body must be in good constitution. When the body becomes weak, the mind soon follows. Fundamentally, at the heart of any system is a physical infrastructure.

Access to information is the most important, secondary to that is education. Healthy minds are efficient minds. Good education is useless if the mind is not fully able to absorb knowledge. I believe that culinary and nutrition awareness classes are as important, if not more than, as mainstream academia.

It is proven fact that a healthy diet containing the recommended intake of vitamins and minerals produces an individual who is able to think with greater clarity. This is particularly important with young children with growing brains, denying them a proper diet can impede the growth of their bodies and minds. Students who eat healthy have been shown to do better in exams.

Many of the ills and problems in modern societies can be attributed to bad nutrition. With processed foods becoming cheaper and therefore more accessible, people are turning away from freshly cooked meats and vegetables. Large corporations can be blamed for gradually introducing the dependency of 'quick preparation' foods. The cycle of buying the cheaper processed foods will, by a process of supply and demand, keep the prices of fresh food towards the premium.

Aside from cancer and other diseases, malnutrition is known to affect the attention span of the human brain. Deficits in certain vitamins and minerals can cause antisocial behaviour. Tests on prison inmates have shown that a good healthy diet can improve cooperation. Therefore, if the government invested more money into education and diet, then less would be spent on policing.

A healthy community is one that has less crime and fewer diseases. A more holistic approach targets the root cause of many of the problems, rather than the western 'quick fix' method which although effective for the short term, eventually overburdens itself.

The Diary of a Robot Sex Educator

As usual, the alarm clocks nagging beep startled Bob Hoskins out of a deep and fulfilling sleep. It was four o’clock on a Saturday morning and time for him to get ready for work. This was a tough job: two hours sleep a night, seven days a week; God only knows how Bob managed to survive for six straight months without quitting or going insane.

Thirty minutes later, Bob was walking through the front doors of his work place. “Good morning Doctor Hoskins!” called a beautiful front desk receptionist as he walked in a trance-like state across the immaculate, gleaming marble floors of the foyer, oblivious to those he passed.

After a maze of corridors, he eventually arrived at a set of double doors bearing the sign, ‘Artificial Intelligence Training’. He paused outside the doors and sighed. As he stepped forward to open the doors, they slid open while hidden hydraulics announced their presence in the background. A pale faced, bleary eyed co-worker stepped out into the hallway, shoulders still hunched, he pulled a hand up to wave to Bob, Bob ignored him and walked through the doors.

It was another corridor, this time it was narrower and a parade of doors tiled the length of its tall walls. Muffled screams and moaning could be heard from each room. He reached a door with his name on it and swiped his entry card across a narrow slot, he grinned every time he did this as if he shared a secret joke with the security device.

A strong stale musty smell escaped when the door opened. “Good morning Doctor Bob!” said a female voice alerted to his presence from a metal container in the corner of the room as Bob hung his coat on the rack.

“One day to train a toaster oven, a month for a refrigerator, six months for a car, and a year to train an artificial intelligence sex bot!” he uttered, “good morning Elsi! – I hope you have been doing your homework.”

Bob strode over to the metal cabinet and lifted its lid open. Inside, was a plastic cube, no bigger than a pint glass, with rounded edges, flashing lights and the words ‘iFuck’ emblazoned across its surface besides the Apple logo. He placed it on a nearby desk and mechanically pulled his trouser zip down. His expression was one of aloofness as he gazed beyond the confines of the tiny room while he fumbled his manhood into the latest compact fashion accessory to hit the streets.

The Little Brat (Part II)

Continued from Part I

I heard the tumbling of feet down the stairs and a few seconds later Darren appeared in the room beside me followed by a strong whiff of urine. The boy was still wearing his snotty army top minus the trousers and their cargo of faeces; instead, he was wearing a pair of bright green swimming trunks.

I stood stunned. I must have looked stupid because the boy began to laugh, pointing at my face as he did so. I realized that the foul stench of urine that had infiltrated the confines of this claustrophobic nightmare space was emanating like lethal radiation from the boy's swim-wear. 'Darren,' I shouted, calling the boy's attention, "what in the name of the alien overlords are you doing wearing your swimming shorts for?" I sounded like my fourth year primary school teacher, Mrs. Pikes, who used to beat me on the head with a wooden ruler whenever I farted in class.

The boy stopped laughing, the jovialness evaporating from his face like some volatile gas. The creature known as Darren lowered his head, as his mouth split into a evil and menacing sneer, "Yes Mister Vermeer," spoke the boy firmly but slowly, pronouncing each word as if each one was a sharp dagger that he was slowly inserting into my abdomen, "I will do that..."

I looked hard into the eyes of insolence; they were feral, untrained, insubordinate and dangerously unpredictable. Although I was slightly taken aback by the boy's response, given the fact that it made no sense at all in relation to my question, but I wasn't going to surrender my authority to this little evil incarnate. "DAMN YOU KID!" I shouted as I reversed a tightly clenched fist towards the ceiling, "DAMN YOU! WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME!", for a moment, as if the armor of evil had been cracked, I saw for the first time, real fear in Darren's eyes, a vulnerability that softened my anger, and I brought my fist down upon the coffee table, splintering a corner of it, and causing the pile of pornography magazines to slide across it and catapulting the filled ashtray with cat droppings into the air.

I lowered my eyes in shame as the glass ashtray clattered to the ground. The remnants of my rage bubbled themselves out through the ends of my shaking nerves. I felt the strength of my legs leave me, as I helplessly watched my body avalanche to the floor, tumbling onto the fugitive cigarette butts, my head landing on the feline excrement. I began to sob in a way I hadn't done for years. After ten minutes, I fell into a deep restful sleep; that was what I had needed all along: sleep; heavenly sleep, the sleep that only the gods have, the kind of sleep that unleashes the soul from the body and flies it to eternity.

To be continued...

Your Life is Not Complete Until You Have Whored Your Virtual Self - SECOND LIFE!

I've been exploring the virtual world of Second Life lately. You can literally do anything in that world except connect with reality. This world very much like our everyday one is not exempt from prostitution and pornography. Every single object, person, texture in that world is made for and by the users.


I found myself in an awkward position as the artistic screen-shot above demonstrates. Lying on a zebra skin rug and my fingers pulling my deathly white butt-ocks apart like nobody's business and waiting to make it a lucky day for an unsuspecting 'I love creepy Shrek look-a-like Goths' fetishist.

It's the funniest thing in the world. Asked why I created such a crazy looking character, I told another user that I was Paris Hilton in real life, and my only escape is to become a freakish looking, sword welding Goth in Second Life; I began to wonder if perhaps that is how our own reality works.

This virtual reality is certainly a taste of things to come. When I first entered the SL world, it occurred to me that it had a striking resemblance to the science fictional novel 'Snow Crash' by Neal Stephenson. Virtual money can be exchanged for real money, the skills that earn you money in Second Life are the same skills that you have in reality. It's so great that the internet is turning us all into professional porn-stars and distributors! HOORAY! Hip-hip-...

So for all you cyber geeks who enjoy a little bit of digital hedonism here is the fooking LINK.

The Little Brat

This is the story of not me, the narrator, but of the neighbours that share this stinky little street with me.

I live on a crescent, it is not a crescent as such anymore, not since a gas pipe blew up one winter's morning, leaving a gaping hole in the road that resembled a pornstar's anus. The hole divided the street into three sections, those who live either side of it, and those who live around the crater. The gas board haven't even acknowledged the damage, not willing to take responsibility, they fixed the goddamn pipes so they could continue to feed us our bills, yet they refused to fix our road.

Anyway, that's history now, this story is about those horrible, wretched people that live next door. It hurts me to write this story because I grit my teeth together in pain if not only to hold back my gagging reflex. Okay, I'm ready, I'm sitting at the keyboard; I've actually just emptied my bowels, wiped cleanly, and made sure that every drop of urine has been paroled from my bladder. Into these words, I share my tortured soul.

Lucy and Mary, two elderly bitches of the sixties age range who live next door. Lucy, the short and stout one, wears thick rimmed spectacles which perch like a bloated stick insect on her button of a nose. Because those glasses are so thick and heavy, they constantly slide down, and Lucy has developed a habit scrunching her nostrils up in order to push them back up. Mary is lanky bitch, tall like a tree, arms wispy like branches and legs like trunks. She often wears headdresses in bright sickly colours, smokes like a chimney that's on fire, and sometimes walks around with her knickers around her ankles. Lucy works at the local supermarket, while Mary teaches life drawing classes - Excuse me while I puke...

I have not spoken of the little boy that lives with them. His name is Darren, a name that forces violent shivers down my spine. Darren is seven years old, like most boys of the same age, Darren rolls around in the dirt, plays with his toy cars; and unlike most boys of the same age, Darren likes to crawl under Lucy and Mary's skirts and stay there - until, he crawled out by himself, or either woman moved. Nobody knows how these old bitches acquired the little brat, but what everyone is certain of is that the little boy is no angel.

One morning, I heard the doorbell ring, it was about 6am, and it was Sunday. That can't be right, I thought to myself, who would call at this time. The doorbell rang again. I heard myself shouting loudly, 'THAT CAN'T BE RIGHT, WHO THE FUCK WOULD CALL AT THIS TIME!'. I threw the covers over my head and squeezed my eyes tightly - the doorbell continued to persist. I rolled myself out of bed, bleary eyed I shuffled down the stairs to the front door. Through the frosted glass panel of my front door I could make out a pair of glasses. With a bit of difficulty, I took the chain off the lock and opened the door - There she stood, that stupid bitch from next door, Lucy.

Next to the bitch, cowering behind her with his arms wrapped around her skirt was the little boy monster, Darren; his wolfish eyes staring up at me, black muck smeared over his mouth and cheeks. 'Hi, morning John!' said Lucy chirpily. She always got my name wrong; it was Jan, NOT John - I growled under my breath. Her mouth quivered nervously, 'It's a beautiful morning, isn't it? - how are...'

'What the fuck do you want?' I interrupted.
She stood there, wide-eyed in shocked and swung her gaze towards the ground.
'I'm sorry Mrs. Peacock, I've had a rough night,' I added, '...yes indeed it's a wonderful morning - what, perchance, am I to be honoured by such a visit not to mention your grace and charm?
Lucy Peacock giggled, she placed her hand over her mouth as she did so, she snorted slightly and some mucus flew out of her nostrils. She looked coyly at the ground, her eyes met mine flirtingly, 'Oh John...' - I felt sick, but I managed to pull a twisted smile.
'How is the young chap today?' I said while I looked at the boy in disgust, my face confused at the pretense with which it had to bear. I lifted my hand and placed it on the boy's head, rubbing it reluctantly. His hair was thick and greasy, leaving a thin film of oily dirt on my palms and fingers. 'What a handsome boy! He'll grow up to be a fine man oneday!' The boy stared hatefully at me, he wiped snot from his nose with the cuff of his sweater.
'He's a wonderful boy our Darren,' she replied, 'in fact John, that's why I'm here - me and Mary know how much you like the boy so...' she smiled and wrinkled up her nose to push her glasses up, 'we wondered if it would be possible for you to look after him today while we spend a day on Brighton Beach.'
'It would be a pleasure Mrs. Peacock!'

Through the net curtains, I watched Lucy and Mary get into their rusty old lime green Volkswagon Beetle and slowly drive away, leaving a voluptuous grey cloud of vehicle fart behind on the road. Darren had already made himself at home, he was bouncing up and down on my sofa and screaming. The Beetle chugged up the side of the crater, then confirmed it's departure by turning a bend in the road and disappearing from view. I turned to look at the boy, he wore grey trousers which were smeared in miscellaneous brown colours, a discoloured green army style sweater which had snot stains along its lower sleeves. A distinct smell had violated my house, it wasn't nice; it was pungent like gravy with pieces of rotten meat in it.

'Darren!' I said in a firm voice, 'I'm going back to bed.' The brat continued to jump up and down on my sofa. 'Please don't break anything, otherwise I'll have to...' I formed a deliberately twisted smile because I relished the thought of what I was about to say, '...otherwise, I'll have to kill your aunt Mary and aunt Lucy.' The boy hadn't paid attention to what I said, but I didn't care. Sleepily, I went back upstairs and crawled into my warm bed; the birds were singing outside and I fell into a soft cotton dream.

Something was shaking the room. Whooah, an earthquake? - not here in England. I tried to move but the tremor was too great forcing me to lie helplessly in my bed. At the side of my vision, a dark blur was moving up and down. There was a smell, oh the smell - then I remembered. I sat upright in my bed, as Darren bounced up and down at the foot of it. 'DARREN! Get off the bed - NOW!' I shouted; it worked, the smelly boy ceased jumping, became inactive as a deflated balloon and slid off the bed. He sat down on the chair in my room, his shoulders sagged with his bottom limp inflated. The smell in the room was unbearable. 'Darren -' I said, the boy looked at me, 'did you just shit your pants?' - he nodded.

Lucy had left me the key to the couples house, 'in the event of an emergency,' she said. This was an emergency. I walked the boy over next door to get him showered and in some clean underwear, I could see the shit rolling around the boy's trousers like spuds in a sack as he hobbled like a monkey ahead of me. As I was about to put the key into the door, a filthy little hand placed itself on my wrist, 'Mr. Vermeer, I want Chico Pops!' I ignored him. 'I want Chico Pops!' I slipped the key into the lock and tried to turn it. It didn't work. I tried again, no luck, and I began to panic. It was obvious that Lucy wasn't going to trust me with the key to their house, so she had given me a dud; later, she would most likely apologize and go into a tirade about how keys confuse her.

I needed to get inside the bitches' house, there was absolutely no way that that boy was going to use my shower. That filthy, disgusting little brat of a boy. I walked around the back of the house, the monkey hobbled behind me. The stupid bitches had left a kitchen window open, it wasn't a large aperture, but it was enough room to get a brat in. I turned to the kid who was rearranging the objects that now occupied his underwear, 'Kid, I want you to climb through that window, and unlock the front door for me, can you do that??' He nodded with a grin on his face.

I cringed as I lifted the boy up to the window. His feet caught the window sill, but not before kicking me in the teeth, at which I swore loudly. On the other side of the window was a side cupboard, Darren crawled onto it. He stepped onto a chair and vanished on the other side, I heard tiny footsteps dissipate into the background. I went back to the front of the house to wait for the brat to open the door. A minute later, the lock clicked and the door swung open; a musky smell greeted my nostrils.

I had never been into Lucy and Mary's house before, although they had often invited me over for tea, I thought it in my and their best interest for me to decline. 'Darren,' I said, 'throw your underpants in the bin and have a bath.' The boy ran upstairs to his bedroom to do what I said. I walked into the living room. The wallpaper was patterned with wide vertical stripes alternating purple and silver, there were hand painted plates hanging on the wall with pictures of ponies on them. The sofa was upholstered in some course linen woven with floral designs, a pair of white knickers with yellow stains rested upon it. A coffee table stood attentively next to the couch, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts and cat poo balanced on a raggedy pile of torn porno magazines. I gagged.

to be continued...