In all my fastidious studies on the matter I conclude that it is generally not a good idea to down painkillers with a carbonated beverage. They fizz up and stuff. But I fly in the face of self-taught learning and being the dashed daring swine I am I downed them with Pepsi (Max not the hard stuff, the hard stuff is wrong). When my shoulders relax the painkillers will be working. My shoulders never relax unless I'm on some sort of moderate pain medication. This is bad for the posture.
Usually I avoid these pills like the plague (unless I've got an illness such as cold or flu then I down them like any reasonable sod would) but for the past fortnight my fecking knees have hurt like society at the hands of a paedophile called Hitler so their use has been authorised by myself.
It's a pest. Going up and down stairs hurts. Bending for me is like taking sandpaper to red flesh. The lack of any decent PS2 games in my life means I'm actually missing work. FFS, what a bollocks state of affairs.
I believe one of my mistakes of the past fortnight was not coming on here and whittling the hours (and certain parts of my anatomy) away. Perhaps I needed to become an SG junkie and add to an already unhealthy natural pallor developed by being so northerly. However, the time off has allowed me to catch up with my novelised scribbling and I'm back on course. This is good. Perhaps it's been a sign from the almighty, the big pimping puppetmaster of us all. Or I'm talking rot. Flip a coin and decide for society.
Tonight I noticed that my hands are quite big. this is a development. Usually I've regarded my hands as normal and the rest as smaller or bigger. But tonight, my hands are big to me. I'm cherishing them until my recurring nightmare comes true and some fecking alligator and his small black-hat associates sneaks into my room and steals my arm leaving me left-handed and in terrible shape. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love my hands.
Next week I vote. However it is the first time that I plan to spoil my ballot. I haven't decided which way to lurch yet. A malingering diatribe about the whole political process and how politicians are self-serving jack-a-ninnies and bullshit mongers or to draw a nice fat cock in all the boxes except the list one where my vote will make a difference because if the SNP wind up in power the ballsack of the nation will shrivel into hamster dimensions which is a state of affairs that cannot be allowed and cannot be prevented without circumvention of law and due process which I'm not about to do because I'd can't be arsed. So cock is the way to go.
It's been a strange week. Where all my guesses have turned out to be just wrong. Thought I'd be able to go back to work pain-free. Nope and I looked a prize twit for thinking such. Thought Somerfield would have a decent cheap DVD to buy. Nope (these cruel bastards are selling Seagal's Attack Force for 13.99. Disgusting whores) . Thought I'd spend an hour lurking beside junkie halfwits and incompetent mouthbreathing mothers screeching at their behaviour-proofed toddlers while waiting to see a religious God-freak doctor do vile and disinterested that a hag with Hepatitis C actually spat at him and got done for it (yay the fil... the police). No. Seen in 5 mins by a damned fine quack who did a thorough work-up and actually acted like a doctor should. (Moral for UK readers: see your doc on a Wednesday - the rum buggering flecks of society always pile-in Mondays)
That previous paragraph could have run for ages but I'm breaking it up and by doing so I've forgotten all my guess which I wanted to log for cyberspace propriety. Bumfeathers and bukkake biscuits.
Drat, my shoulders aren't relaxed yet. They're perpetually coiled, ready to lash out at some invader. This should be problematic in some form but it actuality it is quite harmless and kinda fun to think about. Damn, I'm rambling and I've still got to e-mail Scagnetti and chase up Mr. Anderson about frigging Wembley in October (we're going to steal it and relocated it where Pittodrie resides then we're nicking Old Trafford and planting it on the site where Trump wants to build his golf course. Mr. Anderson has no idea of this. Of the two of us I am the inspiration and he is the consciousness. It's why we never communicate in any other fashion rather than face-to-face and the fact we're hate talking over the telephone to each other and he hates e-mailing since he's at a VDU for hours of a day working a sweet job in his Nirvana T-Shirt. Him I salute.)
MU-SIK! Take it away... Boris!!!!!
Jesus Christ, why do I never pause these videos after copying the link. I'm too fast. I hurtle with the copy & paste. (Not so much the old typing. That I'm slow at... fucking hands...)
RIP my favourite vodka swilling fool. May you circle over Shannon in a truly monumental haze.
Usually I avoid these pills like the plague (unless I've got an illness such as cold or flu then I down them like any reasonable sod would) but for the past fortnight my fecking knees have hurt like society at the hands of a paedophile called Hitler so their use has been authorised by myself.
It's a pest. Going up and down stairs hurts. Bending for me is like taking sandpaper to red flesh. The lack of any decent PS2 games in my life means I'm actually missing work. FFS, what a bollocks state of affairs.
I believe one of my mistakes of the past fortnight was not coming on here and whittling the hours (and certain parts of my anatomy) away. Perhaps I needed to become an SG junkie and add to an already unhealthy natural pallor developed by being so northerly. However, the time off has allowed me to catch up with my novelised scribbling and I'm back on course. This is good. Perhaps it's been a sign from the almighty, the big pimping puppetmaster of us all. Or I'm talking rot. Flip a coin and decide for society.
Tonight I noticed that my hands are quite big. this is a development. Usually I've regarded my hands as normal and the rest as smaller or bigger. But tonight, my hands are big to me. I'm cherishing them until my recurring nightmare comes true and some fecking alligator and his small black-hat associates sneaks into my room and steals my arm leaving me left-handed and in terrible shape. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love my hands.
Next week I vote. However it is the first time that I plan to spoil my ballot. I haven't decided which way to lurch yet. A malingering diatribe about the whole political process and how politicians are self-serving jack-a-ninnies and bullshit mongers or to draw a nice fat cock in all the boxes except the list one where my vote will make a difference because if the SNP wind up in power the ballsack of the nation will shrivel into hamster dimensions which is a state of affairs that cannot be allowed and cannot be prevented without circumvention of law and due process which I'm not about to do because I'd can't be arsed. So cock is the way to go.
It's been a strange week. Where all my guesses have turned out to be just wrong. Thought I'd be able to go back to work pain-free. Nope and I looked a prize twit for thinking such. Thought Somerfield would have a decent cheap DVD to buy. Nope (these cruel bastards are selling Seagal's Attack Force for 13.99. Disgusting whores) . Thought I'd spend an hour lurking beside junkie halfwits and incompetent mouthbreathing mothers screeching at their behaviour-proofed toddlers while waiting to see a religious God-freak doctor do vile and disinterested that a hag with Hepatitis C actually spat at him and got done for it (yay the fil... the police). No. Seen in 5 mins by a damned fine quack who did a thorough work-up and actually acted like a doctor should. (Moral for UK readers: see your doc on a Wednesday - the rum buggering flecks of society always pile-in Mondays)
That previous paragraph could have run for ages but I'm breaking it up and by doing so I've forgotten all my guess which I wanted to log for cyberspace propriety. Bumfeathers and bukkake biscuits.
Drat, my shoulders aren't relaxed yet. They're perpetually coiled, ready to lash out at some invader. This should be problematic in some form but it actuality it is quite harmless and kinda fun to think about. Damn, I'm rambling and I've still got to e-mail Scagnetti and chase up Mr. Anderson about frigging Wembley in October (we're going to steal it and relocated it where Pittodrie resides then we're nicking Old Trafford and planting it on the site where Trump wants to build his golf course. Mr. Anderson has no idea of this. Of the two of us I am the inspiration and he is the consciousness. It's why we never communicate in any other fashion rather than face-to-face and the fact we're hate talking over the telephone to each other and he hates e-mailing since he's at a VDU for hours of a day working a sweet job in his Nirvana T-Shirt. Him I salute.)
MU-SIK! Take it away... Boris!!!!!
Jesus Christ, why do I never pause these videos after copying the link. I'm too fast. I hurtle with the copy & paste. (Not so much the old typing. That I'm slow at... fucking hands...)
RIP my favourite vodka swilling fool. May you circle over Shannon in a truly monumental haze.
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Go see Hot Fuzz asshole