I think there's something wrong with me. Sometimes, I get a feeling in my abdomen and it hurts. I've identified the sensation as hunger. There's only one thing that helps cure the hunger, and that is by devouring the flesh of a creature.
There are numerous creatures that happily roam this planet, they can all be chopped into pieces, cooked and eaten. Cows, pigs and chickens are the usual diet for hungry people. I had read on the internet that you can buy them already sliced into pieces at the supermarket or butchers.
'I'm hungry, I need to consume an animal!' I shouted angrily at the butcher. He gave me the head of a cow and told me to fuck off. I took Daisy's head home and set it on the coffee table.
Daisy was a good looking cow, large eyes and a friendly smile. I found a long knife, 'I'm so sorry Daisy,' I said as I sharpened the blade, 'but I must eat you to satisfy the lust in my belly.' She looked at me, unfazed. I glanced at the knife, 'this knife is no good for you Daisy, you deserve better...'; I went to the garden shed to grab the chainsaw. The hunger was beginning to wrench my guts, I had to act quickly.
Ten minutes later, my living room was covered in blood, brains, flesh and bones. The cow creature known as Daisy was no longer recognisable. 'I'm so sorry Daisy.' I cried, not knowing where to direct my communication as Daisy had become somewhat omnipresent in the room. I put down the chainsaw, feeling as though I had fulfilled some primordial urge in me.
I went to Burger King and ordered a double whopper with fries.
"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." - Dr. Seuss
7.30.2006
7.29.2006
The Thirst: Tea is Addictive
Tea can be more addictive than smoking cigarettes; there should be a government health warning on each bag.
The first time I drank tea was when I was about eight years old. My mother had brewed a large teapot of the narcotic substance and offered me a cup, cream and two sugars; after that, I was hopelessly hooked. I can't get enough tea, I drink it and I get high.
The old lady that used to live down my road would regularly invite me over for tea and biscuits. The old bag eventually dropped dead; no doubt, it was due to the culmination of a life time of tea addiction. 'Would you like a cuppa?' she would ask me as I sat in her kitchen which had become a rat infested stink hole with discarded used tea bags on the floor. Then she'd open the cupboard and pull out a tin of tea bags, and like the junky I was, my eyes would light up and stare at them greedily.
After the long wait for the bags to brew, which often seemed like an eternity, we'd prepare the tinctured water with cream and sugar. The cream would take the bitterness out of the taste and the sugar enabled the active compounds in the leaves to be easily absorbed by the body. A side-effect of tea use is to ramble on incessantly about life and the neighbours. She was a nice old lady, but the years of tea abuse had made her senile and unable to string a sentence together.
I am drinking tea as I write this. It keeps me calm and uncollected. I hope that I do not ever become as bad as old man Fred, who would sit in front of the television all day long and suck tea bags; he has lost all his teeth.
The first time I drank tea was when I was about eight years old. My mother had brewed a large teapot of the narcotic substance and offered me a cup, cream and two sugars; after that, I was hopelessly hooked. I can't get enough tea, I drink it and I get high.
The old lady that used to live down my road would regularly invite me over for tea and biscuits. The old bag eventually dropped dead; no doubt, it was due to the culmination of a life time of tea addiction. 'Would you like a cuppa?' she would ask me as I sat in her kitchen which had become a rat infested stink hole with discarded used tea bags on the floor. Then she'd open the cupboard and pull out a tin of tea bags, and like the junky I was, my eyes would light up and stare at them greedily.
After the long wait for the bags to brew, which often seemed like an eternity, we'd prepare the tinctured water with cream and sugar. The cream would take the bitterness out of the taste and the sugar enabled the active compounds in the leaves to be easily absorbed by the body. A side-effect of tea use is to ramble on incessantly about life and the neighbours. She was a nice old lady, but the years of tea abuse had made her senile and unable to string a sentence together.
I am drinking tea as I write this. It keeps me calm and uncollected. I hope that I do not ever become as bad as old man Fred, who would sit in front of the television all day long and suck tea bags; he has lost all his teeth.
Creativity and Paranoia Equals Violence
The thing that I've noticed about creative people is that they also have a tendency towards extreme paranoia.
The other morning I woke up stinking of shit in my bed, I was rolling in a cesspit of maggots and stale vomit. The night before had been a frenetic orgy of creative output as I finished the last few thousand words of the novel's chapter. I looked into the mirror and a poor man's Jesus looked back at me, he wasn't going to bless me; he just sneered and drooled, scolding me with those crazy insane eyes. I had enough, too many people hated me and they were all laughing at me; I went out to find a victim.
It's a tough life being a comedian who hates laughter. I'm surrounded by hyenas everywhere, all waiting to pounce on me and make a light meal of me. I go on the internet and the words, 'LOL' start the cogs of paranoia spinning in my mind. 'Hahaha, you're so funny!' he said, before I punched him to the floor and tied the bastard up with the duct tape that I happened to be carrying with me.
When he came around, I smacked him in the face a couple of times. He looked at me with cowardly fear. I grabbed a baseball bat, 'You think I'm funny eh? I'll show you whats funny...' and I bashed his legs in as he screamed. 'Cry for your mummy you bastard.' That's one of the great things about doing standup shows, you always get to bring home a victim; unfortunately you can't grab the whole crowd; that's why I'm trying to build up an army.
The other morning I woke up stinking of shit in my bed, I was rolling in a cesspit of maggots and stale vomit. The night before had been a frenetic orgy of creative output as I finished the last few thousand words of the novel's chapter. I looked into the mirror and a poor man's Jesus looked back at me, he wasn't going to bless me; he just sneered and drooled, scolding me with those crazy insane eyes. I had enough, too many people hated me and they were all laughing at me; I went out to find a victim.
It's a tough life being a comedian who hates laughter. I'm surrounded by hyenas everywhere, all waiting to pounce on me and make a light meal of me. I go on the internet and the words, 'LOL' start the cogs of paranoia spinning in my mind. 'Hahaha, you're so funny!' he said, before I punched him to the floor and tied the bastard up with the duct tape that I happened to be carrying with me.
When he came around, I smacked him in the face a couple of times. He looked at me with cowardly fear. I grabbed a baseball bat, 'You think I'm funny eh? I'll show you whats funny...' and I bashed his legs in as he screamed. 'Cry for your mummy you bastard.' That's one of the great things about doing standup shows, you always get to bring home a victim; unfortunately you can't grab the whole crowd; that's why I'm trying to build up an army.
7.27.2006
Camping Trip: The Three Amigos! Olé
from left to right: me, Rich, Brian (photo courtesy of Brian)
The Three Amigos made their first appearance at Grundy Lake campsite, where we met up with about fifty other campers. The show was a blast, darling!
More pics:
My photos
Brian's photos
7.26.2006
Camping Trip: The Whole Truth and Nothing Butt
I've been away for a few days with a large group of campers up at Grundy 'Bloody' Lake, it's unique name comes from the reddish colour of the water which resembles a Bloody Mary; but with more tampons in it.
The first day was rather uneventful; we spent most of the time trying to figure out how to orientate our tents so we did not exit into a tree. With careful planning, we managed to stack the tents on top of each other to create a tower block with a glass elevator that carried three occupants at a time with very little weight limit.
My friend Tim lived on the 50th floor of the tent tower; he had a nice view of the bloody lake, and he invited me up for a cigarette and some brandies. As we stood on the balcony overlooking the forest and the lake, I noticed that Tim wasn't quite himself, 'what's wrong Tim?'
'I miss the city', replied Tim, 'You can take the boy out of the city but you can't take the city out of the boy.'
'That's very profound, Tim.'
'Chaucer.'
'No thanks Tim, I've already eaten.'
The next day, I woke up to find that I was slowly being eaten alive by carnivorous frogs. I had been warned about them and it was the season where they would swarm small towns and eat all the people. The frogs had a small evolutionary problem, you see, they had a taste for human flesh but nature had denied them teeth, so they would slowly suck their victim to death: some men would enjoy the experience but fail to realize that the enzymes in the frogs' saliva would be slowly digesting their bodies. I ran out of my tent, dived into the lake with the frogs still attached to my body and managed to drown them all; only suffering superficial wounds.
The restaurant in the basement of the tent tower was run by a Monsieur Pompideu. He cooked on top of a large fire which would often roast the occupants on the lower floors. 'Do you really think that it's a good idea to stack a load of tents on top of a fire?', I once asked him.
'Burt ef curse!', replied Monsieur Pompideu, 'It keps ze building werm in wenter.'
It was sweltering that night, so I turned on the A/C. I immediately felt the tent begin to cool down. I turned on the television to watch the local news; a decapitated dog had been found in the lake. How gruesome, I thought to myself as the next headline, 'Bears Run Amok in Frocks' presented itself. I must have had a psychic flash or something because I knew that instant that the bears did it; they stole the dog's frock.
The first day was rather uneventful; we spent most of the time trying to figure out how to orientate our tents so we did not exit into a tree. With careful planning, we managed to stack the tents on top of each other to create a tower block with a glass elevator that carried three occupants at a time with very little weight limit.
My friend Tim lived on the 50th floor of the tent tower; he had a nice view of the bloody lake, and he invited me up for a cigarette and some brandies. As we stood on the balcony overlooking the forest and the lake, I noticed that Tim wasn't quite himself, 'what's wrong Tim?'
'I miss the city', replied Tim, 'You can take the boy out of the city but you can't take the city out of the boy.'
'That's very profound, Tim.'
'Chaucer.'
'No thanks Tim, I've already eaten.'
The next day, I woke up to find that I was slowly being eaten alive by carnivorous frogs. I had been warned about them and it was the season where they would swarm small towns and eat all the people. The frogs had a small evolutionary problem, you see, they had a taste for human flesh but nature had denied them teeth, so they would slowly suck their victim to death: some men would enjoy the experience but fail to realize that the enzymes in the frogs' saliva would be slowly digesting their bodies. I ran out of my tent, dived into the lake with the frogs still attached to my body and managed to drown them all; only suffering superficial wounds.
The restaurant in the basement of the tent tower was run by a Monsieur Pompideu. He cooked on top of a large fire which would often roast the occupants on the lower floors. 'Do you really think that it's a good idea to stack a load of tents on top of a fire?', I once asked him.
'Burt ef curse!', replied Monsieur Pompideu, 'It keps ze building werm in wenter.'
It was sweltering that night, so I turned on the A/C. I immediately felt the tent begin to cool down. I turned on the television to watch the local news; a decapitated dog had been found in the lake. How gruesome, I thought to myself as the next headline, 'Bears Run Amok in Frocks' presented itself. I must have had a psychic flash or something because I knew that instant that the bears did it; they stole the dog's frock.
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