Contact Info / Websites
All good things come to those that wait, but I hate to masturbate and cum to those people that are waiting like waiters on impatient diners who are tryna tuck into a meal that doesn't even exist like Father and Thinher Christmas. Its none of my business to be a busybody and use up valuable sperm resources on next-to-nothing material straight outta Cumpton. I'm cramping my own style while ramping up the pressure on the combatants who have no idea what they have entered, like venturing into some kind of Deepweb where people openly weep at the creepy content. I've decided the world is 93% evil, you wont convince me otherwise, my mind is made up, from all the nasty shit absorbed like rapes and people that have been taped up and maced up, this is shit you couldn't make up.. maybe civilisation needs to wake up before its too late.. I'm Joe King, society is great man, everything is rosy in the camp, ahh, the birds and the bees, unaware of the turds in the trees, who prey on the absent-minded and weak, who live for buckets of fried chicken and X Factor. Its time to X act revenge on everyone, including ourselves, let's wage war without receiving salaries... and make soppy ballads about women who have callus feet that callously smell a lot... Mr McStench can bench-press a press gang who have a PR agent... Fuck the media, not in the future, but immediately... No time like the present and I resent those that say I'm sent from the future. My hands are sticky which is making writing this new blog tricky and there might be some hiccups along the way while I spontaneously make shit up like someone that's just left a piss-up... But no, drugs were not involved, drugs were innocent in all this, drugs have an alibi.. ACTUAL drug users. Drugs will never usurp my bodily system, or help me form new words. I'm not internally rested, only emotionally invested in superbly suplexing two dominant surburban amateur sluts through trestle tables. Mentally unstable they say? I'm the most stable able-minded person I know, after the other me who unfortunately has Myalgic encephalomyelitis... But look on the bright side, he knows how to spell it! So you know, glass half-full and all that, even though its completely empty. I'm lucky to have a glass in the first place, even though I don't have one. You see, its important to always be positive and try to see the best of things, even if you are experiencing abject Maria Sharapoverty. So what if you can't afford a property? Or even the money to drink Proper Tea like a true English gent. This country stinks, the UK is a laughing stock, the weather? Don't get me started on the weather.
I met Mistress Conduct, she was gross like the roads of Blackburn with all those potholes. But she's certainly good at whipping you into shape when you need to find some strength from somewhere, and strenght as the typo ' ists would say, is always in the place you least expect to find it. Strenffff as the Blackburn slang ' ists would say, is Union. People that stick together are hard to defeat, that's why in these dark and morbid times, these devastatingly bleak times, we have to stick together, like we have been messing around with some glue. Wait a minute, that's not glue. That's the gay TV show Glee! Not its not, what is it then? Why are you asking me? What do I know, we are all clueless in this world, fighting for supremacy, nobody is exempt from the Power Struggle. Everybody wants to get their sweaty palms on the Earth and hold it in mega-lo-manic fashion while accompanied by an insane laugh. Believe me, nothing is funny, you can't laugh, if you do, then you'll get thrown into the deep end of shallow water. Direct Contradiction, we are all hypocrites behind closed doors, channel hopping through shit like Loofer Vandross. I need putting in a coma or something, that would be awesome, to hibernate for six years while fulfiling ambitions inside the head. But just when you are about to achieve your ultimate dream in life, and find true happiness, somebody wakes you up and you are sat there in hospital eating porridge next to some old loon talking to himself. When did he lose the plot? I bet he was normal at one time in his life, he had dreams and aspirations like the rest of us, until society kept loading his brain up with malware without offering him any factory resets. Oh yeah, we're only human, all of us, frail little creatures, playing out some Matrix fantasy world every single day, all with our own agendas and interests, the scale of madness of staggering, The Continuation of Lunacy remains continuous for sure and if you roll in the dirt for too long you start to become the dirt. I'm just shaking myself off, like a dog full of fleas, don't make me plead for leniency, you turned me into Me. I'm nothing more than a coke drinker, still floating in the meditation chamber, playing Broken Sword 1, getting nostalgic, casting back to my old man taking his departure ticket. It feels like such a long time ago now, like two lifetimes ago infact. Maybe its me that's been in a deep sleep all this time. But a dormant volcano does wank.. I mean wake up eventually and doesn't just sit around like a big fat spud with neck pain.
If just for one moment you could defeat your omens, your life starts new and another window opens. Would you do things different or keep it all the same? I wouldn't change a thing man, I'd leap in all the flames. Without mistakes we'd have nothing to learn from, and without these flames I'd have nothing to burn on. Its time to unleash the powerhouse, the one that shinks without tpeaking. Too quick like a motormouth who needs to have his open mouth rinsed out with soap and water. Maybe its high time we re-experienced some of the Low Times and the Times we were sat in the lonesome fields eating stinging nettles and pretending they had flavours, I'm going to call that flavour Sting, it caught me by surprise like being caught in a sting operation after Gordon Sumner said I'll be watching you. And he was, must have been recruiting for his rock band, but we weren't interested, not now, not ever, interested in wearing leather jackets... We had Nine Inch Lives to worry about, our careers were beginning to struggle, like a Dwarf caught in a Titanoboa, with noa means of escape unless Noah called that snake onto his ark. But he didn't and that dwarf suffocated like a young eager man dwarfed by 755 vagina monologues. He had been rolling up a spliff while he was rolling up some floors inside of a lift. His elevator broke down...... in tears. Because it couldn't get the Dwarf even half way up to the top of the SkyScrapist. Elevators are notorious for grinding to a halt, after ejaculation... no wait, that's erections. Nature's e-wreck, responsible for mass murder, and as the French say - merde! Putain de merde! Whore of shit. Where the hell is God while the world bathes, lathers, rinses and repeats in agony and misery. The Deep Web, people allegedly being killed by Honey Badgers.. sounds comical, like being killed by that tiger that does breakfast cereals - IT'S GRRREATTT! No its fucking not, some poor bugger has been murdered. I'm sick of animals being used to advertise toilet roll and things they never use. There was probably a Cereal Killer joke in there somewhere as well, but c'mon [no the apostrophe is not a U] cumon, cumon who? When Why? How? We don't have the physical notion of time to open up the Kama Sutra and pick a position. We are not ready to commit or make that kind of decision. You would only deride our choice of which way we wanted to ride the horse. There is nothing much happening, not even much happening on Ning sites. There is a women who keeps showing cleavage on ITV Nightscreen, then disappearing, then replaced... Like a bad TV presenter.
TV and film is shit... All these Hollywood bigwigs suing for copyright. "I know! Cocky.. right?" Especially when the average man in the street could probably write better scripts than Rocky or Snow White. Too much living in luxury, the ideas dry up, can't tell the itty gritty stories without seeing the itty gritty lifestyles. So you got to sugarcoat every film, make remakes, then remake remakes that we hate. Low budget, non-computer generated, that's the way to go, stop being lazy and shoddy, start making films like Raging Bull and American History X again. Is it really that difficult? A film should be about the plot, but now the selling point is the quality of the screen resolution or whether it's in 3D. Honestly, just tell a story, it's better. People are more likely to spend their hard-earned cash on a piece of work that looks like the director gave a fuck. Modern films are dispensible, not worth collecting, cheaper to buy than a roll of toilet paper after a couple of years. Start caring about the quality of film you put out again, make people feel excited about seeing a film on the big screen, rather than as a VLC or DivX experience. You complain about copyright, but you can't put in half the effort and expect to shift copies of poorly-made films. People respect quality, don't shortchange the people or bite the hands of the people that feed you. Nibble them gently. You're killing your own industry. When I was little, going to the cinema meant something, but the power of the cinema is diminishing, that little old grey-haired caretaker who sits in the back room controlling the projector is getting lonely and bored. Give an old man his pride back guys, make him feel full of worth again. Make him experience the feeling of being poked with a stick because he has fallen asleep again. The cinema was a great place and it can be again, just as long as you stop casting the siblings of movie stars, keeping it in the family. Go in some backwoods and recruit some really ugly fuckers, it's no good making the cast look pretty if they are starring in a horror flick, stop making the blood look like paint. Stop making actors read lines like they are reciting poetry, put in some coughs, sniffles and stutters. Let the cast ad-lib. Don't be scared of trying new ways. Variety and creativity.
Ah life.. I'm trying to answer more mysteries, like 'why did Satan get the bottom bunk instead of the skyward heaven gig?' And just how long will it take to map out Allan Clarkson's future? Maybe he doesn't have a future. So in future I wont refer to his future. Or his past. Or present. But I will present him with a lifetime achievement award... for doing absolutely nothing, except fictionally existing. Right now, he's more invisible than a North Korean gulag. Or 'Invistible' as Chuckie from Rugrats would once say. Chuckie is also fictional, but Christine Cavanaugh isn't and neither was her nasal voiceover masterclass.