Random Boo

This conscience is going to be the death of me, I hate being soft, I want to be evil, with the evil laugh and big red button. Not some pansy herb growing, reindeer patterned jumper-wearing ponce, drinking organic milk and eating Kiwi Fruit! I want to victimise some random ill one-legged orphan child with a cricket bat and shout, “Ha, I’m bigger than you, and I have a big stick to further minimise the effort required to beat you!”

My existence appears to be nothing but a red wine stain on the fabric of this misfit society, to which my attentiveness is bordered.  Are not we all but travellers of space and time. Yesterdays dream, now today’s concept of time’s hangover. Tomorrow you’re being fed to the worms.

Love is a burden. Love is possession, love is a private social network of oneness divided and solitarily confined. Love owns you. Your freedom compromised, are you even you anymore? This silence, it deafens you. As the mistress of your undisclosed desire surges, you lose all grasp of reality, the drums beat in a heartbeat rhythm; the sails drift you to a cesspit of sexual orgy, follows then the decline in your ecstasy. The spider web of a make-believe family conceives a BBQ smoke screen of denial. You love to be loved, but somewhere a consciousness breathes life into an existence that categorises you, and fences you in like cattle.

Men in long dark coats, eyes obscured by their beaver hat’s shadows, clanging empty bottles in creates in the dark alleys of the night, as the cigarette butts in ashtrays invade the pub’s atmosphere with its stench. You try to gasp for air but you can’t. Has it hit you yet? Life is not beautiful, it’s an endless disappointment, persistently hit with poverty, famine, sickness, unfulfilled desires, loneliness, and a perpetually wretched cold dead feeling. Oh, and tiredness, you are always tired, it’s not lack of sleep, its loss of hope. Ignorance is bliss, for only the naive can survive. Love only looks good in the shop window, truth is it’s a Trojan horse to an endless flood of despair, it will drown you until you’re nothing but a husk, a number, a single note in an orchestra, a single and instantly forgotten tick from a clock.

Love doesn’t free you, it traps you, your biggest possession possesses you.

Two point twenty-five litres of plonk, twenty-three fags, and seventeen Hobnobs past midnight, I am painting the Cheese Strings black. A silhouette of a swinging dud 40-watt bulb taunts the rubber glove that is my mind. Mocks me, plays me, and dances on the very reflection it scorned. Well it was half the truth, in the sense that it’s the good bit with the fat cut off, enjoy the fat! Are you happy? Who is? I do not know, I guess no one is really. Nothing is perfect; it would contradict with the said concept if it ever were. I love the sea, I miss the sea. It’s something about the waves crashing against the shore that sounds like a symphony of poetically captive sovereignty. The sea comforts me, like a feeling of home, in a loners devilishly self-gratification. I am the floating egg in the boiling pan of the conformists despair! Look her in the eye, turn away and sigh, every chance a last, every look a first. She stands there, slumped to the right, a burdening requirement of illogical light. She of such profound beauty, one man’s neglect of duty, another man’s treasure, a second hand pleasure. A stolen kiss, a stolen time, but she never was, neither is, nor ever will be mine. Maybe I was born too late, maybe she was born too early. Maybe instead of wine, I’ll have a Curly Wurly. Who knows? But you’re not carving my grave, smile and wave boys, smile and wave…

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.

Funny how life can make you feel dead, like reminiscences of a girl called Fred, yes, it’s called creative control, you don’t like it then change the channel, philosophical by Chanel. Look Ma, it rhymes. Like a cat flap in the Radio Times. Look at you, you pathetic sell out, what happened to the rebelling anarchist of the poignant illusion? I got my rivalling bite from a bug of alternative disposition. I’m a new me because, as so often in my life, I shed a skin and become a new. Not always by choice but never regretted. All elements to a bigger picture like a paint stroke on the canvas of what was and is, my concluded individuality, which will be, as for everyone, presented in a box. Enjoy your retirement.

It’s the summer of discontent in a twist of intentional winter wannabes that be this generation of self-pitying sloths. The canvas of creativity needs a wash of monotonous shades for the vivid colours of individuality to strike the foundation of what ‘is’ by comparison ‘was’. By definition, what is fashionable – is boring. In a world where every snowflake is identical, beauty is disappearing with the socks in the washing machine. I yearn for the splendour of what was the majestically infecting disbelief of the ‘should’ anarchist. Welcome to the happy house, we are in fact sane, but only by a selective contrast. Cocktail parties, football games, bar mitzvahs, political rallies, and even nations are all social realities. They aren’t figments of anyone’s imagination; they’re real, really really real, objectively real. However, at the same time, they’re all made up entities, at least in a sense. Cocktail parties exist only because a group of people get together and say, “we’re having a party now”. People just sort of decide that these things are going to exist, and so, they do. Social realities are just creations of the human mind, not individual human minds, but collections of human minds. Is it fashionable to categorize fashion? Too many human minds, too many people, far too many people in this world, only really need about six, look at you all, all over the place like a nest of pigs! Is it fashionable to categorize yourself? There is a difference between being a movement and following a movement.

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.

“But why?” she said, “why not?” he responded, “if, as I stand here, in line, waiting to be served at the ASDA checkout, I decide to rub my fingers in circular motion around my nipples, then I will” well what could she say; he had a point. You can’t derail yourself from the tunnel, but when you see the light, you can make sure you’re brighter. A ghost has no concept of time, correction; a ghost has no concept of our time, but then time is relative to everyone anyway. The corpse is nothing more than a husk with the spirit elsewhere, the ghost is the spirit, the ghost is living, or an echo, but we’ll conveniently avoid that bit. Death is nothing more than a transition, and thus you live forever, that is, if ghosts are real. Unless your husk once housed a nut, then you believe in religion (same thing), and therefore believe in heaven, even though it clashes with the ideal of every other living organism on this hanging sphere; I bloody hate harps, and discussions on the calories in Philadelphia light. I don’t want to be rewarded for my inhumane ignorance and arrogance by a creative version of Mussolini. “Is this banana flat?” pondered the monkey on drugs “let’s publish a seven hundred thousand word essay about it” said the other monkey, which had an empty wallet to fill.
Now do that tie up, otherwise you’ll trigger the disapproval of our leader *points at sky whilst doing a woo noise* No; you refuse too? Then I’m afraid expulsion is the only answer, it’s the opinion of the entire staff that Dexter is criminally insane!

Advertising, political propaganda, and uninformative dogmatic newspapers! ”A bag in the river may have contained The Cheshire Cat” of cause it did, it may have also contained a handful of self-adhesive tapeworms doing the cancan whilst wearing tutus. Can you get a tutu for a tapeworm? Oh yes, skip the cancan bit because that’s perfectly self-explanatory for a legless tapeworm!  Who said it was legless? Alas, unless the idea was injected into the insentient regions of the void that is your mind, you will not conceive the notion. You hear what you want to hear, but when combined with what they want you to hear, they can sell you Trebor Softmints to cure testicular cancer. Like Dr Hoffmann of Stuttgart and his leech farm, like a headless budgie to a blind kid, like New Labour, like Lambert and Butler lights, Hellboy computer games, Sunny Delight, and Push Pops, these are not stilts for midgets but a plug-in air freshener for a conservative voting aborigine living in Scotland. A talking parrot is not much better a source for wise advice as is a cracker from a country that thinks failure is the mother of success!  Don’t read the dribbling whining from stargazed decrepit charlatans at the Daily Mail. Don’t fritter your time on politics. Don’t buy a Henrietta for twice the price of a Henry. And don’t ever, ever, poke the dead bird with a stick. Do you have a mind of your own? Use it, or someone else will use it for you.

A sphere of cheese illuminates the darkness of night as the piercing beams of dreams of light stab the sky like an invasion of glittering monster thingies with the waving things and err, whatever. “What time is it?” said the cat in a box whose survival had just become that little less-questionable. Suddenly, or a little time after suddenly, the sun fell off the sky, and the worms took over.
I hate people; I hate people that leave the cap of the toothpaste thus leaving it to go hard. I hate people that tie the plug chain around the tap fingers. I hate people that say things like “I tell it as it is” or “whatever” whilst attempting to create a double-u sign with their hands. I hate people that re-use teabags. I hate people that shop in their pyjamas. I hate it when people use Metaphysics to assist them in labelling their beliefs as scientific theory. Metaphysics will never be regarded as a true field of science, as Metaphysics appears to be nothing  more than a very large bucket, for idiots to vomit their views into, with little, if any, requirement to scientifically justify their incoherent dribble. Thus, I’m leaving you Metaphysics, it’s not you, it’s me. (Meaning it is ‘all’ you, you bigoted hermit)

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!”

There are one hundred and twenty five billion galaxies in the universe, each containing over a hundred billion stars spiralling aimlessly. It is here on one of these stars the floating corpse of a planet labelled Earth is staged; infected with over six and a half billion bewildered glorified monkeys. Every orbit of the star this godforsaken rock completes the monkeys run! Vomiting incoherent dribble pointlessly into cellular phones and purchasing high definition televisions, so they can observe other monkeys perform this pointless ritual of socializing. Obtaining bigger, faster, louder vehicles and bigger greater houses in the hope of attracting a mate, so they can spawn additional monkeys like bacteria and infest further still! On and on like a never ending circus performing, always performing, meaninglessly. This irrational, illogical behaviour is madness!
Yet despite this madness being apparent they chose to ignore. Their innate morals are inherited and their justice system dogmatic. They criticize law and complain unconstructively then follow regardless. They conceive concepts like evil to label sly motives and natural obstructionism. They put their faith in the penning of past and claim inconsistencies the work of a devil.  They claim a dice throw justifies a saint. They claim to be righteous and virtuously good, despite an egotistic anticipation of contentment galore. Then they condemn a theorist and start a never-ending war.