Contact Info / Websites
Strangers can be strange and should be strangled and forced into a Boston crab by Rab C. Nesbitt and James Nesbitt from Cold Feet which was corny as hell... The cold wide pensioner feet of David Allen Cole need to be warmed up by an halogen heater which I can’t use as they bung me up and leave me hung out to dry by a 100 Kosovan soldiers and refugees all refereeing for the same damn baseball game... They should be brazen like Adam Crozier and thrown in a cell with Paul Carter and Carly Clarke, forced to watch reruns of horses running through 21 Forests of Field Gunning and white forest gateau... I wanna die a lonely death but have 17 thousand guests at my funeral who all pretend they knew me in some regard, like what might have happened at John Gardner’s funeral... I remember when all these hard men ruled the roost, now they just eat chicken at Roosters in Keighley with Michael Jordan, Buster Douglas and that big fat Sea Org captain from Fort Boyard who was almost certainly gay. I wonder if Melinda Messenger uses WhatsApp to drain men, maybe that’s what’s Sapping their strength... Our elixirs have been stolen by the likes of Lexi or women flexing in foot pose stretches... We need to be thrown in a cell with Ronnie Parker and do some Porridge while learning a 700 page book of Cockney Rhyming slang and Hackney Marsh accents... There is nowhere to chill except in the Winfields overnight tents which are piss wet through and we have to buy them for 15 hundred quid, but if we had store discount cards, the price would have been 5p. I need some more beer in my system so I can get kidnapped by Mc Chris and taken to the dungeons of Livesey Branch Road and forced to eat Olives with the Special Branch team as I’m being beaten up to Muzak Music produced by Mubarak Patel, Pat Sharp, Pat Butcher and Packie McReary from GTA San Andreas... We have to succeed but the odds are stacked against us, and we might be resigned to stacking shelves with Robert Fleck the former Norwich City striker... We need to hang out with mid-90 footballers in dingy deadbeat bars and reminisce about old times... About how the old times were just as shit. But at least we weren’t jaded and forced to get naked for Mistresses to degrade and drain us. We were too busy trying to produce our debut albums while talking on iMesh all night and checking out porn and other live flesh... That era was OCD and ADHD to the core! It was like our brains were on steroids, and the stories were about Ste Pusher and crush food fetishes. Shoe players and flu viruses and 1929 tennis racquets owned by Raquel from the Boat Yard pub who could have easily had both of us hard at the same time... She was like one of those 1970 hippie type of birds in flares firing flare guns, giving us Angelina Jolie de vivre... like Viv from Emmerdale. Never mind Emmerdale, Rossendale is superior, like Nick Ross on Crimewatch UK when at the end he used to say don’t have nightmares do sleep well. But nowadays Crimewatch is all hammy like ham fisted actors and Eddie Murphy who seems to be implicated in some weird snuff ring story... what a blag. If Edward Regan Murphy can do such sinister acts, that means anybody is capable of anything. What if Jim Bowen was a mafia hitman or a Freemason leader? Or even really Geraldine Hitman Carroll in disguise, walking about in long trousers doing funny leg angle poses to arouse certain types of men... while creating 250 audio tapes that were locked in Steve Jervier’s vault never to be heard again except by him and Billy the Kid. I remember Billy the Fish and Roger Mellie the man on the telly... and early nineties Job finder on ITV1 at night... That time was awesome in some ways as we were force fed monotony and bullshit and never questioned the system at all, even though we knew that at that time Eddie Murphy was probably eating Murgh masala with Ste Pusher and Dean Windass... I don’t want to ring the changes, I just want to be kept in chains for eternity, trained to demonstrate my subservience to Rene, just before being rendered impotent... All impotent men should be forced to attend a rehabilitation facility owned by CEO Suge Sindel and that fat Craig dude from Clitheroe Records... I bet it would be easy for these women to cure impotence by using only the finest methods of tease and denial to re-stimulate lost brainwave chemicals... E.D. can be cured by a bit of C.B.T. inflicted by Eddie Hitler and Justin Lee Collins who seemed to disappear off the telly for some odd reason... Our names would be Juicing Leaking Colanders... Causing so many floods it drowns Cole Phelps and David Allen... I want to listen to the ATLiens album 691 times in succession then get struck by lightning by Suge Knightning. Then eat 90p ALDI soup and beans that have gone mouldy like Postal Order slop eaten off cutlery that has previously been used by the likes of Rottweiler and some of these other degenerates like a Green Hills house regeneration project... I don’t object to anything and live for talking cobblers while passing Rawtenstall cobbler shops and 1870 Temperance Bars where the owner got done for drink driving... If I had a car I would drive into Rochdale canal, but knowing my luck I’d survive the ordeal and get taken to Rochdale Hospital and beaten up by William Roache and William Hill. I’d rather have a few tins with Dale Winfield who used to sell odd-sized slippers in the 1960s. One day we will be ancient history and part of folklore and I will be remembered for not eating off pub plates and forks or washing dishes in and kitchens and pubs... Never mind Immaculate Conception, we’re more interested in ejaculating from our erections, while trying to overcome all obstacles and safely navigate all hurdles like avoiding the Navigation pub and masonic bowling David Allen Greens... I really wish that Voith and Tre Fontaine would make a comeback and hire us both for thruppence a minute which we then have to spend on David Seaman’s goalkeeping gloves which he would probably auction on eBay for 12 thousand pounds while talking in that really weird broad voice. The aim has to be to get back to full speed instead of being dull and mediocre owning acres of Aching Boner. Forever hateful and loners destined to walk to Bristol Hotels only to find the place has been turned into a Wilko owned by Jonny Wilkinson, Neil Custis and Ray Wilkins teasing men with soft silk sarees… Eeek! I’d rather sprint to Darwen Tower at full pelt and get ambushed by Kate Bush and hand jobbed until I leak Ambrose by Hampshire Mistress Rose and her butter face expressions... So much depression these days, there is no community spirit, only community service undertaken by Haroon and the Cameroon football team... I still have the craving to neck some beers with Sal, but instead I’m forced to drink Sol and Corona alone with my brother Shaun upstairs... It’s hard to keep awake yet the urge to bust again continues to lure me in like Leah Betts and all the men leering taking bets on who can get her first to sweat with dehydration. We have to live it up like Busta Rhymes with that strangely relaxing and subdued mellow tone... David Loxham should be forced to join the Russian Army and change his identity to Nick Ross. The Perils of Blackburn sound terrible like irreversible effects such as liver cirrhosis damage and being beaten in the crotch with crutches by Butch Cassidy... I’d rather get given a free bus pass by Black Kapital Records that is only valid from Bacup to Syke and any attempts to leave the area are met with stiff resistance by the FDL (Female Defence League) who would hunt us down and get us in leg scissors, or force us to gobble on a mile-long nylon stocking... But they wouldn’t even once resort to proper violence. Except to do one of those Cucciolo trample scenes where 90 women stand on your chest at the same time to break a Guinness World Record... I’d rather sign for a music label called Guinness World Records and drink gin and tonic with Jimmy Somerville, then jack off to a PR mannequin where she’s wearing a summer dress. After that we can go to The Drummers Arms and drink 210 Ching Dows and Tigers and have our conversations eavesdropped upon by Bulgarian tourists. There is no way that guy has been to Bulgaria, he probably just sits at home and listens to Bluegrass music while knocking back Newcastle Brown… Then beats his wife black and blue… Despite the progress we still live in horrendously horrific times, where people still have honorifics during a campaign for equality… Those people should be banished to a Danish dungeon and beaten with Spanish truncheons by women with mannish hands. Damaged goods, in an age of rage and bloodlust where people would pay for Stan Kroenke’s guts on a stick. I wonder how much good it does to protest for progress while the world is run by boneheads… It should be run by the drummer Bonehead and Liam Gallagher instead of these think tanks and health regulators that are probably drinkers and addicts themselves… Pushing their poison, when all people really want is a sugar rush for enjoyment. Not some New Age Zionist Jew savagely pushing sewage and Nanny State Scientists emptying caches of truth. Tooth decay? Or truth decay? Time to raise the roof today like its 1982 again… To rage against the machine, and all its AI… The way I see it, if we don’t fight for the future, there ain’t no future in sight… Well not one that you want your kids to like… On a scale of Handmaid’s Tale, fuck THE MAN! May that man buckle and suck on a thousand cocks and have his hands took off by Hauser. Now that the latch has been lifted its time to gift the world with laughter again… It was what I had always intended to happen, but 10 other people didn't laugh at my routine live from the C.I.T. Rotunda. "Tough crowd!" Tough, irradiated crowd. Probably feeling a little irritated from all those Roentgens. "Not my problem dude. Too busy trying to build this Northern Powerhouse." The only hope we got is if we reduce some of our military budget and spend it on steroids. Pure Gym? As pure as the manure on my soles. Manure Gym. I'd rather launch a Keep Fat Campaign, but employ anorexic people as the Personal Trainers. Skinny folk motivating people to stay chubby. And inside my gym, instead of the latest workout machines, the place would be full of couches, TVs and 5 litre bottles of coke and Pepsi. Extremely fatty food on tap being served by the type of women you see in boxing matches holding up score cards. And in the gym there would be illegal bare knuckle boxing fights involving all the people in this country that we hate and who make it their business to frustrate us… We have to eat Pots of Joy while penning more joyless plots… Penning like Miss Pennington who keeps stemming my blood flow and impeding my creativity. Preventing this whole Nativity Play from taking plaice. But why should fish be stolen By these dishy divas like Eva Rivas. Maybe she’ll be flattered if she ever reads this crude anthology of thoughts committed to papier Mache mechanisms, where mental case is the very definition… But think of it this way, if you were me, in this position that I am, you’d be reeling with dismay too, and feel like Sinking a Bismarck or two… And all this Devil talk written on canal walls! What kind of skinz is them manz? Don’t fuck with the Devil? You should learn not to fuck with the Atheist. At least the atheist does exist… So after this you may be pissed and feel stupid for believing in cults instead of your own existence. Dumb Fuck Satanists. Go fuck a goat… Go bum Sephiroth. Think it’s time to send in Lou Natic? He’s a bit crazy sometimes but still suffers with a little rheumatic pain… Bit a’ jip in his right hip, but he’s still tipped to whip ass, because… well, why pass the opportunity? You want Unity but deport humans? It seems that your ego is through the roof… Even a blind bat could see the truth that a rapper could seek to prove at a mic stand. He’s so good he might stand for President, then make a mess of things… I knew we should have left it to Jesse Ventura…
THE TEN MINUTE RAMBLE
One way to end dead quick is to be famous, and go the same way that ol' Kurt Cobain's brains were spread. But on the plus side, they might find Janus! (Utopia joke.) Now we don't write just to provoke, only to choke the life out of those that stalk and troll, I'll make you walk the plank with rope around your throat, and lol to myself when the plank you walk takes it toll. SNAP! Cackle and Plop. Contro Ver Sea Hole. You might spot a seal when your fate gets sealed. You write but there's no appeal, you thought that people would pay through the nose to see this naughty spiel get brought to heel... A little w-tish and forced to kneel. Nietz-a-Lawe - Master of Trollotics circa '08... "Oh wait, its really a circus." Just a constant circle of turgid remarks, kind of retarded yet remarkable in a way, whirlwind of words, off-the-cuff, certainly not predetermined. And we are determined to keep it that way, irreversible for the near or foreseeable future. Right before you have your peehole neutered rather than breathed into like a Neumann mic. Numerous dykes choking on their own sputum, that doesn't seem right?! But if you didn't give a blowjob you'd have no job at all, said the Porn Site Operator, secretly operating from some place in Kuwait. He'll keep you waiting, until you're as old and jaded as Jade subjected to bukkake degradation. So many ladies waiting to become Sex Operators they're gonna need some extra stations. What would you rather see on ITV at night? Nightscreen or some live stream of a lithe teen lightly teasing some guy's weiner with her knife-like nice white teeth. Carpe Diem - Seize Ya Cock and get ready to rock, and just as you are about to bust get locked out of the station by a paywall! And it changes to Mayweather v McGregor, and you bust out of shock. And people think you've gone gay for a super featherweight? "I always knew it! You were never straight! Now you'll never get inside Heaven's gates." -- "Is that another fucking euphemism?" Fuck this psychological resilience! tonight the human psyche and spirit decides it wants to write brilliance, in the face of this everlasting adversity and excursive journey we're on, soul searching for truth in a world of perfidy. Gotta keep smiling, thumbs up, like a Pip Boy, in tip top form, just won't pipe down, no time to think as we move at this breakneck pace. Screw the paycheck, just check the pages! An existential pisstake. Perennial chunks for cunts to read long after my burial plot, with lots of mistakes. But at least risks are taken, instead of being wrist chained. History in the making as King May takes over from Rocky Marciano... this May! "Um, the fight's in August." Look of dismay on this kid's face as he realises that there is nothing real about lies... in golf club bunkers. Super Mutants and Hunters and an other assortment of cunts all infected, all waiting to give you radiation poisoning. North Career, no career left, like Nordberg from Naked Gun. That gun wasn't naked, it was holstered and not used to bolster my chances in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. FUCKER! Go to war with twerps on Spice all twerking and doing a disturbing Zombie Dance through Manchester town centre. Slot in me headphones and get ready to launch a musical nuke of ma own... Lost in that beautiful zone, playing like its an old Arcade game, as archaic as charades, or one of these old blogs from back in the days... Now we're just dazed and confused like a date with Tom Cruise... and Ron L. Cupboard. I mean Closet. We don't wanna revisit that chapter. Close it. And so the book snapped shut like alligator jaws closing on a gay man's toes. Great man? No. There isn't such thing as a great man, only men that grate on your nerves by using nerve gas on people with anxiety disorders. Enough to get everybody in a panic and close up borders... until we're living in a Fort Knox like fortress. Must somehow reach my distress signals, or failing that, this dress that signals attention if its pink... I think we're losing the plot, and what about that mucus lodged in your epiglottis? What about it motherfucka! You gots ta take ya chances, Olive. Live longer that way. AGAGAGAGAG-Reflex. Do an acid reflux Redux Remix, it would be sick... like pieces of Kellogg's brain in a bowl of milk. I think we'll stick to Pepsi and epileptic fits, of laughter, that's canned, like baked beans. We'll only be disappointed if she takes all our shiitakes... Why? Because she wants to sell shiitakes on the Shii Shore. Bitchhhhhh!!!!!! Don't know why a long cry of despair was necessary for something that never even happened. "So how musch thes blogs basted on truht?" said one of the people who wrote in to the show. Wrote in where? To a show called The Naughty Step? We prefer the No Coffee Step. "THE FLOOR IS LAVA!!" -- "No its fuckin' not you retard. Quite clearly the floor hasn't changed at all. Was this some kind of plot to get me to kill myself by improvising a really dangerous thing to stand on?" The only thing in close proximity was the Gravy Train filled with proximity sensors and a virgin holding a poxy version of epoxy in this toxic wasteland. All around spray paint faces and degeneracy. Yeah? But at least those faces are happy. Happy to be a part of this out of control mine cart filled with nine cartels holding rifles and lime darts. And here was me thinking the world was made of Roses! I did reflect on whether it was justified to call Winny Churchill a twat in a hat. My intuition says he was an evil man. Our very own Jebediah Springfield. Just giving you my two cents. To Tencent, China, when it should really be going to the kid with spina bifida. Spiffing cause, Squire! I Spit On Your Grave. "What? My grave specifically?" Why would you walk all the way across to the other side of the cemetery, just so you can hock up a big phlegmy on my headstone. Bastard! I believe in Karma, or failing that, grab your worst enemy and throw him in harm's way. Swarm's busting Wheyyy harder than Custard, then get taken into custody by Lieutenant Lou who is actually your tenant. But obviously not David Tennant because then he'd be your Doctor. Or he might be the Liu Tenant - Mr. David Ten Cent, China. What kina sick humour is this?!?!?! The kind that we specialise in - Absolute Retardism at its finest. The ol' Gang, wandering the goddamn streets, rooting through trash cans for old copies of Road Rash Mega Drive cartridges. Kids of today: "Cartridges.. pffttthahahahaha!!" Oi! Don't mock ya elders! Its not funny, like when I had to play Broken Sword: Shadow of the Templars in a freezing cold bedroom. And if you wanted a cheat or a walkthrough, you couldn't just Google it up, you had to go in an ACTUAL shop and write it out of a computer magazine. Of course if any of the store staff saw you they'd say, "Hey! Its not a library, put that magazine down!" And that was just the magazine rounds for my gun! I Joke I Joke I Keed I Keed! All we had back in the day were slingshots and toy lazer guns. Twas a time to be alive! We were all twats, but it was all good... Almost as twatty as Winny the Twat Churchill... The ol' Bulldog Spirit!! A bullshitter drinking spirits more like. "Hick. Lez youuse alll dis chemkal gass on millnions of peeples, lol... hick." He'd have got fuckin' hammered on Twitter for saying that. Could have been worse, Hitler might have had his own Facebook, Twitter and Instagram pages. Or he might have used WhatsApp - Hitler is Typing... A. Grenade A. Cunt.
Let me elaborate. Winston Churchill = twat in the hat.
NOW NOW NOW
No news is good news... oh wait you just blocked it out, like the smell of John Locke’s sock collection. I’d rather suck Tamara’s Hot Tamales, and feed every North Korean an Atomic Fire Blast. Aniseed, it’s nothing seedy, just being nice… anything has to be better than beans and rice, or beatings twice a day… I’d rather love humans than see them bleeding night and day. I’d rather be open to liberation than a slave to Liber AL vel Legis. What do Qabalistic writings teach us? Wrong Things! A bunch of crap, you shouldn’t wipe your arse with. Wiping your arse with crap is definitely counterproductive, like reading Book of the Nietz… which doesn’t even exist! Mark of the Idiot, with his remarks and his idioms. Half amphibian called Alf… I’m fibbing again. Just ripping into topics with comic-like qualities. Even that Badge of Honour you wear is an exaggeration. It’s not even there! So come with me, as I raise this latch of horror and invite you to pry, into my underlying belly, while undermining every motherfucker on Earth by terrifying them. Dopamine hit, open-mind, as I play out these tunes like some fucking organ grinder with awful timing. Turning with no coordination, just a discordant manner. But better than nothing at all. At least I’m trying, like an alcoholic in a drying out clinic, piss wet through from the rain outside, and his sponsor is cynical. His sponsor needs to get a life instead of preaching, *bleeping* hypocrite. There’s no such thing as a miracle cure. Life is but a physical sphere and for we are all here only a short space of it. So make the most of it, before you become a ghost and shit, floating around scaring others in abandoned warehouses, malls, mental hospitals. Basically anywhere secluded and spooky. If I was a ghost I’d haunt all the public towns packed out with people, and put all these ghost hunters out of business and TV shows with cunt hosts who make a financial killing out of pretending to see what others can’t. Psychics too. BAM! You didn’t anticipate me hitting you over the head with that nightstick, dude! Call yourself a clairvoyant. Why, because you were a voyeur in Claire’s room that night under a Clair de Lune? It was only because the moon started to light the room that she saw you, and fought you off with a riding crop and a tuning fork that smelt of tuna fish and scuba diving gear. SUCK MY CUBES! Before they melt quicker than a fresh Anaz naan bread. Tasty piece, you really know how to get inside a man’s head. That’s some Gay City Roller type shit right there. Hey pretty! Too late. The damage has been done, you can’t physically turn back the cock… I mean clock! Oh the hypocrisy! Of Chrissie pretending she suffers from yhpos! Don’t you mean typos? Naahhhh bro, here have some brie it’s on me, cow’s-milk cheese is literally on me. And here was me thinking I was liberated from the writer’s block where my mind is locked, no longer high and mighty like Mighty White bread. I’ll be doing this writing shit until the age of 90. In a Zimmer frame with my zipper down and a piss bag in my lap… top. On second thoughts I wanna run through the woods and perish, while making a last gasp mysterious phone call that cuts out ambiguously. It’s what he would have wanted! To perish quicker than Perrier water down Katheryn Perry’s gullE.T. The wonders of modern tech, literally techs your breath away doesn’t it? Shouldn’t have bought one of these robot anacondas… Should have bought a Condo and Ding Ning’s ping pong bats. It’s fun being bat shit crazy, waking at 10 at night and going to bed at 10 in the morning. Real Retardism at its finest, like needing armed police to swarm the streets, which in time will harm the public that just want calm and peace. Not army fleets. Governments talk about love and unity, but then want to repeal the fox hunting ban. Sending out mixed messages is kind of sick. But what about me? More mixed messages than the 6 forms of energy. Why? Because we need ‘em. So many inconsistencies, but we don’t need the seas to be calm consistently. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to accept the mission. An easy first task. It was the follow-up instructions that bamboozled me. Sneak in the building, find papers, climb out the window, shimmy along a ledge 100 foot high and then don’t a zip wire into a waiting helicopter, ready for a glass of Martini shaken but not traumatised. After doing all the hard work that helicopter then just crashes and bursts into flames and the end credits pop up prematurely. James Bombed… Licence to Be Killed. Why would anyone want a licence to be killed? Do nothing at all and apply for no licence and you’ll be fine. You’ll get through your whole life without people trying to steal your kidneys and rhesus blood because somebody else needs this blood. Solar power? Or just the power of a ladies soles with the right level of sourness? Smart meters? Or tart feet à la carte? Party time at the martyr’s house. It’s his last day! He wants to go out with a Cillit! “Fill your boots, mate! … No! Not with explosives!” This life is a wild ride, like a mile high rollercoaster with no seatbelt… Or a serial killer hiding in the ghost train. The Ghost Hunter, can’t remember his real name… Joe Somebugger. He was a tree hugger, a logger, a jogger, and a hogger of G words. His favourite game? You guessed it! Frogger! Joe was a real mystery man, invisible to the naked eye, but highly visible to the clothed eye. Only people wearing eyepatches could see him. The eye-rony. Like an elephant playing a piano made out of ivory keys. When I play the piano I vary the keys I touch extensively, but it still sounds fucking awful!! I vust learn, ya! I vust learn how to be efficient musician! And learn every chord in existence! Even cordon bleu made by Gordon Ramsay while James Corden’s there! Present in the room! A KP Witness! So many people on this goddamn planet enrolled in the Alive and Awareness Scheme! Better to be alive than inside a mad pervert’s dreams. Or Is IT? One trauma per vert, like green eye vertigo. Suck on my ten pin ball sacs! Everybody Loves Razor, except Ramon, he always had facial hair. Lying in bed. Instead of telling the truth in bed. Just be thankful you can still draw breath. Or any other illustration. You must be Joe King, I can’t draw for shit. And certainly not breath. “I am not Joe King, You’re confusing me with Joel King!” Ah, so not Joel Rusk the leg-scissor artist? That’s another fucking neck snapped by a Japanese schoolgirl. So much twisted logic portrayed here. Like four trays of sushi poured over your head. Leaving you buried alive. A suspiciously fishy death this one. The clues pointing to many culprits being potentially responsible for this sickening crime. I’m going to waste some time eating chicken & thyme crisps, while rhyming this very line with every other line henceforth. No I’m not! I’m breaking out of this loop before I go kooky, and shoot myself in the head with an Uzi. I feel woozy, must be the amount of blood that I’m losing. None at all, which is odd considering I just figuratively shot a hole in my head. Have you figured out what figuratively means? Well duh... What sort of idiot do you take me for? The kind that would star in Taken 4? “Look, if you let her go now, that’ll be the end of it...” No it fuckin’ wont! There’ll be a Taken 5 and a Taken 6. Until she’s been taken so many times that Liam Neeson ends up in jail for negligence. “Mr Neeson, can you please explain to the jury how your daughter keeps ending up in the hands of human traffickers?” – “Look, if you let me off the hook now, that’ll be the end of it...” – “The end? There has nearly been more fuckin’ Takens than Tekkens!” This is really Tekken the Piss, like a urinalysis website. But if you like pisstakes, then urine in luck! STOP IT WITH THE PISS PUNS!!! Piss ‘gags’ might have been more appropriate. ApproPEEate... “Oh come on dude!” You came here to be entertained, and entertained you shall... be not. ‘Shits and Giggles,’ it said on the Entrance Door. The bouncer hens were tranced for sure as they removed their hen ties slowly and seductively while Barry White music played in the background. Disturbing, like Dick Turpin spit roasting a virgin after plying her with her own gin drink. Surgic Hall sure had a spirited atmosphere that night! The place was packed to the Pat Rafters. But what was Pat after? A hard hat? A hi-vis jacket? A low-vis jacket? A Hovis loaf? A chauvinist pot-bellied pig? Or the charred remains of a heretic? Here tick, which box you think it is. Maybe it’s the cargo bound for Receding Airlines International. Maybe I’m too far gone to find out the truth as I lie in bed, spinning falsehoods while spilling my hood salt. Hot lead. Yet we are led to believe that the cladding was hot? Or was it the outfits the prostitutes were clad in? In that profession, Mr Right is always around the corner. That is if the Mr Right in question is really Mr Wright the Suffolk Strangler - being questioned. A lot of these weirdo murderers do seem to have military ties. But obviously not military neck ties. That would be stupid when crawling through the Undergrowth. Crawling like a creepy Crowley, pretending to keep it holy in order to keep controlling these easily fooled people with convenient con stories. Not enough carefree stories in this modern dystopia. So come here and let Nietz make you forget about your troubling troubles that double by the day! Come here and double your Doubloons and feel the love bloom, motherfucker. Needed to use the word motherfucker to take the romantic edge off. “What good is love without a bit of fire and passion? I give this performance a 9!” Thank you Bruno Tonioli for your input. Output, shake it all about put. “Shit, delete this, take it all out!” Start again. But this time with more heart... failure anecdotes!!! Nah, the next dose shall be more uplifting and positive, with the ability to inspire change in others. And by the Grace of Dog, if I have to raise these pillars myself, I will do it. CUT! “Good work, Nietzlawe. I think they will believe that shit!” – “No problem, Bob. Always happy to help. Now where is my money and plane ticket so I can escape this shithole?” Passive question, more of a statement. Of intent. To do a Stickman91 and disappear off the face of the Earth. The Globe of Earlobe is no longer a haven. It’s time to head to where there’s heart. Failure anecdotes. Bugger! We’re back here! Why does my existence feel like a loop, it’s heart-breaking. Probably the reason for the mass heart failures and depression. The depression is rife. Not because people are ill, but because Governments are attacking freedoms on all fronts and we’re just sitting back instead of kicking their arses. Putting combustible materials on tower blocks to fuel fatalities en masse. There are so many things wrong with this fucking country. Most of it deliberately funded to standardise dictatorial measures. Dickhead Tories. Tarnished system. It’s time for the 65 million people that live in this country to come together and build a grassroots Government from scratch. With input from everyone on every legislation. No stealth legislations. No money going missing. No funding terror. No attacks on freedom of speech or sexual liberation. No hidden agendas. The People’s Government. An Opus. A chance for All to pursue happiness, unrestrained, to realise our untapped potential, instead of our trapped potential. Health and wellbeing comes in many different shapes and sizes. Some of our most successful, well-loved, intelligent minds have seeped out of the broken bottles of society. It’s not about what you weigh, or your sexuality. The aim is not to be perfect. To flood our bodies with vegetables and fitness regimes, and surround ourselves with what is safe. Censoring terms from auto-complete search bars. Whitewashing everything that a small portion of society doesn’t like in order to create an idyllic that isn’t really perfect. It is our imperfections which make us perfect by default. Look after the environment, yes, but our own bodies, no. Because we are mere mortals and there is no magic immortality cure. Our bodies are complex and unique and will break down in their own time, on their own terms. Mental thought can have a huge impact on physical energy. Depression is a mind illness that stops a person dead physically over time. There have been times when my depression was so strong that even lying still and doing nothing at all was exhausting. I still get a major buzz to this day from writing and listening to music, they are the two greatest forms of medication to me. Forget your dangerous mind altering pills and counselling sessions. I think mental illness is heavily misdiagnosed, as the solutions are always generic and dreary concepts, like sitting in a dingy type classroom talking about your issues and then watching presentations using overhead projectors. The cure for mental illness is going out and having a laugh with friends or having a nice hike, going to a nice restaurant, listening to and making music, reading, writing, alternative sexual liberation and exploration. I think the problems of the world are also triggering mental health issues. False wars, deception, corrupt people getting away with murder, injustice, an intolerance to freedom pf speech and sexual liberation. The list goes on. There are times when I just want to live in a country where there is nothing going on and there are no troubles. Like a Spanish villa or a country that doesn't get involved in the politics of the world. I have never tried to be ‘too’ healthy as I don't know many health freaks that were successful. Sometimes trying to be too perfect can get in the way of progress. I feel that my OCD got in the way a lot and hindered me from wanting to write straight away because I wanted all the conditions to be perfect. But that only puts more pressure on you expressing your natural instincts and urges. I think the health and wellbeing movement is a mental illness, like all that yoga and meditation stuff. It's been turned into an obsession. Everyone uploading their Fitbit data to servers. I find that whole health movement disturbing and unnecessary with the people behind that industry promoting it so they can sell their concepts, wearables, YouTube channels or whatever. It’s all for their personal gain. My goal from here on is to try and be as human and normal as possible. Fat, flawed, a little bit offensive, not ashamed to watch porn, not afraid of expressing any of my ideas in writing. Too many people in the world are obsessed with image and hide behind it, which then deprives them of being allowed to make a mistake as they are worried about being seen in another light. Life is too short and I want to enjoy the little time I have left, and not fussing over everything being perfect in this HD world. I think putting yourself off doing everything that you love, is a slow death. If you were born before the 1990s, how can you embrace transhumanism? How do you accept becoming a human drone when you have lived through eras of human authenticity? I wasn’t teethed from the tablet, so this digital world is starting to make me feel a little claustrophobic. It’s time to break the tension with a little normality. Time to climb in my spaz buggy with a glass of Shiraz, half-arsed bastard who has mastered the art of standing still, a complete standstill, it’s a surprise he can still stand. For he resides in the Land of Odd. Could never believe this world could come from the hand of God when it resembles something like a landfill. But yeah... don’t forget to recycle! And failing that, just cycle the same old bullshit. In my opinion it’s all shit. We shouldn’t have to be born in this world to worry about it. From blissful nothingness, then forced into a life of worry and stress because your parents wanted a kid. A Parent Trap indeed! Selfish bar set high when all I wanna do is sell myself short. Negative Chi. Relax! Ease up! Get out the easel you self-loathing piece of shit. Writing is the only thing that gets your soul at peace when all is crumbling around your feet. And you’re a thousand feet up in the air. Feeling scared? Damn right! Like Wily Coyote miles in the sky right before he’s about to croak it. Or hit the floor with a sickening thud and be right as rain in the next scene. I want to see the months of rehabilitation and recovery! I smell a cover up... literally this seal is keeping this turd in the cask. Mmm... Smells delicious where is the flask? How much is it to ask to bring the fucking flask?! This is literally a fiasco! I have no idea what’s going on outside these four walls. This man’s a loon, in the Last Chance saloon. Hyped up higher than the moon. Dog Bless Adam West, enjoy the rest from the stress of this world my friend. Cue some Fausto Leali. They say you are a dying star, so what the fuck are you writing for? Get the fuck out of the kitchen before you get burnt from all the bitching you do. Who do you think you are? Christopher Hitchens? No, and I sure ain't no doting father, never been the same since banging my head on the wainscoting hard enough to cause me a concussion, but now I just use it for brainstorming. You best believe you've got a swarm coming your way, no need for a further warning as I begin to knuckle down and gather steam like a team of Japanese ladies with lathering cream grabbing at your penis. But pixelated out. Haven't we been here before? Being weird, I fear this is just another gear of that... with year after year of this madness, enduring. Endearing? Or an end nearing its course? Of course not! Perish the thought of a medical timeout when I have new similes and metaphors to try out. I can’t die while there is so much more to write, learn and find out. Positive reinforcement from a negative source, be dragged out of this sedative state, you sensitive soul, sitting alone, your tone different, but with one main difference. It’s more difficult. So caught up in cults that the showboating is no longer indulgent. Feels political. And I never thought I'd ever waste syllables on this shit. Not when I made a killing from being more liable to silliness. I know it’s still in us, the syllabus of spilling guts, beating you with the billy club until your eyes are filling up with tears. A million reasons to still be here on Newgrounds, no matter the age, this was one of the very few places I can trace back my happiness, in years and days. Been performing this cryptic shit since the Beijing Olympics. Feel like we could create a triptych. Say things, sometimes the same things over and over, like Deja Vu, but I remain open to change, hope and truth... in the face of these strange omens I keep sensing with my sixth sense. Third eye is in good working order. And don't forget Vic, holding up the very walls of the site. The very fabric, a maverick indeed. And not just because he does my readings! But because his knowledge is streets ahead.
THE SKEIN'S THE LIMIT
Dark and morbid times, walking to the store stepping in horseshit, bypassing the O.T.O. Graffiti of MC Chris. Since when were chavs into cults? And fashion models into one eye symbolism? I feel surrounded by simpletons all around. People throwing slates off roofs like some modern day monkeys. “Me angry! Me gonna throw shit at passers-by! Me don’t care if passers die!” I’m past caring as I step inside The Last Orders, glaring at the man that’s serving beer. He’s probably wondering why I’m staring weird. Probably thinks I’m queer. But I’m just thirsty. From the hilarious days of Jim Carrey, to the scary mandatory vaccine laws in California. Sorry dude, you ain’t sticking me with that thing! You’ll have to kill me first... with that thing. But you can’t, I’m too busy listening to Pachelbel. In my own little peaceful seclusion. A hermit’s Kingdom not fit for State intrusion. Beautifully cut off and detached away from the health terrorists like Jamie Oliver and his obsession for body shaming. Since when did second-rate chefs become our politicians? Or dicks and inbreds become our figureheads? You’d think we would have bigger shit to contend with than obesity. Like paedophiles being given OBEs when they should be giving over their PCs. Political correctness needs to go flaccid and some of our leaders need to let go, take some acid. Coz what is so great about Britain when everything that is great about Britain is being taken from Britons and degraded by shitheads and sycophants with hidden agendas? Like Lucozade without glucose, leaving people closer to death because they can’t treat their hypos. These health freaks need to get off their high horses, they’re not trying to help people, they’re trying to force their will on others and make money. But why? When you can’t take it to the next life, you fucking dummies! Dammit! You’re boring us all to tears with this eerily queer, evil and crummy, nanny state that's forthcoming. I’ll have whatever was on my Granny’s plate. She lived to 87. How long do you need in this life? David Rockefeller lived to 101. Pity he didn’t live ‘in’ Room 101. Only a 14 year age difference between him and my Nan, and he had an advantage over her, drinking child’s blood or whatever ritual method he used. Weirdness no matter how rich you are. A Bilderberg plot to kill the world, and steal whatever natural resources are available. Whatever ain’t nailed down is fair game for these dirtbags like Alden Olson. Who seems somewhat involved in some of these unsolved mysteries. The world is full of these unknown quantities on the prowl, like owls on the hunt for proles to plunder and profit from or anything they can pull from their pockets. But frankly it’s none of my business, I just sit and write, endorphins rushing from the Sunrise of Enzo. Not my place to change the scope of will, only indulge my intuitive senses, to try and make sense of things without being a full on investigative journalist. If everybody went out and did what they could individually right now. It would be enough collectively to change the world. And not a single Kuntophile could spoil the party with their underhand carnage. It would breed a new era known as the Calm Age. And military soldiers wouldn’t have to get arm ache from holding those guns in our faces. All because elite masons sent troops to far places to start breaking up and displacing whole populations. On what basis? What are we striving for? A utopian oasis? Or governments hell-bent on creating our own O-Isis? I don’t like this new world. I think it sucks and puts the next generation of kids in a bit of a predicament. What kind of world have we given them? What is the point in procreation for the kids to be born into some sort of home probation. No motivation. Nothing... just tablets and smartphones... smart homes. Madness. Everything smart but the human. Tranced humans, ready to face this apex of transhumanism. Now we can all be like Stephen Hawking, walking right into a Truman prison. Nuclear tumours. The youth here are useless, weak as fuck, too meek to be speaking up. I wonder if it must be the drugs? Maybe we are drugged and would do something if we could. But we can’t because we’re too paralysed and weak, desensitised to these lying parrots opening their narrow eyes and beaks. Spouting out the same old shit. Repeaters... Repeaters. I Repeat! Repeaters. Yeah we got it, man. No need to shout so loud if what you say is the truth, no doubts. No need to band it about so dangerously. Fake news? Everything in this modern world is fake. Propaganda, boobs, emotion. As long as you try to keep a sense of humour, it doesn’t matter if they try to censor you, because laughing strengthens your soul. So in the face of these dark and dangerous, harsh and strange lived times, I am intent on embarking on a positive journey, in the hope that the humour spreads and we can all be human again.
Where did the Road Go? Never mind that… where did my last 1p go? “To eBay s.à.r.l, darling.” Who called me darling? “I did, sweetie. The name’s Audrey. Audrey Anderson. And I’m a recovering alcoholic.” Audrey bloody Anderson! That’s a funny bloody name. But without any gore involvement, obviously. “I’m here to shine a Rey of hope into your life.” A Raymond of hope? But I don’t require a Raymond of hope. Just give me some hopscotch whisky you devilish whore! “Can’t I’m afraid… I’m here to watch over you like a hawk. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” You can’t do that! I have rights! “You have the right to remain righteous. No drinking. You pour a drop, I inform the cops.” Get stuffed lady! I need to drink right now! I need to filter out the problems of the world! “Or run away from them…” Listen, Audrey, or whatever your name is. I’m not running away. I’m exercising my free will. “What do you think Bill Wilson and Bob Smith would say if they were here right now?” Have a drink? “No, they fucking wouldn’t! They’d say, gotta stay committed to the 12 steps! Sobriety.” Fuck sobriety, it’s not my priority. “How dare you resist these unnecessarily overbearing tenets, young man!” But I’m not even an alcoholic! I only drink on rare social occasions! “Yeah right! How many social occasions do you have, 365?” Who’s counting? “We at the AA are. Can’t cheat the system boy! Got informants all over the town. You wanna play hardball, it’s up to you.” No, but you can play with my balls if you want. “Do you want to be admitted to SA as well, you little deviant you!” No I just want to be left alone in peace so I can drink. This Warsteiner is not going to finish itself. “Where did you get the bladdy Warsteiner, mate!” Why are you talking Australian all of a sudden? “I’m not, it’s you, you’re getting drunk!” I’m fine, I’m not surring my sleeches… “Yes you are. You are slurring your speech. Listen. Come with me back to the AA and we’ll get you sober.” I already told you lady, I’ve quit. Too many rules. GBH of the goddamn ears. 12 steps this… 12 steps that. “Yeah? And the state you’re in right now, you probably couldn’t even walk up 3 steps.” Don’t you pantroni-nss me. "Look at you, come on, kid. Let Auntie Audrey get you back to the rehab centre.” I didn’t know my Auntie was in rehab… "She’s not! I’m your Auntie! And I’m here to save you from yourself." You can’t save me. "And why not?" Because I’m already dead. "Is that what you really believe?" Yes, we’re all dead. Healthy, unhealthy… we’re all mortal. We are the living dead. Especially those people in the AA meeting. Sitting around, moping, in morbid rooms, talking nonsense, my name’s Bill blah blah blah. "Is that what you think?" Definitely. We’ve all got problems lady, it’s innate. Humans from the top of the hierarchy right to the bottom, corruption, gangs, cults, deception, manipulation, greed, envy. It’s not going away anytime soon. Except, that it does go away when you have a drink. "Temporarily." Until I drink again… and again… and again. "I thought you said you only drink on social occasions?" I can do whatever I want, Audrey. It’s my life.
Suddenly the song – It’s My Life began to play:
Why the hell is this song playing? “I’m sorry, Audrey, I must have left the hi-fi system on.” Somebody sober wouldn’t have been so careless. “Yeah? But I am careless. Stubbornness and carelessness can be healthy traits in the right situation.” Do you know what Dr. Bob Smith’s last words were? “Er… arghhhhh… pour me a whisky?” No. “owww.my-heart-hurts.com?” Stop insulting the great man! “Great? He died at the age of fucking 71! My Grandma used to drink and smoke from being a teenager and she made it to 87! Stop trying to fucking control people you deviants! Bob Smith, he was a fucking religious nut. No wonder he invented the AA.” False information. Our organisation is misunderstood. We help people! We cure them! The statistics don’t lie! “What statistics?” The endless success stories of course! “How come I’ve not seen any of them? Just exploitation on a grand scale. I’m a deviant, but at least everything I do is consensual. None of this 5th Step Mountain Rape Malarkey!” Hah, you have a rapier wit! But that doesn’t mean you don’t need a saviour. Give yourself to the higher power. “I am doing, it’s called Warsteiner. Now if you’ll excuse me…” Don’t put that fucking bottle to your lips! I am warning you. Leave the AA and relapse. You WILL die!” We all gotta die, Audrey. I’ve made my choice. I’m going to die doing the things I love. Life is too short. You can spend 50-100 years doing what makes you happy and gives you pleasure, or you can spend those same years refraining from temptations, making yourself miserable by shunning urges. Do you never think all that time spent in darkened rooms in front of overhead projectors is more damaging? The dark isolation? The constant reaffirming of steps? Go outside, climb a hill, pet a horse, shag a bird, drink and eat to your heart’s content, knowing that your heart ‘is’ content. Connect with others. Don’t dwell on your flaws with others.” If Bill Wilson could hear you now, he’d be turning over in his grave. “Bill Wilson? Liked his LSD didn’t he ol’ Bill W.? If he’s turning in his grave it would be from the lucid hallucinations he’s experiencing!” He only used LSD under strictly controlled medical purposes. “Hah! I suppose the heavy smoking was in the name of science too?” How dare you! “How dare you, or Bill… or Ted… I’m sorry I mean Bob. Tell me what to do! You’re all fucking hypocrites the lot of you! AA should stand for Anonymous Abusers!” Do you want to get taken to the Château, boy? “Eh? Got a place in France for dealing with little miscreants like you! Nice and secluded, nobody will know where you are. We really have to start thinking about bringing your Ego dowwwn. Nice and humble. Self-disciplined. Sober. I’m sure that after 18 months at Château Agen Souwillé, you’ll be singing the praises of Bill and Bob the Flower Pot Men. “The Flower Pot Men?” Yeah… A walk in the sky. Once we get you hooked on that LSD. Lucifer Sky Drug. “Hooked? I thought your goal was to try and get people sober!” Ohh, you have got so much to learn, once we get you safely in the trenches! “I don’t get it.” We need to make sure that you are a witness. “A witness to what?” A witness to Our practices. For you shall become an accessory. Eventually. The truth is… nobody leaves the AA. Alive that is. “You’re just trying to scare me.” And is it working? “A little. I guess.” Not to worry, you really needn’t. We shall make sure to take exceptionally good care of you. For you are a special case. A rare breed. And do you know what we do with our rare breeds? Our endangered species? No. “We protect them. From themselves. You can’t get addicted if you can’t reach your addictions. And we shall baby walk you through the 12 Steps. Nice and slow… got to make sure that you’re absorbing all of the benefits. And if you don’t comply with the treatment. We’ll pull you back a phase. And you’ll start all the Steps from scratch. Over and over and over and over again if necessary. Until the information soaks in. It’s really a very straightforward process. All you have to do is engage… acknowledge a higher power. It can be anything. “Even a bottle of beer?” No. Give me that Warsteiner. Let me pour it down the sink. Poison! Yuk! We have to reduce that Super Ego of yours.
Suddenly the song – Big Egos began to play:
“Sorry, Audrey. I left the hi-fi on again.” Sigh…
La la la la la la, la la la la la la
La la la la la la, la la la la la la
The world has gone Mad. Its left me feeling staggered like a drunk Mick Jagger. Being chased by the Papas in a Mercury Tracer. At the mercy of newspaper journalists who thrive on driving at the speed of lightning just to capture a single sighting of a simple ton. Worrying about me? You should be hurrying to the V10 Polymers recycling plant, that's if the smell doesn't seep into your thyroid gland. AHEM... Let me just clear my throat, clear the decks, even though my throat is wrecked. Shipwrecked. What next? My hips? Strep pharyngitis? Life is full of trouble and strife but a knife is nice to burst that bubble and fight. Don't waste time worrying about your waistline. Unless you're so fat you need to be hauled out of a house like a shipping container. What the fuck have you eaten? A group of immigrants?! "The name is Immy Grant. I'm here to start a new life, motherfucker." -- "Y-y-you want to s-start a new life in t-this shithole?!" Let's face facts. If a Nuclear Bomb was dropped on Blackburn. Its the nuclear bomb that would get radiation poisoning. "Oh my Dog, radiation! Run for the hills!!" What hills? The only hills I've ever seen in Blackburn are the Green Hills housing development project. And even that sounds like some Cape Wrath type shit. Sounds like the type of neighbourhood you'd rehouse some electronically monitored paedophiles and make a TV drama at the same time. For realz manz. Electronic monitorment. "Now Gentlemen, you must adhere to your schedu.... a-what-the-fuck?! They've scarpered!!" Scarpered quicker than carpet laying cowboys. Carpet Diem - Seize Your Money. Too many rip off merchants in the world these days. Everyone is out to wrestle that hard-earned out of your pocket. And failing that, just having a sneaky feel of your genitals. So many deviants, everyone is in a cult or a gang, I feel left out. Probably couldn't even get a gig at a treehouse club. Fuck it, I'll just stay at Green Hills and play a few rounds of golf. Ignoring the whirring sounds of the CCTV cameras. "Hey, Bob, he's on the green!" What sort of Supervisor wants the job of watching people play golf all day?! Tiger Woods of course. "The best thing I ever did was fake all those back injuries and pull out of PGA Major events, so I could go to rainy England and watch electronically tagged offenders play golf! I'm living the dream goddamnit!!" Living the dream? Or just dreaming of living? Hey, don't knock it. I'm on for a par 3 here. Will I putt the ball in the hole? Find out in Part 3, which I will start uploading in precisely 3 years. The Ultimate Anticipation. Would he make that shot? But more importantly, did anyone care, except the care home staff? They were too busy administering electric shock therapy to patients that were shocked to be admitted in the first place. Kept saying that a T-1000 had been sent to destroy them or summin'. Fucking screw loose the lot of 'em! I've never seen a T-1000, but I have seen Mistress T give 1000 handjobs. Slow, teasing, sensuous. We're drugged on this Pavlonian ammonia. Positively reinforced by unseen Fortean forces. Slaves to the machine, now those teenage dreams are dashed, free time slashed, like wrists. Because human beings feel mismatched and live in a mishmash of wishy washy. We wish it was as easy as bish bash bosh! Jesus Christ! Where is the delightful dysfunction and the rhesus pizzas? Really? Fetus feasts? Neat sliced pieces. Bon Appetit. Demonic treat. Embryonic Paella and parts of patella? Pâté and Nutella. Chapatis and soup. Too much food on the table. Easier to eat with a ladle, body parts come with a label. This one says Bryony. Ahhh, that'll be Embryony! Oh the irony. The 9 irony. That's why we're playing golf. But now my buggy has been stolen. Man, I'm crestfallen. Feel like I've had my chest opened and a tee placed on my heart for Mr Callaway to drive home the message. The bad news... instant heart failure. But on the upside... a hole in one... so every cloud... Silver lining? Or a simple Limey bastard with too much time on his hands? I'm bored and restless, but this is my drug, I feel like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. I'm capable of applying torque at will and uncorking thoughts as all it takes is a little provocation to wake the SKIL drill. I'm still skilled. Able to leave you sweltering like a svelte buxom blonde jogging along through intense heat in desperate need of some Buxton. Sweating like a gunman at Hoxton Station. (Another staged one?) After Many a Summer by Aldous Huxley. Brave New World... the ride from here's gonna get bumpy. Trump pumped up like a steroid junkie. Maladroit cunts run our countries. Drag along my sagging jaw through glass until the last of the gauze is soaked in blood. Rhesus Christ! That's why the elderly need to kidnap the kids in recess! To seek eternal life. Time to feel the wrath of Tim Roth's child, as it crawls toward me bawling out its eyes. Want Bok Bok? No? Sod ya then, let me guzzle down this skimmed milk and pretend that its alcohol. Never mind Dutch Courage, how about some English Courage? English coor beer and underage drinking... meanwhile we hand out Peerages to Peeps for Services Unknown. Create Lords. But not Lourdes Leon, or even the film Leon. Maria Ciccone or A.A. Gill whose missing brother still hasn't been found. Ran off into the sunset I believe. Runset. I'd try and solve the case but I literally can't be arsed, and the Mute Man refutes my claims that I possess no motivation to play Columbo. "Can't do it bro, ol' Nietz is in retirement now kid. Flat out on a Bahama beach, eating peachy bottoms. Fuck those speeches!" They say that Nie went bananas coo coo see, baa baa boo boo. "Ha ha, hoo hoo! You're kidding us right?!" Nupe. Not me. I don't joke. Or fuck with the truth, only fuck with Ruth, so... Book of! I'm actually burning up in this Sahara heat. This is the perfect time to worship Tamara's feet. Today. Not Tamara. At precisely 8.15pm. Or 11.11. On the dot. No later, or I'll be shot. "Are you threatening me, Brian?" -- "Think of this as the last chance saloon. A rehab centre called 'The Last Chance Saloon.' To succeed against all the odds, you must be in complete harmony with your evens. Yin and Yang and all that... Yan and Yin lived in a caravan on a Golf Resort. They used to resort to playing with balls made from pure gold and when the balls disappeared down the hole, they were never seen again. This left Yan and Yin totally bemused, so out of curiosity, Yan knelt down on the putting green and slipped his hand into the hole. THAT'S WHEN THE GOOD VIBRATIONS STARTED!!!!!! The solar rays shining down on polar bears in roller blades. We were all amazed. Never in my Opus Deis did I expect to bear witness to this KP4 Witness. And now look... a red and black polka-dot necktie?! It belonged to Nicholas Gill. Everything has gone topsy turvy except Skopje... could have been worse... could have got scurvy in Skopje from a curvy blonde. Sometimes its scary to skirt with danger and flirt with strangers under the strangest circumstances of uncertainty. Commit eCrime... but nothing on the level of Crimea. So who has committed the worst crime here? Doing time inside your home when home is supposed to be your paradise. Now the world is paralysed by Paris riots and false flags. Long way from horses and paddywagons. Now we have padded cells and expect them to patch up our mental health? How are we meant to feel when institutions that are meant to heal sell us a judgemental self? Condemned by judges that are mental themselves. The criminal justice system is a joke. Dark Lulz.
From Rhesus pizza to physically and mentally smashed to pieces. We don't think this bastard needs this! What next? Being forced to wear an Ashton Kutcher t-shirt? "That'll putcher in ya place, boy!" C'mon! we don't need much of me being pushed to breaking point with aching joints and muscles, disappointing couplets. Swinger couples pointing and laughing, before swapping their partners and looking more happy. Swinging on tyres like monkeys, tired. Rhesus Monkeys hired to do the jobs of humans. Sitting in offices, twisting in chairs, photocopying their butts, fucking around until they pass out and have to be Rhesusitated. There you go!! Who said comedy is dead? *cough* Coughing is the new laughter! "Nah, dude, its a sign that the whole thing was a disaster. You may wanna rethink your strategy." What strategy? Winging it? Bringing it to the fore, like a poor man's fingers. You've been asleep during this whole millenia, drugged like Melania on meldonium. Meldopey fucker that you are. Perched over a desk, burnt out, lost that edge, struggling to get the words out. And that's not even the worst part! ... Oh wait, it is. Things could be a lot worse. You could be older than Jim Bowen. But isn't it ironic that this chronic fatigue is intriging? Something beautiful about peaking when you are at your weakest. Sleeping but your wick is lit. Wake up and your dick is burning. Subliminal learning. Chicken shit, David Icke and Bill Hicks, fixations. At the time. Now we have no political rebels. What society needs now is a damn miracle. Or maybe to get physical, like back in the Poll Tax riots. The fact is, that shit has taken its toll, and our lax attitude has allowed changes of this magnitude. We have been magnificently chewed up and spat out. Taken advantage of, like used sandwiches. Man this is, enlightening to say the least, seeing the noose tightening, but you Zionist Jews ain't frightening me. Keep trying. I Joke I Joke! Everything I do is lighthearted so why put a target on my back? Je did not commence this. But je will finis it. Ryan will open all Iron Curtains and let in some light. Light literature can be literally influencial if iterated in the right context. Take a seat in my assembly, as I assemble, these words, and turn them into terms understandable to all entities. The message will soak in eventually, whether it be physically, mentally, or just by accident. Instrumentalist of this entropy. Fundamentally fun, like I have a hundred Helix pencils all spiralling in unison, idly moving, creating a universal, lunation. A moon cycle. Now you see it, now you don't. The Continuation of Lunacy is beautiful, human beings, nature. And with it... Nietzlawe here to prescribe the use of humour. Whether or not you subscribe or like the humour. Nietzlawe gonna write regardless. Heartfelt or heartless. Felt tip pen ready to leave its marking, spray paint walls like graffiti artists. Not defeatist or an easy target so be ready as I get ready to leave this Bahama beach and resume this barmy habit. Make you think we're part of the illuminati, but all we do is ruminate, and animate our human traits in any way we can. Its important to leave enough room to play. It keeps a motherfucker sane and motivated and I ain't no automaton. I also ain't a mason. Merely a masochist, but clearly a catalyst all the same. This is all a game to me, this brain I was given was just as random as the name I was given. Eyes that see and ears that listen. In essence a five sense prison until I say my final bye byes. That's why patriotism doesn't mean shit to me, because we're just temporary vessels. There are no enemies in this state of being. Just a waste of fear... So without further ado, open the curtains, Bob. Playtime is here! Lay mines at Minehead and claymore in Laymore. Need I say more? "Yes. You must! You must continue the Lunacy!" Okay, let's pack away the deckchairs and Tarot decks of Rider-Waite and ride away into the sunset. Its better than hiding. Getting ready to write, with your eyes wide awake and pupils dilated. No Pen Intended to leave a high percentage, offended. I think the greater number of people upset, the more splendid the splendour. An hour of venting your spleen can take the edge off a sour mood. Its like letting off magazine rounds. But in Madness We Drown.
LET'S DANCE, DEVIL
The urge is there to move the Earth, inch by inch, word by word. Make your mind up, paper tiger, Or a tiger that's made from paper? "Erm.. that's the same thing, mange. Think before you make a statement!" -- "But I am the greatest statesman! So what's with all the hate?" Oh wait, there ain't none. This rhetoric is unethical but hysterical they say. Metaphysics. I'm here to dance, mange, not manage my anger. Menage a Twat. How do you manage to be that obnoxious yet so in touch with your unconscious conscience, monstrous malformed conjuror. Judge, Judy and Executioner. Magician, illusionist. Deluded, but leave 'em hoodwinked and bamboozled like a prohibition ban on booze, flambé, a hangman, ghastly logic, hasty magic, must be gnostic, these rites of passage are caustic acid... Right? Left-handed people are a cause for concern, right? Make the most of a moment, spit roast a Mormon, chide him with snidey remarks while wearing a smiley face mask then dump his dead body in the ocean. Say it was accidental. Laugh when he gasps and desperately grabs for oxygen. Only to realise that Oxy's gone. You ain't getting that, motherfucker. Limited funds but unlimited fun. Writing is literally a gun of liberty, dummy. RUN FOR YOUR LIFE IDIOT! I can go from being funny to saying something that's not even palatable to the stomach lining of your tummy. Tortured by Tauruses, parables, leave you chained and manacled. Stalactite of Damocles. Hanging over like a nasty odour from a casket open. This ain't Casper the Friendly Ghost, this is some gross entity, floating. As I lay my muck and manure with such self-assurance, leaving the readers needing help and health insurance as they continue to delve into this well, and invest themselves in this personal hell of mine. This is a long haul, this is endurance. This is me dancing with the Devil, dabbling in the occult, begging to not get cut. I'm everything BUT the occult. Silt and soot, foot fetish and butt worship... But there are worse sins, I guess. Could make a heavenly medley out of the seven deadly. I'm not sorry, just sordid and seedy like a swordsman with semen. They're just words. Things could bode worse than you having to sift through this perverse morse code looking for more codes, hidden in coarse works. Nie has got more issues than Julia Michaels. This is the stupidest shit, but I possess a muniment for foolishness and being rude to human beings for humane purposes. Better than being superfluous and virtuous. When I burp on your boobs its a sign of affection. Either that or I'm just a virgin that's nervous and I've spread an infection. I'm sorry if you might be affected, but that could just be a sign that you uptight fuckers have been too overprotected. Unable to handle this unstable Nexus of extra zest at the breakfast table, showing off like I'm flexing my solar plexus, causing this extra stress forcing you to take your chest pills. Train of thought? Or just trained to think? Trademark this insane ink of rain and name it 'Brain Incorporated.' I am the link between the trains. I've tamed linguistics. Maybe even changed linguistics for the betterment of mankind, Subjecting it to this inquisition has redefined what people can read between the lines. UNDERAGE GAMBLING IS ILLEGAL! Its only okay for adults to lose their money. Nothing can be made illegal, everyone in the world is doing everything. Whether small scale or large. The harsh reality of our reality is harsh and callous. Democracy is a fallacy too. I see malice encouraged, a subtle caliphate, O.T.O. phalluses, nibbling bits, Goddesses like hot phalls, shaping the world in their own image, so what now? We build them their palaces, act as their foot stools. Cool them down when they're hot. Eat fruit like its some feetandfood.com. In truth I am a fool, I'm every card in one, from the Major Arcana. Am I awakened? Or just awaiting my Karma? Stay calm, may no harm come to me and my snake charm tactics. Or maybe I'm just tempting fate through subliminal suicidal attempts of separated, disjointed, misguided states of mind and devastating traits of habit. I'm a creature of comfort that's about as useful as a blind guide dog, putting one of its eyes inside of a tripod so it looks like a sky God, before awaiting other mild modifications and odd initiation rites of passage in the face of these termites of fascism. Hermites United flasking casks of whisky before taking flight on the riskiest airlines, and you thought the frisk search was kinky? On the plane stinking because you're drinking booze out of the stinkiest shoes and ladies zip down boots... and you should be grateful for the sole crushed grapes, so humiliating its left you all flush faced. But those lush soles are just so jam fluffy, that they would make any man feel so damn lucky. I'm just putty in your hands that you've rubbed upon your feet. I feel like I'm living in a dream sequence, and when I wake up I'm covered in semen surrounded by females in sequin skin. Hickorus Dickorus Cock! Where are my Icarus Wings, fries and red salt! Time to get wise to these cowboys holding assault rifles and high-powered pistols. I have piss all except my piss hole. It is all I've got against these adversaries - Annie Hall verses. But failing that, any old verses will do. Even nursery rhymes can serve me right in the bleakest fog and knees steeped in the deepest bogs. Film it live on YouTube. 'The comments are disabled for this video.' Yeah? And so is the person who the video is about you insensitive Kuntophiles!! I'm like a Fiat Punto with flat tyres. I feel 'that' tired. I should be on a beach in a deckchair eating peachy bottoms not giving speeches. Or dead at Beachy Head after swallowing bleach. Or was that girl swallowing bleach from my head? Maybe it was seeing the Samaritans sign that made me feel suicidal and all the benches with dead people's names on crests. 'Margaret and Bill loved to visit this place.' Yeah? They sure did. You could always fake your death come back and rip the badge off the bench and sell it on eBay for millions of pounds... of flab. And cause an obesity crisis. Sugar tax for fat fuckers needs axing! Literally so all the sugar leaks out of the burlap so it can get lapped up by Kay Burley. I'm barely able to remain sane in this clime, as the mind is a field of slime trails. Literally mugging the readers with sluggish shit. Busty chicks pushing me into their musky pits. Eurovision I voted for Miss Nissen and then the whole voting system was bullllllshit. Here you go Moldova! Have 500 free points!
Insane in the membrane and every other brain circulating on the Hyndburn circular, squarer and having to earn every penny to meet Paul Bearer who is now deceased... How much can we bear by turning a deaf ear to a blind eye, and queefs that'll knock ya for six, seven or 302... Numbres hombre, bric-a-brac, sick o' Brexit talk, too much hearsay and not enough eyesay... Mind Strays and wonders like an absconder and has to be hunted to the ends of the Earth. But why always the ends of the Earth? Why not just recaptured immediately and thrown in Solitary Confinement with Sol, Terry and Simon... Sounds camp as all hell being in this hellish hole, like some kind of gay Shawshank Redemption. What kind of redemption is this? Rottin' away like tooth decay until all that's left are 'What Became of Him?' sob stories... Don't worry 'bout me, kid.. why am I talking to a baby goat? Why am I preaching like some Kenny Veach type shit? Tryna teach wisdom and history sprinkled with a little mystery and topped off with some good old fashioned misery. Gotta end on a sour note after dipping your suicide letter in vinegar. Eager to watch Vine or Vice videos and some VEVO to finish the viewing pleasure of the three Vs. Hard to concentrate after 24 hours of David Paulides. Hard to keep these eyelids open, "impossible to keep a lid on all this," said a Micky Flanagan mannequin in a quintessential manner. Quite. Where are my Manors from Heaven? Or Womanors from Hell? Woah man, you got that aLL wrong! Women are from Heaven, men are from hellooo there what's your name, honey? So sit back, relax as I hone in and hire variety. Variety is the Spice of Life, as is tamarindu that's been tampered with by Ginger Fingerz. Time to put a hinge on a zinger burger so it can be opened and closed like a Hermes globe. Did Hermes ever have herpes? Immortality has its flaws and Nietz Laws of Logic. So eat this collective cock that gets waved in your face like D-Wave quantum tech... Time to tech over again and teach these newbies a thing or two about deep thro... I mean deep thought. Stalking deers that have beards and goatees, and the weirdest horses. Rams on the edge of cliffs, astray, having lost their memories. No longer attached to Mama's Mammaries. That guy... I forget his name? Oh that's it... Guy! Its funny the things you Forget. Amnesia Hilarity Clinton with so many Rods stuffed up her bottom. She is truly Satan's Spawn, along with Billuminati. Devil Incarnates. Nietz is back to wreak devilish carnage, like a trafficking operation in Varna. WARNING! The fire is barely warm yet. (Why would that need a warning?!) You tell me, you're Mr. Clever... more fucked up than Ceperley House. Burnaby. Urn Full of Ash. Burn babies? Taoistic cults seem to appear more than North Korean ballistic missiles. BALLISTIC PRESENTS! Hardddddball. Mega Drive. Loved that game man before 'Terror' had a name. Even had a slingshot back in the day, but bloody political correctness. Won't even let me ping rocks at windows, what is wrong with this world?! What next? Water Pistols? Sex Pistols? John Lydon. I think I need to take a lie down, and throw it off a cliff because I have no intention of being held in a detention camp having my style cramped by camp stylists. Put me on your watch list? FUCK YOU! You're going on MY watch list. Watching and listening... "Hi, Ding... What shit is this i Ching, hiding?" ... In its esoterical symbols and writings, its not that simple at all to find answers. Even if I use logic I'm stumped, like a British Donald Trump. "Build a wall, Mr Grumpy?" You should be in a Mr. Men book, read in a crook's prison on a Telmate tablet. Prescribed technology. My Eyes are gonna go square!! They were square! Don't worry, got a spare pair. That was a close scare, like a scar closed and stitched, post car crash. All day long the itch has been there, to switch moods and be offensive and rude to my own friends, and kick out the teeth of my own Dentist. Now there's a twist, like a limp-wristed faggot. Nah, he's just one of Cleopatra's slaves, doing that bendy hand thing. You took it all out of proportion my friend, distorted it and put a caution sign in front of it. But I'm here to say... that everything's Kosher, except Kosher meat... nausea meat when he knows how the animal was killed. Blood spills when the throat gets cut, and people get put off by the sight of blood. "This is 2017, not the 1890s, bud." I Joke I Joke. I Ching! I Ching! I think I must be losing Mind! Thine Marbles are Lost, like an Emerald Tablet older than immortality itself. I could come up with my own scrawls and scribbles with crayons drawn on fabric made from rayon... But just don't got the time, bruh. TL:DCrayon this shit. I'd rather stay on track instead of straying and being attacked at the staY on main. They say I was susceptible to scepter. But I was just sceptical. Until the evidence was presented and I passed out from seeing a placenta in that box. What do you want? "We're here to brighten up your day with a little Hotel Color." Brighten up my organs more like. Brighton up... like a Championship promotion. I'm so fucking miserable I should jump in the ocean or Swan Dive in Groom Lake because its too late to change tack and laser off these leopard spots. Better just let them rot. But for now those dots are weapons, and the only leverage I've got. We Play for Pleasure, the things we say are meant to push buttons. Made to measure. If you want to tempt fate and end up on the end of a preemptive strike, because I have nothing better to do and life an empty life. Then its fine by me. We shall stand our ground, tall and proud, and we don't mean like Marcel Proust. Just a jousting arsenal and a Faustian pact. Tarnishing shit is my only bargaining chip. This self harming tells a charming tale of alarming failure. Guarded behaviour is regarded as partly retarded. Hardly. Its better to be largely impartial instead of having to court martial. So let me get back to my atelier so I can live ever happily without mishaps and the Father of all Fuckups dropping the Mother of all Bombs. Fatman orders Fatman. Meanwhile I'll just go back to being 'that' man. What man? Some kind of fake robocop man? Head sticking out of an open top bus. And topless hookers hotter than gas mark 6 cookers. Pure poetricks up the sleeve, double figures, I'm a figure troubled, and like Lars sold for Rubles to a femdom Sisterhood. "This is big business, bud." Who is this Bud? Some kind of Blackburnian Babylonian Pavlovian mad loner? That sums it up pretty well, like Summa Vinyl Cutters. Still a primal fucker with the mind of a urinal that's into vaginal sucking. Aye. Now I've no time for nothing except writing, something. Usually with Donald Trump in. You could say that I'm blowing Donald's trumpet. But I'm not. He doesn't care, I don't care. None of us care. Which is scary. But at the same time, cancer is a predator, like predators are a cancer. But Presidents? Meh, nothing new. Crooks and thugs and meth chefs who cook up drugs and sell them to the gullible. Full of bullshit, like this blog. Just a block of words with no dividers coz the writer is too lazy to provide this service. But why should you crucify the person who prescribes this juicy trite so fervently? Me and writing are intertwined so perfectly, this relationship is permanent, hereby this hermit is resigned to live his life a servant to the literary devil, and forever reside inside this circus. Deep breath...... before we keep on messing with your Mind. Where hidden messages sleep inside like creepy eyes of Horus. These Taurus torrents of gore and horrifying storylines that glorify the morbid side of our core. So harsh, like an offshore island for abhorrent hardcore porn practices. But the fact is this... We can't prevent the chaos. For we are cruel and mortal and vulnerable to the torture in which our Governments are comfortable endorsing. We citizens are lucky if we can find morsels in our shortened time on this rock. But sometimes those that move beyond poverty covet it more once it has gone. And they live in the land of the fairies and Oblivia. Cut off. Perhaps it is better to be put off by fame, where nobody knows thine name. So they can't openly draw me into battle or throw me under a rickshaw. Maybe I'm just sick though... and not quite right in my brain.
A DICK CALLED SHAUN
Perched in front of a fake van Gogh painting. Waiting for inspiration. Inhaling innovation. This is a game of patience. A literal gestation of ideas built like IKEA and TINA. Lineal champ with a pineal gland that’s crammed with grand fantasias. Brace yourself for brazen thoughts as crazy as a pagan goat from ancient times with Satan codes, and troubadour Gavaudan. Tantora Guava Leaves; Pandora’s Box of locusts. Caution! Too much hate and nausea to expose this state of mind… Mind you, I think you’ll find I hate this mind that I wish it wasn’t mine at all. I wish I was a Minotaur, instead of a tortured rhino minus the horn, no longer A Romantic Ivanhoe, programmed to fantasise, tantalise and tease, only here to vandalise, set fire to, with candle light, life is a gamble, right? Wrong, mine is a shambles, I stumble, ramble and fumble my words in person, each and every line is an example of how not to be, but here I feel like hot property, like a prophet writing for non-profit. Hopping mad, but perfect for the jotter pad. Came through Alma mater, feeling no greater, alpha beta, Master of Wei G. Lang, charged like Ray G. Bull, iron like A.G. Barr, but a little cagey… Confined, gone crazy, inside this insane mind. I’ve got lazy. But never fear we’re about to turn a corner, Muller yogurt, and glide through Robert Burnaby Park, riding a wild boar like a bored child… Yee Haw! Brewing Co. for 4 miles, over yellow brick pebble, Neanderthal bipedal that revels in being like a rebel, with a Rexel pencil. Not sensible, barely comprehensible, but in my defence! …… I got nothing. Yo there! I don’t ever wanna go to Yoga, classes, with the instructor checking out our asses in the Bikram heat of the moment. That’s sick, man! Unless the instructor is a chick, man! A man chick?! A transgender that transcends to a higher place by checking out your bendy practices. I’d rather eat up a yo’gurt, or beat up a man that hurts Yogi Bear. He will bear the brunt of my force, the cunt, I’ll shove a whole lit blunt up his arse. That’s not a euphemism for ‘blunt instrument.’ And neither is the euphemism gay. Why must that queer stuff be cleared up? Feared by society. Without it, being here just wouldn’t be fun. If we couldn’t poke fun by making a joke or a pun about poking bums with a sharp object. Why object to this crass? And shall we now harass the word crass for featuring the word ass? This is craftsmanship. Now I might need a raft, man… shit! To escape from these baying mobs easily swayed and played upon, obeying humans like they are Gods! By Dog, get a sense of human! Get a dog as a pet that T.I. won from a bet. Now you’re lumbered not aided, with a 101 Dalmatians, 100 Shih Tzus and 99 Alsatians… With only 1% of the patience required to look after them all. So you take them all to a mall and leave them there to aggressively maul the shoppers until somebody calls the coppers. Then you walk toward a wall to pee, thinking it’s a wall, but it’s really St. Paul’s Cathedral… These bloody catty drawls, with their hidden meanings, passageways… massive cults you couldn’t penetrate until they menstruate. Prolapsed Catholic? More like prolapsed rectums… You fucker, you wrecked ‘em! Look now, they are upset. Feel like they have been set up for this ritualinguistic tone. Well stone me dead! Until my bony head can no longer take these heavy shots. Hey, don’t throw rocks! Play gneiss now! Why should I pay the price for today’s Smiley Face Killers looking for their latest sacrifice? Not while I have this untapped latent ability to mix current events and Satanism? Maybe I should patent the idea that today’s parents plainly don’t care for their freedoms… so maybe they don’t need ‘em… Probably put rips in their own ship’s mizzens… All because they didn’t listen. Some of them couldn’t due to 24/7/365 round-the-clock deafness! The silence was deafening, they couldn’t even hear the sirens or the police’s line of questioning. Yet somehow they made the best of things, while some of us dwelled on trivial matters, like being typically catty and worrying about being fat, or our lives being crappy. So bear with me as I search for a workaround and skirt with boredom, flirting until I score like Kyrie Irving. Watch as this hermit spits generous servings of his venomous vermin like something a menacing surgeon would pull from a haemorrhaging enema in an emergency. Surge has the Urge to dice you up nice and good, hack out your organs and pack you in ice and blood. Sometimes you pay the cost to be the boss, everything’s pricey… how much did this Holo, caust? oTo cross, pedal bikes of monologues to reach paradise now that this writing appetite is back… Happy times lie ahead, or maybe I’m lying about that. Trying to outwit and outfox Megan with a pack of hunting dogs, before I outbox the best fighter on the planet… now there’s me thinking outside for once. Wasn’t hard to break these cardboard locks of cargo boxes. So Argo Nunya. “I can’t fail, I ain’t no flailing crook struggling to keep afloat, I’ll write my books and sail my boat through swallowtail filled brooks,” and if we have the time, write those books in braille… Time for the blind to find their stride and not be guided by the railing. Maybe they can witness this hailing to Malkuth… What have they to lose? Except everything. Why not just accept everything happens for a reason. Except Chris Rea’s son, that was an accident. Disclaimer: He doesn’t have a son. Why is this Claimant dissing anybody? He should be ashamed of himself! At least he didn’t buy the Shark Powered Liftaway! Yet… *long drawn out distractingly phlegmy cough.* Fucking bar steward. The Stewards of BarthoTomew. Who knew? Not you! Put a n00b on the barbi at some kind of celebratory fraternity party. Get sprayed in the face with Joop and Armani. The truth is… some people are barmy enough to join armies, but never legies. Has it registered yet, that the cash register has been stolen?! By a tall dude in a balaclava that drove off in a Lada. Until he hit a tree and ran like the wind… the wind doesn’t run shit! This whole operation of Opera Theatres that some people can Win Free tickets for… As disturbing as a wimpy worker peeing on your Wimpy burger. A nerdling listening to Erdling? This can’t be… Figuratively further from the truth! Rigorously mortis. Please don’t mock a fella that’s dead, unless it’s David Rockefeller. Congestive heart failure? He had a heart?! Living to a binary old age, but I bet he didn’t listen to the dance song Binary Finary, or even rave music… Acid or smiley face music… Jump around like a house of pain after being caned on the butt by a thousand sadists. Get kicked in the nads by Nadine Ross, leaving me nowhere to deposit my tads.