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OLD TIMERS IN A NEW AGE
I've been fired, Allen. Given my marching orders. Guess what? It's a blessing in disguise I say. I wake up and turn up. Ache from all the energy I burn up. Get a wee bit older. Die. Were the first ever humans building a luxury world for the last ever humans? And were the people inbetween just cannon fodder? One cannot fathom this repetitive pattern, Allen.
They can't fire you, you're an integral part of what we're doing here.
What we're doing is following orders for 12 hours a day. Explain to me what you mean by integral! Coz I've been working my arse off for nigh on infinity. The roads of our town should be paved with fucking gold by now! Where the hell is my tax money being spent? Coz it sure ain't as hell being spent on these buildings and roads. Where's the infrastructure? The shops? The nightlife? All we have got is a fucking statue of Gracie Fields and a Wilko!
And a Regal Moon.
Sigh... come on, Allen. I can take a hint. Let's get down there and have a few jars. Drink our sorrows away. Good old Regal Moon where the illegal beagles do gather.
You know what? You've been fired, so I'm quitting this poxy job as well. It pays me peanuts. 5 days on 3 days off. I slog my fucking guts out and for what? Remember when it used to be 3 days on 3 days off?
I do. We were a lot happier in those days. These jobs now, we're working extra hours, they've got us doing weekends like it's always been the norm. They're killing us. Trying to break our spirits. It's disgusting what those footballers are earning. Just for kicking a ball!
Hey, Allen. The boss doesn't pay you to stand around talking to ex-employees. Get back in here!
He hardly pays me at all, Jimbo. Minimum wage for what we do? Giving ourselves chronic back pain for when we retire? It's not worth it, mate. This job sucks big time penis. If you wanna spend all your best years rotting away here, Jim."
Fuck off! You two cunts don't know what you've got until it's gone. You'll know about it when you've gotta pay a bill and keep food on the table!
I couldn't give a flying frigg, Jimbo. We've all got to die sometime and of something. You might spend the next 30 years here in this dumpster, go for a routine check up at the hospital and be diagnosed with cancer. You should make your life worthwhile, Jim. Have a bit of dignity. Go and do something that you want to do with your life. Wake up and be happy. Don't wake up and keep running to this shithole just because it keeps a roof over your head. Pursue your dreams, man.
Nah, you two can go if you want. I'm happy here. Can't afford to leave. If you go, you won't get another chance to come back.
You say that like this place is heaven.
Well, mate. You'll know what heaven is really like when you can't find another job.
Who said I was looking for a job? Plenty of things out there to do. Life is about meaning, maybe one day you'll escape from your little bubble and discover what's out there. Come on, Tony, let's get out of here. Fuck this shit.
Going down the Regal Moon again are we? And you're talking about pursuing your dreams! Ha! Not gonna find any meaning in the bottom of a bottle. And when your wage runs dry, you're not gonna be able to find another bottle!
Shut it, Jimbo! You know fuck all about me.
Whatever. Fuck off. Don't beg me for money the next time you see me in the street.
You're never in the street, Jim, you're always here in your little cardboard box. Packing cardboard boxes funnily enough.
A job's a job.
If you say so... Adios. Liberation from Pantheon Solutions Limited!
Come on, let's get down The Regal Moon and celebrate our freedom.
I got news for you two! Nobody leaves the Pantheon. Nobody!
See you around, Jimbo. In the next life maybe...
Never underestimate the health and wellbeing properties of a dingy English pub. Beats all your yoga and meditation. Humans have been drinking since 2000 BC, so it must do something for your soul. I'm not into all this newfangled technology. Give me a drink and a good conversation over a Garmin and a gym anyday.
Can relate, mate. Where would you rather be right now? In the Pantheon producing and stacking cardboard boxes, or sat in this admittedly rundown, yet homely and historical pub? I've no idea where my next penny is gonna come from, and I love it.
Strange, I feel the same way. Might be the lager talking.
I've got a new drink in. It's called Coventina. The barman was called Clayton Morgan. He'd been at the Regal Moon for a good 12 years now, so he had a good idea of the regulars that came in. He knew Allen and Tony.
Coventina? Never heard of it, man.
You probably won't have. I had it imported from abroad, only really share it with people I like.
I'll just nip to the toilet and then we'll shoot off.
Alright, mate, no worries.
Ten minutes had passed. Allen had spent those minutes with his head slumped down. He was relatively tipsy, but not paraletic. Tony was taking a long time on the loo. Had he got the runs or something?
Five more minutes passed. Tony started to get suspicious. He wondered whether to text Allen, but then decided against it. Opting instead to do it the old-fashioned way, by checking out the toilet. To get to the toilet, you had to pass the bar itself as well as a couple of fruit machines, navigate three flights of stairs, pass through a main entrance door, and then another two doors close together to enter into the male toilet. Upon entering, he noticed that it was eerily quiet. The room itself was well lit. Nobody else was having a piss in any of the cubicles. He made a slow glimpse of the cubicle doors, they were all open except one. He approached the door that was closed.
"Allen, mate! Are you in there, Al?" There was no response. "AL, mate! Are you alright?" Again, nothing. Just silence.
He placed the palm of his hand against the cubicle door, gently giving it a shove forwards. Even though the door was practically closed, it didn't appear to be occupied. The door swung to its most open.
There was nobody there. Nothing but a sharp pissy stench and a turd in the bottom of the bowl. But Tony did spot some graffiti on the cubicle wall. Strange symbols, and the word Mamucium.
The odds are stacked against these Martians whose angst is artful, Dodger. More twists and turns than Oliver's wrist. Stand and deliberate over whether I’m half as harmful, as I write with everything in my arsenal, something longer than the Diaries of Andy Warhol. I am the dandy highwayman whose work is not eye candy, man, this is eye cancer. This is ripe anger, typed in angelic form, which appeals to those that are high on psychedelic drugs, or other medications. For weeks, months, years, we have dedicated ourselves to this mind porn, and warped the sense of time. The cure is to write more and chase this white rabbit on a high horse, and neck the fucker. But why? This may as well be Sandy's Hook on my hand, a man with so many tricks up his sleeve, not even James Randi could smell the scam. Nietzlawe is rampant, grumpy with gusto, a dumb shit in a slump on a street, drunk, with a trumpet coz he’s no good playing a drum kit. But here is the fun bit, so strap yourself in, sop! let me pop your bubble and lead you down the Ra66i hole to the hidden abbey, with bloated bodies in the fountains, drowning in the thousands... but who’s counting? Time to move mountains, writing is my outlet, I’m still a baby owlet laying my foundations, now I’ve found my station. I’m out of patience. And this is my raison d'être… I’m giving you a taste, masochist or mason? Moloch with a pair of bollocks. Not enough column inches to cover this solemn bingeing. Make yourself sick, like being on a high-speed Virgin train, wishing this journey would end at Penrith, but instead the trip is pending. Bending like a Pendolino, pen graffito, a vent of ego, graphic Raphael graphite, under a lamplight spell with bagpipes blaring, people staring like I've got my backside bare and my Jap's eye spurting. This doesn't even feel right, its downright scary, like upleft variation. All I smell is fear and unrest, like an underage girl under her Uncle's hairy testicles. Grab the scissors, cut them fuckers off, girl! No messing, its time to Fuck the fuckers that have fucked us for years, and stuck drugged bodies in rivers and aqueducts, shrugging off suspicious cynicism, the police, please give your criticism to 'em for being sluggish. Like the Elisa Lam affair, captured on the elevator camera. People everywhere giving their damning verdicts. Are we gonna turn the tide and fight, or hide away from danger? Will the soda tax promote a yoga practice? Nahhh. We'll probably die by Christmas, when the earthquake strikes the isthmus. Heinous Irma doing more damage than a famous German. Faced with the shock, our fates lie in the hands of the Dogs. Wait, pause, I meant paws, not hands! Relax! Everyone knows what you meant. The English language is literal Anglo swish... another one in the basket. Stop it now you're past it! Starving artist, slowly fasting, this holy craft like a footlong hoagie sandwich. My appetite is back, I'm here to advertise the fact that my pact is faustian in nature. Like Andy Kauf, man, catering to minorities rather than majorities. So please take my socio-political commentary and observations with a syringe pinch of salt. Console yourself, you're in control, if you don't like, delete. I don't care how you feel, until you care how I felt when I was reeling, mentally, physically dealing with shit, trying to heal up, instead of keeling over. Feeling old, hopeless, kneeling souless, until I realised the onus was on me.
Disenfranchised, disillusioned, desolate. Left out in the cold wilderness by these flames of injust ice. Its kind of lame if you ask me to be left in the Lurch by Morticia for having lunch with Patricia Heaton. At least she actually left the heat on and didn't leave you to wallow in the snow with no safety equipment or clothing. There was no need for Fear and Loathing... in Las Vegas, this was a more loving relationship. Shit was moving smoothly. Nothing like a roofies scene in a porn movie. My movie was more moving, like I was born to do this. Chat Crap on a regular mastur-de-basis. Already mastered the basics, no longer in a state of stasis or a slave to the State, already made my getaway to the Strait of Gibraltar. Estrecho National Park. They say travelling broadens the mind, even more so if they widen the road. Travelling? I'd rather stay at home or in a caravan watching Cara Cum. Coz who knows what will come of tomorrow? Maybe a nuke from some North Korean cuties. All giggling like schoolgirls. "Eeee eee ee!!" No more glam rock in Guam, damn, that sucks. This whole world is a sham marriage, baby! Even babies come out of clams.. that men have cum into. And that's nature for ya, explicit by default. Spilling too much deuce. Bigalow, bam bam... look now you've reduced me to the man that I am, doing what I do for too long, like Woo, Tu Tong into bed. But Tu Tong's a man!! WTF?!?! Tu late to backtrack, my backpack is already lined with drugs on the Thai border. What did you do wrong? I was framed goddamit! Framed by an old flame whose aim it was to break me, like Ivan Dragqueen who was somehow on the rag at the time, while I was down and out, on the slagheap like some Scrapheap Challenge episode, having an episode, but it was epic, so who cares... You gotta thrive in the pain and the agony and antagonise those that are having a nicer day than you and advertise that fact. Bring them down to your level, unless they are dwarves, in which case, pack them in a suitcase. This is literal dwarfare now my little motherfucklets! Just Kidding, my brain was Just Skidding to a Halt from this assault of kicking, now its time to Kiss and Make Up, or more realistically, wake up and start hissing at people. This tiger can't change its stripes, just like a leopard can't change its leotard. Fucking Reo Tard. What do you think this is?! Some kind of PR stunt? I have no relation with the public. The public are cunts. The public are too busy licking pub floor carpets for loose booze and locking their pets in cars during heatwaves. Look at this dogheat.wav abuse video. We should scoop up those owners and keep them as human scarecrows in the Tunisian desert, smear them in poop then desert them. Yezzir E. Bob, that's the only way to deal with a cunt, shunt them off the road and pretend that you were in autopilot mode, when really you were in Secret Violence mode. Some real Dark Web shit. What goes around comes around, like a Sperm Bomb Daisy Chain. Get up man! You're a permanent lazy fucker, eating Lays chips when the chips are down. Down?! They are always in your hand, you never put them down you lazy fucker! "Stop calling me a lazy fucker! Stop putting me down!" Otherwise I'll taze you, then lick your face like its some taste test. At least its not Tay's testicles. At least its not a sellout concert at Testic Hall. "Very funny, dude! You've had your fun!" Like Venkateshwara Hatchaplottoruinafootballclub. You've had your heyday, now its time to live dangerously and get beaten up by Paul Heyman. "Hey, man! Don't do it, please!!" I'm beggin' you moe'fucker! Litter Ally Ian McBeale. Very few will understand that reference, not even the referee who is effing and jeffing at a 700 pound sweaty blacksmith whose name is Mr. White. When he farts, does he say, 'he who smelt it dealt it.' And he doesn't just forge metal, sometimes people's signatures. He's a right evil bastard is that Mr. White. He treats people like shite. May the Great Almighty smite him down at the height of his prime. But who is the Great Almighty I hear you ask? (Nobody asked.) I'll answer anyway for those of you that were curious. (Nobody was there, so nobody was even curious.) The Great Almighty is... *gets cut off by loud hissing and popping and the sound of lollipops being sucked by a thousand girls simultaneously* Hey, that's quite a horny thought. One Goddamn Thousand Females All Sucking Off Lollipops? At. The. Same. Time? WOW. Ahem... okay let's get back to the story of the Great Almighty. Firstly he wasn't great, he was just alright. So he was the Alright Almighty. Secondly he was Mighty, not Almighty. He was the Alright Mighty. But then again he might not have been alright! He might have just been Right. The Right Mighty. Oh Maybe even the Right Might. Or the Wrong Might. Nobody could be sure. The facts couldn't be verified. That damn Bible was written so damn long ago. Okay, back to the thousand females. Turns out they weren't sucking lollipops, they were sucking cocks!! Whodathunkit? Uma Funkit? True Story. Great, now I'm wearing a bath towel as a bandana, which is kinda unfair. Why ban Dana from making any more X-Files? Particularly when there are still plenty more X Miles on the clock... Chris Carter is stocked, manz. Don't fuck with Chris Carter, or he'll go Svengali on yo' goddang ching meng ass! Not really. How can you harm somebody that wants to harm himself? I'm just inviting you into my Pig Pen for beef. Please don't chicken out on me now, Mr Lam. I'm a 1983 Taurus, April 29. Pig is not thought of as a smart animal in China. It likes sleeping and eating and becomes fat. No shit. This Zodiac shit knows me better than I know myself. Shui shui shui shui...... where did that echo come from? You have signed Death Warrant now Mr. W! Why? Coz I'm a piglet? Look if you're gonna kill me, at least let Carrie NG do it. I'm more than up for one of her red nights. No Retreat No Surrender.. we all gotta go sometime right? Actually no, some of us go left. The 12% of us are ready to go Southpaw on yo' ass... Not literally your ass. unless you want to be boxed up the rear. And that's not a queer euphemism for cocks up the rear. I'd rather go for fish 'n' chips by the Pier of Fleetwood... then have a beer and a curry before coming back to my cubby hole to slag all these tubby fuckers off. I could have been a Chinese ping pong champion with this hand, instead of the Wankathon Champion. Never mind, combine the two... how about wanking off to Chinese ping pong champions. Mr. Wang: "See, Xi, I told you this Nietzlawe guy was offensive!" NietzLi. My new psuedonym in 2050. The Most Ancient and Offensive Chinese Philosopher of All Time. Here's one of his quotes: 'whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Coz we're all covering up crimes and want to keep everything under wraps.' End quote. Its not true. People in Vegas are not more inclined to kill than anyone else! Its a bloody joke! Get a bleeding sense of human will ya! "You'll be bleeding if you slander any more of the Desert Mafia!!" But I cum in peace! My name is Robert Plant, lead singer of Led Zeppelin. WHAT A TWIST! Never saw that one coming! Well, that's because you suffer from Acute Blindness Syndrome.. in all three of your eyes. "Three eyes?" Never mind that, that's just my Acute Delusion Syndrome kicking in. Acute blindness. Nothing a'cute about it, Luigi. If anything it prevents you from seeing cute girls. Yeah.. its a funny old world that we live in. And yet there are people out there that are trying to control and govern all of it. They make it their whole livelihood to get you in your cage. The New cAge. A Golden cAge. Silent Cs on both. Hey look, a comet pizza! There's Nonnie Parry carrying a knife and fork. You speak in Riddles, maybe even this admission is a riddle? Who Can We Trust? Who can we truss up in the back of a truck and kill later because your brain has turned to mush. Everything has got too much, so maybe its time to Push, time to climb and touch these stars, Midas, finishing line in sight, and soon this idle behaviour might just spiral. I'm just embattled, I've been rattled, like the cage of A.J. Carr-Crash. Jimmy slashing his wrists a thousand times - Carghhh. Where did my car go? Never mind that! What the hell happened to my cargo and free Argos gift voucher? "278... please go to your collection point!" The warehouse is only right behind you!! Why have I waited 20 minuits to offend eskimos who want to be called inuits. We should have used our collecti intuition to solve this riddle, instead of griddling like gravy, slaving over a hot stove until you incur the wrath of the smoke alarm... Personally I think its alarming that that thing smokes. All that goddamn nicotine from Nicaragua smuggled in Tina's knickers... What about Camp Granada? I didn't know that Granada was camp, but my Grandma Ada knew. Actually my real Grandma was called Gertrude, but she wasn't rude at all like Ravishing Rick or subject to any damaging litigation. No allegations were made. Alligators were not used to force confessions, my Nan was on good terms with the whole world... yet she couldn't have died of a worser illness. They say the good dye young, and that's why I was peroxiding people's hair from the Age of 5. During the Age of Enlightenment, literally bleach blonde. Relax, be at ease, legs steady, feet up, get ready to read another piece of sleazy shit, that brings you inner peace and contentment. And then some. Like a Steph Young bedtime story... about horror! Aliens, ghosts, the paranormal, the para abnormal. The metamorphosis of a 4 foot 6 sweaty pornstar whore Yeti with a Beard looking weirder than a Betty Boo animal. I bet her boobs get blurred out so that you can't see the splurge on them. Like phlegm under a UV light. There must be an end to this Arrested Development. Don’t let this disease of ceased functionality be the decease that smells like funk cheese calloused feet. This mental impairment in a state of disrepair, like a kid that’s been kicked down the stairs by both of his parents… slapped on the head with a tennis racquet by Anna Paquin for writing this tacky shit that lacks nous and makes Nietzlawe feel like last week’s news… Relax! I’m used to it, being abused by the weak and useless, so that the ruthless streak has to be let loose in these new pieces. Cruel Suede Shoes to make suave music. A slave to musing, awake and aware, make these slaves sway with the words… they say he has a way with the words… Can play Sa-tan with these words... Strangle with words, tangle with words, scramble brains in ample spades with these words that are pack saddled. Haphazard, hazardously happy-go-lucky… slapdash, no time to think of the backlash when they are pulled out of a knapsack… Fuck trying to backtrack. In hindsight you should have had the eyesight to look elsewhere instead of questioning whether I’m right. I don’t specialise in Health Care or tread carefully, just treacherously step on eggshells for eternity.
MISTAKES OF THE PAST
Amongst the murder and mayhem and caveman mentality between religions and other insanities, the sane sit with their families away from the brainless brutality that damages our next generation. I say we need a new strategy in place to manage the mentality of these savages who damage and scupper the chances and opportunities of others whose only adage is peace to our planet. Not Police to our planet. So please can we plant trees instead of mines, so that minds can be set free in these troublesome times that we are currently inviting. Instead of inciting riots, we should be heightening quiet and turning into giants of enlightenment. These should be the most exciting times, and we shouldn’t reside inside these frightening climates of unrest and fighting, unsightly arrests on a nightly basis, resigned to our fates as pawns in these mind games, which history has shown that we might take, when we don’t try and change the mistakes of the past.
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…
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