Big Ears and Horseface are glove tearing bastards.
There's this new museum that's been built and to officially open it for us common people, royalty has been invited. Charles & Camilla (and Queen Sonia of Norway but since her dominion ain't part of the EU, and the fact her land produced Vikings and I can't stand the thought of Vikings having a queen for some queer reason which may have something, a lot or little to do with the my prejudice towards the state of Minnesota hence she doesn't count.) have been invited to open the place. Once they have done so they're retiring to the town hall to eat in peace since they hate people walking in on them as they eat so the hotel plan was chucked right down the well to drown in sin.
Enter me.
The wood panelling on the stairs was looking a touch shabby and since I was there (because I always get 1st crack at the OT - benefits of 6 Highers and an inability to say no, stick in school y'all) it fell on me to deliver the spruce as heaven forfend we British subject can't have royalty go up stairs with a dusty wood.
So I'm working away, feeling overwhelmed by my pitiful (and hopefully last) contribution towards civic duty when it happens. I get a tear in my favourite rubber glove, specifically over my right index finger.
Arseholes. I mean, fuck! My good rubber glove having to be junked on account of this outdated institution that British society puckers up to at every opportunity. Swine.
I fought for those rubber gloves. Every guy has me to thank for ensuring they aren't wearing pink gloves while shining shitters. No they can carry some manly badass attitude when they scrub the scum from around the taps.
Hell, me and that lost rubber glove went through some real scrapes. We got through those rotten, mildewy showers. We blitzed away all sin left by that drunken mob. We even made the nursery safe for the toddlers of benefit cheats and druggies again. All that is now down the pipes thanks to those glove tearing bastards, Big Ears and Horseface. Swines.
You make think the above is ludicrous. Naturally I agree. However it makes more sense in justifying my loathing of this backward outdated institution known as the monarchy than my previous reason (they're posh c*nts.). They made it personal. Everything means more when it's personal, no matter how daft and specious the reason is.
When facing down the prospect of a tedious night of boredom and bullshit it is perfectly acceptable... nah, it is encouraged that one should take some strong pain medication before hand and trip the evening away. Doing this is not abuse. No, real abuse is enduring company that makes you question every decision you've ever taken with the people in question and wondering why you haven't slit your wrists before now. Taking a pharmaceutical high blitzes away those thoughts in favour of how making your fingers cross will bring the cosmos and beyond into perfect harmony. These thoughts, despite their artificiality, are much preferable to the latter. Trust me. I speak from experience. But as ever, indulging isn't the answer (despite the benefits). Prevention is.
Ah, God bless the Egg. He has a blog. I have a blog. He writes on physics, philosophy and truth. I talk about... just a minute.
EGG, I TALKED ABOUT SATISFACTION, POLITICS AND THE MERITS OF THE MACHIAVELLIAN WAY OF THINKING AGAINST THE CICERONIAN WAY. THAT IS NOT NONSENSE IN ANYONE'S BOOK. HOW DARE YOU CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE. BESIDES, WHO GETS MORE COMMENTS, HUH? HUH? HUH?
To think all I have to do is go through to the other room to tell him this. But I'm comfy.
Oh and perhaps it's just coincidence but on a later episode of Neighbours the Machiavellian character was proven wrong in her actions when her ute blew up. And whoa did it go. The makers must already be spending the new television money they recently sold their souls for. Judas would be proud.
Thought I'd lost my Creative Zen:Vision M last night (as an aside, there there a perfectly acceptable way to refer to the above product without tripping over these words. iPod is out for accuracy reasons. Zen sounds shit when describing a thing of constant chunder. mp3 player sounds wrong and I don't care about it enough to give it a proper name although if I did I'd call it Ahmed after the Tamagotchi that never was). Found it today but the strangest thing was that for it being an expensive piece of equipment with a lot of stuff on there I really did not care that I'd lost it. I thought I'd be outraged and hacked off but I wasn't. All I kept thinking about was the wisdom from Mr Durden 'The things you own end up owning you.' Which is true and even truer in Unreal Tournament on the highest skill level. Can drive a nutter to lunacy it can.
Best farewell to a nitwit bible thumper called Falwell ever. The thing that surprised me most about his death was he and Larry Flynt ended up being buddies. Mindbending.
Flip. Time to watch The Departed again. Take it away... Freddie!!!
One of the things I want to do before I die. Rock out on a train like these legends. Geniuses!
There's this new museum that's been built and to officially open it for us common people, royalty has been invited. Charles & Camilla (and Queen Sonia of Norway but since her dominion ain't part of the EU, and the fact her land produced Vikings and I can't stand the thought of Vikings having a queen for some queer reason which may have something, a lot or little to do with the my prejudice towards the state of Minnesota hence she doesn't count.) have been invited to open the place. Once they have done so they're retiring to the town hall to eat in peace since they hate people walking in on them as they eat so the hotel plan was chucked right down the well to drown in sin.
Enter me.
The wood panelling on the stairs was looking a touch shabby and since I was there (because I always get 1st crack at the OT - benefits of 6 Highers and an inability to say no, stick in school y'all) it fell on me to deliver the spruce as heaven forfend we British subject can't have royalty go up stairs with a dusty wood.
So I'm working away, feeling overwhelmed by my pitiful (and hopefully last) contribution towards civic duty when it happens. I get a tear in my favourite rubber glove, specifically over my right index finger.
Arseholes. I mean, fuck! My good rubber glove having to be junked on account of this outdated institution that British society puckers up to at every opportunity. Swine.
I fought for those rubber gloves. Every guy has me to thank for ensuring they aren't wearing pink gloves while shining shitters. No they can carry some manly badass attitude when they scrub the scum from around the taps.
Hell, me and that lost rubber glove went through some real scrapes. We got through those rotten, mildewy showers. We blitzed away all sin left by that drunken mob. We even made the nursery safe for the toddlers of benefit cheats and druggies again. All that is now down the pipes thanks to those glove tearing bastards, Big Ears and Horseface. Swines.
You make think the above is ludicrous. Naturally I agree. However it makes more sense in justifying my loathing of this backward outdated institution known as the monarchy than my previous reason (they're posh c*nts.). They made it personal. Everything means more when it's personal, no matter how daft and specious the reason is.
When facing down the prospect of a tedious night of boredom and bullshit it is perfectly acceptable... nah, it is encouraged that one should take some strong pain medication before hand and trip the evening away. Doing this is not abuse. No, real abuse is enduring company that makes you question every decision you've ever taken with the people in question and wondering why you haven't slit your wrists before now. Taking a pharmaceutical high blitzes away those thoughts in favour of how making your fingers cross will bring the cosmos and beyond into perfect harmony. These thoughts, despite their artificiality, are much preferable to the latter. Trust me. I speak from experience. But as ever, indulging isn't the answer (despite the benefits). Prevention is.
Ah, God bless the Egg. He has a blog. I have a blog. He writes on physics, philosophy and truth. I talk about... just a minute.
EGG, I TALKED ABOUT SATISFACTION, POLITICS AND THE MERITS OF THE MACHIAVELLIAN WAY OF THINKING AGAINST THE CICERONIAN WAY. THAT IS NOT NONSENSE IN ANYONE'S BOOK. HOW DARE YOU CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE. BESIDES, WHO GETS MORE COMMENTS, HUH? HUH? HUH?
To think all I have to do is go through to the other room to tell him this. But I'm comfy.
Oh and perhaps it's just coincidence but on a later episode of Neighbours the Machiavellian character was proven wrong in her actions when her ute blew up. And whoa did it go. The makers must already be spending the new television money they recently sold their souls for. Judas would be proud.
Thought I'd lost my Creative Zen:Vision M last night (as an aside, there there a perfectly acceptable way to refer to the above product without tripping over these words. iPod is out for accuracy reasons. Zen sounds shit when describing a thing of constant chunder. mp3 player sounds wrong and I don't care about it enough to give it a proper name although if I did I'd call it Ahmed after the Tamagotchi that never was). Found it today but the strangest thing was that for it being an expensive piece of equipment with a lot of stuff on there I really did not care that I'd lost it. I thought I'd be outraged and hacked off but I wasn't. All I kept thinking about was the wisdom from Mr Durden 'The things you own end up owning you.' Which is true and even truer in Unreal Tournament on the highest skill level. Can drive a nutter to lunacy it can.
Best farewell to a nitwit bible thumper called Falwell ever. The thing that surprised me most about his death was he and Larry Flynt ended up being buddies. Mindbending.
Flip. Time to watch The Departed again. Take it away... Freddie!!!
One of the things I want to do before I die. Rock out on a train like these legends. Geniuses!
VIEW 13 of 13 COMMENTS
poopy:
syntropia:
You should try making shit shiny for rich fuckers... or, uh, as you seem to be well aquainted with that one... ever hear of neoprene? It takes rubber out for a walk in the country... and I'm talking border country where no one'll hear you scream... and slips it the ol'mickey, gives it a nice lube job, and goes at it like an old rotter beating it to photonic porn all night in between sobbing sessions and re-positioning the web cam, and then dumps it's split, ripped and most definately no longer protective remains in the closest mass grave. Nitrile's not bad either!