Contact Info / Websites
THE RE HIM ME AND YOU NION
Eric is a God that's won the lottery, at least he done the lottery, but had to pay a thousand bucks to get his finger free from out a slot machine. But now he's got the cash, we must dash to meet Jumping Jack Geller who is good at making Flash videos that receive a trillion hits. But we don't have enough time in our lives to suck a billion tits. ITS. Not fair. Like a train-fare dodger, who kept jumping over coins. Tis all about the Bitcoin now young Nietzlawe! The Bitcoin my lad is where its at! Its scary that, getting my salary paid in bitcoin, or should I say Britcoin? Hey that's clever, whether or not you think its clever is not the issue here, but this X-Rated version of FHM is. Free Hand Moisturiser in little sachets, nah fuck em, I'd rather smell like an ashtray. Ash-er-ly, on second thoughts I'd rather smell like the fiery armpits of Hell. Well like HELLLL-OOO, Hell is like too hot, can't you like turn down the thermostat? Satan wont like that, he don't tolerate SHITE, he likes a fry up in the morning and a pitchfork to hold his potato over the barbeque. Apart from that, Satan is pretty chill, or should I say Jalapeno chili. He's jealous of my penis i.e. willy. Don't be a silly Billiard ball Nietz, Satan doesn't get penis envy. He does get mad when his pen is empty. Double entendre for shooting his load. Crap if you ask me, but you can't blame a man for trying. You can't blame Aman Resorts for trying to get people to visit beautiful destinations across the world, those bastards will resort to anything. Even physical violins. The vitriolic abuse, but its nothing compared to their alcohol abuse. Drunk men attempting basketball dunks is something you don't want to see. "I-I-i-i.mm-leeeb-b-ron..lames..errh-hickk!" You are so shit at basketball old man, that you'd probably need to leap on James just to reach the rim. The rim of his penis that is!! Oh god, we can't tolerate any more, this blog is too crude like a posh Frederick Krueger. Yeah, he knew better than his evil brother Freddie. Frederick chased da' grades, hunted down the yankee dollar, at the age of five he became a scholar and led a harem of 26 virgin Finnish maidens. None of them could finish him off though. Those maidens like to listen to Iron Maiden and drink Iron Bru. I'm not sexist, but they even liked to iron too. Get those creases out of clothes. If you argued with them they'd get out their claws and gnaw out the right eye of Nietz-E-Lawe. That explains the eyepatch, I know its remained a mystery for a very long time like wondering how Locke ended up in a wheelchair. The eyepatch is a hidden meaning, its so well hidden even I haven't got a fucking clue what it means. This blog was supposed to be a Reunion of Eric, Jack and Myself. Hence the RE him me and yoUNION. So fucking long-winded, if anything you're just hindering yourself by eating that spicy Indian burger. This tastes great but my ass is on fire. Like Lebron James.
The Re Him Me and You Nion is well underway, the bags have been packed, with bagging saggy eyes I write this shit long into the night, driving myself bananas with Fruit and Veg in the back, making home deliveries like Morrisons and Asda. Making sure that people don't starve like Lee Marvin who definitely didn't starve. The rumours that said he did were farcical like Cycling to far away places like plaice fish markets, and places where they sold magic carpets... You're probably thinking Morocco... Morocco's Modern Life in Monaco wearing frocks selling diamond rocks to cock suckers... *Pause for breath* No, not because the narrator was sucking cock, trust me, he was fucking not! He was eating King Prawn McCoys - coyly, while rinsing his oiled up loins... Ugh, Giant Squid on the tv, not on top of the tv, inside the tv, hotwiring all the circuitry, infiltrating my whole operation... Inside Philip Trate's medical procedure. Philip ain't a doctor but he did doctor his doctoruments in order to become a doctor. This Doc liked to use Tor and remain anon in a world of agon - ising medical procedures. Phil would bite his lip as he worked away, stripped away tendons and ligaments and turned his patients into Carbon Copies of Hot Property. Choppa Tea, what are we saying? Why are we eating Sayers pasties and pies? This Town will be the death of us, just as we cross the borderline we'll be shot down in flames by a sentry called Joseph Beanstalk. We will be so injured and unable to walk or maintain rhythm or spell rhythm or sell little bottles of Absolut Cognac to one man on crack co-cayman Islands. Life has never been a doddle, I was never fed with the silver spoon or sucked on a milk bottle. I need a rebuttal from sniffing butt holes... Or the intoxicating addiction of Chris Bellows novels which literally bellow out to me like a yellow-bellied yokel doing a Yodel on a modelling catwalk while all the voyeurs sit with a CFNF fetish... You know I'm right, say what you like, this guy knows his stuff and drinks from a cup of Shut the Fuck Up. We can't shut fuck up, but we can shut fuck up if fuck, fucks up. That sounds about right, but who cares about reasoning except Reasoner who has now sold albums on Amazon and he's amassed a ton of cash so he's not coming back... Sell out. He even has the same name as me too, Ryan, but we share no common loyalties except our mutual love for cinnamon, or incriminating evidence. Have you ever Danced with Evie? No but it would be good to dig a hole big enough to fit my balls. Entendre. Enninedre. EminemandDre. Didn't see that one, hidden agenda like a hidden age and gender on a forum of Mass Desmond's Traction. This was supposed to be about E-richter Scale, J-acknowledge and R-yankee Doodle. This was supposed to be our long-awaited Reunion and adventure, now its all been spoilt by the 3000 other distractions that get inside thine head and steer me off course into an innocent pedestrian. If he's so Innocent, why is he drinking Tropicana? Eh Eh EHHHH!! *Prods the cameraman.* I hope you are getting all this down Miss Camerra, Miss America... You can't spell America without Eric, you could, but that would just lead us all the way back to Aman Resorts. Maybe that's it? Maybe we've been blind to the clues all along, maybe everything points to Aman Resorts as being our place of interest. Let's knock on the door and see what happens.
A slot opens, "Whatcha Want... There's no room left at the Inn, go away." We don't want to come in your Inn, in fact its you that should be wanting to come into our Outt. This argument is getting us nowhere except to a place called - NOW HERE. That was according to the map, which in my opinion was crap, a poor-mans backhand - at tennis. In Jack's hair there were ten nits, those nits had bigger tits than Ally McBeal, who looks like a good Meal wouldn't kill her. Deep breath, annnddd.. continue... New fitness routine programme I have to follow, not in a stalking way. But in a talking to myself kind of way cursing such a Punitive Regime. Wake up at 5 o' clock AM and dance with two Fitness Gurus from the 1860s? It cannot be achieved, attained, obtained or...... politely declined. But we don't care as we climb, Joseph's Beanstalk into the clouds up above the below... The three dudes had gone where no man or woman had ever trodden. A secret world known as The Loud Clouds, the white fluffy bundles of joy had giant speakers woven into them and was emitting powerful basslines that could split your ear in half. BOP BOP BOP RAH RAH RAH. Our ears were shouting ARGH ARGH ARGH! Such was the level of decibels that decimated our ear cells. Still, there was no turning back now, our necks had jarred, so we had to keep moving forwards while squeezing in the time to write some Forewords for famous people's books. It wasn't easy juggling two things at once, which is why I envy girls, it can't be easy playing a Pantera drum solo using only their boobs... We had no time to think, two giant boobs came rolling across the clouds at us like giant Rover balls from The Prisoner. Even the cheesy music theme tune began playing as we tried escaping... But it was too late, those boobs jumped on us, sealing us inside and making us perform rubberised grins through the side walls... Happy rubberised grins might I add. Afterwards we got to meet Leo McKern and he showed us around the set of the village, we were assigned numbers. We were quite fortunate to be given our own Numb Bears, knocked out by tranquiliser darts. After that, we were assigned real numbers. Eric was Number 5, I was Number 7 and Jack was Number 6. All we could do all day long was wonder up and down the village, they didn't even have a fucking Tuck Shop where we could get some soft drinks and candy. The Village was boring, even the Village People were boring, always singing YMCA and Relax. The three of us had nothing to do except sit around and discuss how the hell we were going to make our escape using Homemade Capes. We were enslaved like some Planet of the Ape type shit, only Number 2 kept spying on us and reporting back to his Master. The Stupid Bar Stadt. ESCAPE is IMPOSSIBLE. Even pressing the Escape Key didn't work. An actual Escape Key might have been more useful. But we possessed nothing except polka dot disguises, which would have worked if it weren't for those meddling kids. Fred, Velma and Daphne doing what they always do, sticking their noses in where it wasn't wanted. Shaggy and Scooby had gotten lost somewhere...... On DVD!! Sorry couldn't resist that one. No blog is complete without a LOST-related joke. I wont be able to use that gag in a couple of years time, I'll have to say on BLU RAY!! Or it'll look dated like a dateless date that ate a fig. I'm still trying to figure out how he did it. That fig was bigger than my stature in the Writing Industry. But Imusttry to do much better and write 700 novels and grovel to publishers and kiss ass, which isn't delic-ass.
Mayun, we are still trapped in this damn Village surrounded by freaks and the mildly deluded. Number 2 was watching us all the time, we didn't even have time to build a getaway raft. Not to mention that the two giant Rover boobs were ready to pounce at any moment. We might have to live here forever eating drugged ice cream, but being unable to wear nice clean clothes. This Village was weird, you'd think we were in Merthyr Tydfil as punishment for murdering the Tinfoil Man and dumping his body in a Landfill, where all the waste is crushed up by that man Phil. Philip Trate! That's him! The leader of this damn Village, the one that has been keeping us as prisoners for all this time (I say all this time, we've only been trapped on the island for 4 hours). Phil the Traitor. That Ruddy Ass Banger! That Bloody Toerag! I'll bloody well give that little scoundrel scamp a clip around the bloody ear for keeping us here (ear). We wanted to return home, back to our families and jobs (we didn't have families or jobs). But it sounds good, might win some sympathy points from Philip. We quickly learned that Philip wasn't the Sympathetic kind, just a pathetic kind of person that likes to be unkind to blind people and refer to them as Numbers rather than their real names. Evil son of a gun he was. He specialised in interrogation, liked his whippings did Philip Trate, liked to give you a chance to run and escape before setting the giant boobs after you. His favourite quote was, 'now that's what I call a Booby Trap.' Then he'd break into a croaky laugh, light up a cigar and walk off as we dragged back into the village to perform a duet with the Village People. No, not the gay disco group, just some random village people. We decided to start up a new band, after the failings of Salty Saline and Nine Inch Lives, we thought that the new band members would give us some extra impetus. We called ourselves The Numb Bears because that's all we were now, just animals being drugged up by Philip and Number 2 while occasionally being molested by the Rover Breast Sisters. After a while, we became accustomed to life on the island, it wasn't as bad as we originally first thought. Turns out it was some secret Hippy haven, the drugs here man, the fucking drugs!! Sure there were restrictions, sure we had to be tucked into bed before 8PM, sure we had to cannabis cakes for breakfast, sure we had to suck on giant Rover teats. Life was good. We said in a collective drone, then Philip Trate laughed again and sat down in a large leather chair in front of a desk and lit up another cigar. It wasn't long before we were summoned to his office and we sat there nervously before he pointed to me and exclaimed, "You're fired." Turns out we were on a new reality show called When LOST met the Apprentice. It had all been a set-up, millions had tuned in that week to see how we were coping in the Village, apparently the ratings were through the roof. We didn't sign up for this, but those tv company executives didn't give a flying fuck, all they saw were dollar signs and ratings. Who cared about a few guinea pigs on a secluded island?
Not me for one, and I was one of the three!