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THE SERIOUSNESS OF LAUGHTER

You haven't just opened Pandora's Box, you've opened up Pantera's Box, er shorts. Can of Worms some might say, but who puts worms in cans and forces them to attend the Cannes music festival where lots of rich celebrities congeal like a large blood clot. That would explain the red carpet... But not why the carpet doesn't have blood on, which as you know, contradicts my Statement of Accusation and leaves me looking like the idiot... again...... for the 30th consecutive year in a row. It would be great to be granted The Idiot of the Year trophy, but some idiot didn't design it in time, probably kept it for himself. Cunt. van Cunt. Sucking period blood out of a woman's cunt in the back of his van. Das ist sicc man. Nah, Sicc Man is out saving people before they throw up, with his super cape, he's out there, stopping people before they can drink a whole bottle of Jack, straight without mixing it in with coke or orange. Don't neck a whole bottle of Smirnoff vodka like I did at College and end up wasted, paralysed, green-skinned and helpless, ready to barf half my guts up. When you're beyond drunk, you sit there, all blurry and dizzy, as the world passes you by. You can see calendar dates putting a red x through themselves, outside the window you can see the seasons changing and yet you, you're still sat there like the head chief of a dysfunctional banquet, nobody notices you, you're out of it. You have to puke up just to get some attention. Those were the days, of.. misery. At least you felt alive, even though inside you were dying, its worse to feel dead but alive on the inside. Maybe becoming an adrenaline junkie would help, or even a Benylin junkie. Addicted to having threesomes with Benny and Lynn. Dog, that sounds awful. They seem old, like a couple that has been married for 35 years and never once got bored of waking up with the same cream cracker every single day. They would have to find increasingly difficult ways to keep the sex interesting, like having it off on the outside window sill or by dressing each other up as young people with young fake skin to look like FHM's sexiest elite. The cream of the crop, or just being whipped with crops until they cream up, then you have arguments over which one of you is going to clean up the Loin Juices. Tenderloin? Nope. You haven't had tender loins for a very long time. I should show a little more respect, as they always say, you should respect your Elders, and I do, Elder Scrolls Oblivion, fucking brilliant, Skyrim, outrageously good. I'm not being a nasty bastard, trust me, I'd rather pinpoint my own weaknesses than put a pin prick in other people's balloons. I could sit and whinge about all the unhinged folk who make me sick of being on the fringes of this society. But I'd be no better, some of the nicest people in the world have done some of the most atrocious things, we are all capable of being Kane and Abel. For richer or poorer, we are all mischievous animals that lie, cheat, manipulate, stipulate that we are higher, lower or middle class, when in truth we are all just little arseholes. Shit stirring, the pot, mmm faeces. These words will disintegrate when technology breaks down and someone drops the A Bomb. All our words will fade and leave no trace of footsteps.

I need control without giving in to bitches that figuratively breathe on my ballsacs. I want to leap into the unknown, a leper, instead of sitting here eating fries and pepper wings. Yawning away, another dawn, sunny, the lawn green, runny, my nose knows no bounds, hayfever, Hey Man Fever has hit Tinseltown, commercial hit. SNIFF SNIFF. That's not crying, its the result of a drug addiction, do you take this hit of heroin to be your lawfully wedded wife. Nhhewoo.

Where have my back pains gone, I've been deceived, duped into recuperating my finances which works out well for all those involved or watching from the sidelines with giant sideburns set on fire by Mariah Carey's cigarette... which may or may not be lit. This conjecture is literally literature, it would protect ya, but you can get an injunction to keep me away from watching anymore sweaty Spaghetti Westerns while residing inside Noodle Southerns Hotel... Which may be deemed fictional, it possessessesesesesses no redeeming qualities, except X Box Redeem cards that enable you to see Christ the Redeemer... But who would want to pack their holdall, which only holdssome of their stuff? Stuff that, I'm gonna wing it, fly to Brazil on the back of a giant chick en a skimpy bikini that's got more sticky cum on it than Panini stickers. Man this is slick as a girl having multiple orgasms inside her knickers... This blog is trickery, deception, Grand Illusion, the kind of unusual mood that makes you question the type of drugs I'm using... Fuck off, I ain't no addict, I've said it once and I'll say it again... "It again, It again, It again." Repeatedly while getting beaten up by sixteen Pigeon Doves wearing Vicar Collars... My vices are nice like the spicy curries I eat that make me want to try something hotter... My motto is to ride Otto's school bus to the Ottoman. Fuck that, I'm going to turn this blog into a blood bath, describe the murders INSLAW detail. Tying this towel around my veins so that it looks like a Bandana that's tighter than my erection for Ana Ivana...... Vic, Vice. Pick a Pocket, let's all venture together on this adverture and chew Tobacco - To Hell and Bacco. What a destination, better than the North Korea meeting, that's No Career to be having, its so silly I'm stifling my laughing... Cccmmm. That's what stifled laughter sounds like, said the Dictaphone in the Crown Court. Addictaphone, not me, I haven't topped up in over 8 months, o2 are practically begging me to come back with free £5 credit, they are literally on their knees offering blo... grovelling servility, not humility... I'd hate to o2 be in their shoes right now.. Smart phones, Ms. Anna Droids? Fuck all the latest technology that latently corrupts our souls and makes us lazy, too lazy to even finish writing a se.... I can't be bothered with bother, I'd rather just hover over your mother and cough to confuse her. Why would I? Who wouldn't? Its too good a blaggy opportunity to turn down, you have to bite the hand that feeds you, even if that hand is the one you've just had transplanted onto your arm. A Killer Arm, y, tage Shanks, thanks for the get well card. It sounds dramatic - The Getwell Scandal... This potato is too hot to handle, but the cinder is hotter.

Cinder Crawford got sunburn while lying in a superb suburb submerged and suffer, cated. Ba bum ba bum ba ba ba ba ba bum... Nothing like a piece of Mozart for anyone that truly knows art istry, Noah's Archimedes a combination of art and history. These damn Scrawls make my skin crawl and my neighbours can hear this through the paper thin walls. My labourous boisterous rants of pashion until my breath passes ions through the ionobritneysphere. Silence, you could hear a pin drop, or you could dive in the bin for a thin piece of pizza. A pieza you wouldn't be ashamed to store inside your freezer. But I tend to cut off the ham, I don't like ham and its not easy to cut off while frozen, but if it takes all day, I'll remove every last trace of ham until only cheese and tomato remains in the equation of this reality TV gameshow that I have devised while making my supper. I even go to the trouble of bringing a radio into the kitchen to play some dramatic music as I announce solemnly, "right, which one of you pizza toppings is going to be voted off tonight." And so it begins...

But where one chapter begins, another one ends... or continues indefinitely like these blogs. But tonight I have a shock in store, that's right folks, this post is my very last post, the final chapter of my Newground Journey, when this ends, there will be tears shed, there will be sadness, tinged with a hint of nostalgia, but most of all, the saga will be a Red Herring because I'm really staying for another 55 years!!! Even if NG throws my belongings out the window, I'll just break in through the back door and live inside like a squatter. Nietz is like the fly you can't swat, the throat you can't knot, the bloke you can't not like...... TO HATE!! We are all in this together, since circa 2008 when Kevan11Twenty7 sent me a PM out of the blue, made me feel welcome, we were like chalk and cheese, making jokes. Mr. Wolfe was the drollest of them all, a true patriot of the drolldrums. But then he took a job in a pizza parlour and hasn't been in touch since. I fear he has moved on, made a new career out of making pizza frisbees and launching them at disruptive customers like Kung Lao's hat. I wish you all the best Mr. Wolfe [should really have put that line in Italics but never mind, rules are there to be broken, just ask Thaksin Shinawatra] and hope that you find considerable comfort and happiness in your future endeavours, its hard to believe that four years have passed since we joined this Chicken Shit Outfit and made bizarre sketches that only truly yourself and I could fully appreciate, but hey, life moves on and waits for no one, so so long my friend, "cest la vie", I feel sad that it had to end with this French shit! Au Revoir, our friendship was like a reservoir that deserved to be preserved for eternity. I'm proud that we shared this fraternity, with memories that will be with us eternally. And for that, I thank you Mr. Twenty for providing the laughs, the gumbo, the 'your pain is my joy' t-shirt, the comedy that will never die. The last ten years haven't been easy, but there have been moments and I hope you enjoy being 21-29 more than I enjoyed being 21-29 because I didn't, as most of my days were filled with dark and sombre moments that were too harrowing to explain and only work well when being poked fun at, like shaking a stick at a man with glasses. Yes, the days were long, the days were hard with lots and lots of sticky situations.. so what I'm really saying is that the days were My Cock. EGOISM. DEEPTHROATISM. Being baptised by a Baptist who stole my bap rolls and dunked me under the water by my balls like I was being Waterboarded. I'm bored of being waterboarded, I'd rather be dipped in glue and glass while a woman dips her foot until my cock's dripping wet, flipping heck! Licking sweat. Blackburn is seedy, women who hang out on street corners outside disused Fire Stations patiently waiting to give £5 blowjobs while timing it all down to the very last second. I joke I joke, I keed I keed, about the Seed (y) situations that occur in that here, there place. I wish I could erase memory, format my swollen brain like a hard drive, imagine getting your arse licked outside Rimmers Music Store. These folk who live in Superb Suburbs really are shielded away from the bullets, a psychotic world we inhabit, even more so than Christian families who bully their kids behind closed doors and subject them to years and years of Gospel Muzz Itch. Nobody should be forced to listen to Gosphell Music. We should all be free to pay £60 fees for not wearing a seatbelt, "but the leather was digging in and I see welts!" Better than flying through the windscreen eh, no, I was looking forward to a 200 mph smash up that put me into a longterm coma where I am stuck inside an Escape Room game, with no cape, being raped by strange beings that traipse on my nutshells. Fuckin' Buckin', this blog is allegedly swashbuckling but its dirtier than watching Joe Swash give oral sex to a duckling. I need blinding for sure, but I'd be pissed off if these cretins ruined my retinas then forced me to have a tetanus, jab, then peeled my scabs off.