Random Boo

I’m homeless, and that what is be labelled home feels as welcome as a female Klingon with PMS. My brain needs reformatting I thinks. The cutthroat ecstasy of space dementia that cometh from but a jam jar keeps jumping out on me, with the tennis ball dropped, I’ve lost everything. You know death is nirvana right? Eh? Reality ostracized once again as itinerant monkeys sit on roller coasters smashing though the pumpkin walls of China.  And OMG!

My MINI has been hit more times than Justin Bieber on YouTube! De-prioritize! That’s the key to a successful life thingy… “How much is bravado?” “Well, ASDA currently have three-for-a-tenner at the moment”. I won’t let you kill it, it is bigger than you, I’m not suicidal, *washes hands in imaginary water* right then! Who’s first?

One two buckle my shoe, thou need not construe! “You know what a bore is, Travis? Someone who deprives you of solitude without providing you with companionship.” I’ve become so introspective I see right through myself. My soul is on the other side, surfing the internet on a slow dialup connection. He looks really annoyed. I’m the kind of person that signs online just to go in away mode, but still people try to talk to me.

“Did you see that?” she said, I said “No, I paid £6.70 so I can come to the movie theatre and stare at the fucking ground!”

I think my new thing will be to tell people not to be ridiculous. “I am going to eat a bologna sandwich,” someone will say. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I will tell them. Or maybe they will ask for a favor, but I won’t need to tell them they’re being ridiculous then. But maybe they’ll tell me I’m being ridiculous, in which case I’ll repeatedly tell them “your mum” until they ask someone else.

“Real life isn’t interesting” I said,
he said that it was interesting that I would think that, but what could he possibly know about what is interesting?

Life is like a rollercoaster: If you fall off, you have a great story to tell, but you’ll be dead. If you don’t fall off, you’ll be alive, but have a dull story. But you’ll tell it anyway, as that is what conversation is all about. Like them people that knock on your door, and so you have to answer the said door, obviously I have to go down the stairs first, and head towards the door that the assertive knocking is coming from, which is precisely what I did, and you know them little glass things, like a little hole in the door that you can look through and everything on the outside looks really big, well, I haven’t one of them, so I, in trepidation, just opened the aforementioned door, and it’s them! Them people thingies that talk and stuff, so I shut it, because the majority of the time I can’t be bothered with human communication. I’ve nothing against God personally, but his work never really appealed to me.

It’s just pathetic, like Dappy from the N-Dubz craven coxcomb clan, kind of pathetic, begging for attention like some petulant kid; like sparkly pink lipsticks, or wearing tight provocative leather pants like some Tory MP two seconds before a fatal masturbation accident. I know, lets sing a song and everything will go away as you fly on your winged unicorn of delusion through happy clappy rainbow fantasy la la land where happy little elves play hopscotch with semi-sedated leprechauns on flute stilts drinking pink chocolate port. Because life isn’t like that, it’s a gray wash cesspool with dead squirrels and homicidal gangster clowns that you owe money. You’ll never find what you want, and you’ll never be happy, for your raison d’être is perpetually displeasing. You feel overlooked because you feel inessential; you feel incomplete in yourself as you crave supremacy. The Kraken in your desire is a wild-goose chase, the fruitless errand, you are you and nothing outside you will make you anymore you than you are. That splendorous intelligence of man is clouded in this self-worth preservation. Homo homini lupus, here, see my hammer, I am right! You nothing but an onion-eyed milk-livered lout and the next time you marinade yourself in Lynx I hope you drown, you Impertinent minion.  Who needs intelligence when you have a big stick, hey?

“Things should be better,” she said.

“Indeed,” he said. “The grass should be greener and the sky should be bluer. Maybe if we keep saying out loud how things should be better, they will become better. Things should be better. Things should be better. Things should be worse. Fuck, I mean better.”

He had to stop talking then because he had fulfilled his sarcasm quota for the day.

David, David! What’s that you’re doing with your sister in the basement? Your Id is your ego, which then is influenced by the oppression of society, society being the misinterpreted ego of mass. Some daydream’s foreplay conceived a subjective superego, and now translated by an orgy of craven clay-brained conformists, man is ruled.  “And the pup bit the hand of God, and God saw that the pup was evil, and in forty days and forty nights he drowned the entire litter, for God is a gentle, patient, and loving God, amen”. God never changes his mind, unless he changes his mind, God is everywhere, God is, oh, hang on, Able has gone missing again, I’ll ask Cain. I must tell him that it is bad to eat the apple that gives him an understanding of what bad is, and then he can eat cream and honey.  
Once upon a time, a book of ethical guidance was required as part of a healthy diet for the developing disposition of humanity. Now it is the day before tomorrow, and humanity is past the setting of dawn, said progression is due a surge. The cultivating of the third eye is the flicking of a light switch to a room that is, until now, best kept in the dark. The Roman Empire is unified, scaremongering children has concluded, and there is no longer a savoury sin to basin wash your odiferous brow. Leave the auriferous pipedreams for them that hold the pitchforks.
RE: Christian Fundamentalist groups (which are about legion as the atheists)
Please stop, just stop, with this “must be a God; it says so in the bible” stuff and inflicting your hostile and sadistic attacks on the opinions of thinkers. Self-elected goons representing the American Christian male community, who spend all day on the internet masturbating over a keyboard whilst searching YouTube for fights, you should be hung like the sodden rags you are. Ha, I have your SunnyD, drinkless, what you going to do about it you creationistic parasitic cretin, how you going to pretend to be drunk now? Get back to Mummy’s house and tidy your stained-Cliff Richard-poster-riddled-room, you left-winged hippie, you left your Velcro shoes in the middle of the hallway again haven’t you, you artless fuckw*t? You lily-livered, Beano reading, bootless, barnacle, referring to your online Facebook friend linked acquaintances as ‘heads’. You’re the result of a drunken back-seat grope-fest and a broken prophylactic, yet you consider yourself my saviour.  So bloody go to Heaven then, and swap knitting patterns with your hymn singing, turtleneck reindeer jumper wearing virgin friends, maybe they’ll let you watch Spice World, oh, you have it downloaded do you. Well congratulations, you’ve somehow successfully managed to make piracy gay! You’re the kind of person that applies to be an actor and ends up playing the flamboyant policeman on Balamory, you quartz-brained puny ninnyhammer, you vexing helminth with your Art collage bus pass and Chris de Burgh music CD collection. Go and prance about on the M6 in the dark you moronic wannabe, you’ll soon see the light. Do you really think God would approve of your dogmatic internet-gangster routine? I know I should just let you get on with it, but it irritates me.
It’s like a Jack in a box; you turn the crank, a puppet jumps out, everybody cheers, and I die a little inside.

I’m currently in exploration for a new mobile phone after the novelty of possessing a touch screen phone has become less a joy and more an irritation. My present phone is the Sony Ericsson P1i, big, heavy, and has crashed more times than the American stock market. I’m at present with the O2 network so naturally I’m limited to what phones I can choose from. I can say after browsing though the latest publication of phone releases that there is not a single mobile phone listed within the eight shiny pages that I desire. I don’t want any of this, crap! I don’t want an 8.1MP camera with face-recognition and built in Wi-Fi, DVD recorder, walkman features, GPS, surround sound, disco lights, Facebook updater, and a touch screen finger print password reader. I miss my old phone, the one that had a feature to allow you to just ring someone. Now I can’t even telephone someone devoid of having to sit a degree in mathematics just to permit me to calculate the dialogues rate.  It’s 10p a minute except after six pending the squandering of the first three minutes on a friend of the same network minus O2 bolt-ons. Then there’s the exasperating beep beep it blurts out followed by a depiction of an envelope. ‘You Have Mail’ Oh wonderful, “wi8 ur turn b4 u rply pls lol 2nite b gr8 Spk 2 u l8r coz i lyl cul LC x” and there’s me thinking the Scottish where bad. Anyway, to end this complaining, I’m going to cheer myself up, by sending an anonymous text to someone random saying “I hate you, please die!”

Genuine phoney eat hard macaroni don’t eat yellow snow,
Suspicious crony be that token Tony sea but a stone throw,
A pending scurry for a feeble curry get on with the show,
Mac Donald’s flurry plus one dead bunny it’s all who you know..
(In response to the injustice afflicted upon me via slavery aka Teva)

I would pen some reminisce or philosophical observation to compensate for the lack in content being submitted here lately. Alas I’m lazy and very hot. The temperatures leaping off the charts, my mind has been melting slowly. When I am under severe heat whatever concentration I retain is basically focused on important issues like “How can it be so hot?” and “I think I am going to faint” or “I need to get somewhere cold”.
I can not sleep due to this insufferable heat. Every night I just sweat buckets like a scouser watching Crimewatch.  I’m continuously turning the pillow over in exploration for a dry patch. I do in fact recall posting once on this site about not being able to escape the perpetual cold. Funny this English weather, like a reoccurring novelty; shocked I am loading on the coats then flabbergasted further still when I’m ripping them off again. All in all one is not amused.

Freeview appears to be all the quality that was once offered by the old five channel analogue system, only now is divided over forty plus channels. Most of which present nothing but back to back ‘Cash In The Attic’, a show that I have observed before but never witnessed anybody ever actually go in an attic, should really be called ‘Cash In The Shed’.  Britain’s Got Talent! The names incorrect for a start, and not only does it make me cringe but is also suspiciously much like Fame Academy and Pop Idol. Freeview also has a lot of channels that don’t even start till six o’clock and even then it’s not long before they show cheap game shows. Presenters I’ve never heard of drugged up on Prozac ripping off Family Fortunes, and using surveys taken in Cardiff, so the top answer on famous cities in England is Ryan Giggs. Graham Norton is given his own show because they literately can not find anywhere to dump him. The channel Dave just has five episodes of TopGear on a loop. A gay, a lesbian, and a drag queen walk into a room, no this isn’t a joke, it’s called Big Brother, and it’s accompanied by even more mind numbing shows like Big Brother’s Little Brother, Big Brother’s Big Mouth, Big Brother’s Little Sister, Big Brother’s Second Cousin Twice Removed, well I’m making them up now. So many adverts are vomited out; an episode of QI can last up to two hours. The News is presented by twelve different people playing musical chairs, and the weather man’s background map has been replaced by what looks like Space Invaders. Entertainment, Informative? Just looks like crap to me.

Constant pressure to conform
To act, to play, to perform
On a stage set as born
To follow a life forlorn
Be wallow, pride be worn
Life’s prearranged script unsworn
A souls thorn renders dreams torn
To live a life, a life unborn

Blasting clatter in a bang of despair, nothing can match the aggravation inflicted by the exasperatingly high pitched screaming of the alarm clock, and at the blink of my wakening it was most unwelcome.  Another day awaited me. Even as I pen this dribbling nostalgic confetti of reminiscence, my mind pierces in antagonism.  But, like every show that is one’s life, the show must go on. Ascend; I then performed, as I escaped the place of my slumbering rest. The deserted bed felt damp and flat, as the bed sheet adhered to my skin. Clinging like fate, I knew then at that very moment that it was all downhill from there.