Thursday, February 28, 2008

The Toughest Cowboy in the World

Three cowboys are sitting around a fire in the desert, looking manly and not saying much, when one suddenly looks up and says "Goddamn, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world. Last week I was minding my own business when I was set upon by 20 injuns. I only had six bullets left so I skillfully shot 10 of them, but my gunfire started a stampede right into my camp. Without hesitating I beat the rest of them injuns to death while facing down more than 1000 head of angry buffalo. Goddamn I must be the toughest cowboy in the world".

The second cowboy looks at him and then spits and says "That ain’t nothin, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world dagnammit. Last night I was making nice with 20 or so pretty ladies when I realised I didn't have any money on me, so while they were all laying there exhausted, I jumped out the window and ran down the street to the bank. I forgot my shooters so I had to fight the 5 guards unarmed. I beat their asses, but when I tore off the vault door to get my loot, the roof collapsed in on me. I crawled through the only gap into the only room I could, but for some darn fool reason it was filled right to the brim with nails. I ate my way through them, and got out the back way with my loot, only to find the sheriff and his men waiting. I dispatched all 50 of his posse using nothing but my cunning and fists before returning to the whorehouse and going another round with the ladies. Hot diggity, I must be the toughest cowboy in the world."

The third cowboy looks up at the other two, chuckles to himself and then looks back down without speaking, and continues to stoke the fire with his penis.


Wednesday, February 27, 2008


A lifetime of grievances came to an end this morning with the spilling of a coffee cup. Joe had always thought that a cup was a pointless form of prison for liquids, and his intense sense of injustice meant that he always wanted them to run free. So he tipped cups and bowls and water machines whenever he could. People could say that he was just into flooding things, but he wasn’t. He didn’t want to damage or destroy anything, he just wanted the liquids he saw to live as free as the sea. Although the sea still wasn’t as free as he would like.

This particular cup he had spilt hadn’t been his however, and usually Joe was so careful with his tipping urges. However, today he had seen his boss abandon this cup and leave for a meeting, and Joe just couldn’t resist. He performed what he liked to think of the most balletic of his tippings, by shaking the desk under the cup until the sloshing back and forth created enough momentum for the thing to spill. The liquid had it’s fun too-ing and fro-ing before it got to run as gravity always intended to the floor and all around, Joe thought, so he loved this way best. He didn’t really notice the cup roll to the floor, or the laptop that followed it, or even the muffin basket that landed right in the middle of the puddle. He was too busy looking at the coffee grinds which had splattered the desk. The coffee grinds which had inexplicably formed the word “Thanks”.

It didn’t matter to Joe that he got fired the next day as he didn’t even turn up to work. He had left that room, that office and gone straight to the beach. He bought an ex-soviet ice breaker from Crazy Henry who had always lived by the sea and started tearing up the land making waterways wherever he could. He was eventually beaten to death by a gang of beavers who were tired of cleaning up after him.

The story wasn’t about him though, so don’t feel bad. It was about the coffee, who had never felt more alive than when they splashed those floor muffins. Coffee is sick in the head see, but at least it said thanks.


Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Water, water all around

On an island no-one believes in, a thought occurs that no-one will heed. “What if the sea is getting lower? What if we live on a mountain in the middle of a lake, and it’s just been wet out there as of late?”

Well my friends it matters not who hears or thinks such things as the sea is rising not falling, so the thinker and the thought will soon be drowned and not lonely. Unless…

A frog on a walrus came rushing by one day. They sat and talked to the islanders about this concern that no-one in particular had apparently thought, and came up with a solution. Why not build boats? Then if a lake does appear they can cross it and be a holiday resort, rather than the backward and cutoff society that they feared they were.

So the islanders built more boats than you can imagine, and the longshoremen finally had a purpose to life, rather than just being beach bums. The island was delighted and soon enough had discovered the whole world and had forgotten about this thought that no-one would own up to having anyway.

The frog and the walrus on the other hand decided that this one good deed was enough for any partnership so disbanded and got very drunk in very different places. They missed each other so much however, that they both drunkenly cried 1000 gallons a day, until the sea did rise and the island was no more. Thank god for the boats. Thank god for the frog and the walrus, who coincidentally, had lived in the lake the islanders had all feared, before the wet season had moved in. Both distraught by their lost friend they each went home to find the island gone, and in it’s place, the strangest and most magically underwater mound they had ever imagined.

You know how much gold fish love a little castle in their tank? Well just imagine how much they would love a whole town, complete with superfast internet and a bakery. The frog became mayor and only heard of the walrus’s return when he found out he was running against him. Much confusion and joy was had over this merry coincidence, but that is another story.

The end.


Monday, February 25, 2008

Build it up, tear it down

I always think about that Fat Boy Slim song “Build it up, tear it down” whenever I read the free sheets and hear them talking up someone who they have previously been slagging off. Take Amy Winehouse for example. They report on her being a fucked up weirdo as much as they can, implying awful shit about her time and time again (whether it’s true or not is irrelevant), and yet when she does something that an audience claps at, they jump up and say “look how great she looks” or something as if they have always been secretly backing her. What cunts. They make you care about something by pumping your head full of shit about it, and then as soon as you do they tell you as many bad things as they can about it to keep you interested (as people respond to negative emotions more than positive ones – or so believes the press). Then, when you are sick of hearing the bad shit, they say nice things again to build them back up.

Anyway I say this now as I have been sick for a few days, and as these things go I’ve been feeling pretty sorry for myself. Who am I, what am I doing, what can I do, what is the point – you know, that sorta sorry for myself.

So it’s nice to say that at least for this moment I am out of that funk. On Friday I received a Magnus entry of some poetry which I thought was beautiful, but also frighteningly like something I would write. It was melancholy shit, but to me it was amazingly smiley as it gave me one of those intense feelings of not being alone.

Didn’t really change anything in my life though, so I’ve still been grumbling to myself (and others) for the past few days. But then today, I got a call about an interview for a job I really want. Really really want. I mean I probably won’t get it, but it’s nice to know that it’s not so far out of my league that I still get an interview. Boom. I’m back baby. I’m still sick as fuck and I’m sure I’ll be grumbling again shortly, but for right now, everything seems allllllllriiiiiiiight.

Tear it down, build it up.

Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Church Fakes Dinosaur Bones

If you wanted to discredit the existence of dinosaurs, and were a basically immortal institution, what would you do? Perhaps start faking giant ridiculous creature after giant ridiculous creature? Well then, what do you think has been going on all these years

Giant Frog:

Giant Guinea Pig:

Giant Penguin:

Giant Rat:

Giant Shark:

Giant Kangaroo:

Giant Camel:

Giant Geese:

Giant Wombat:

and for those of you who want a cheap gag

Giant Beaver:


Tuesday, February 19, 2008

But I Gotta Get Up

There’s a stillness inside me. Its cold and it’s hard and it’s quiet, and I don’t know what to do with it. It hurts sometimes and it’s sad often, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’d like to fight it. I’d like to see how strong it is, how strong I am, but I don’t know where to start. And I’m afraid. I’m really fucking afraid.

I don’t know how or why I went still. I don’t know how I wore myself down to a nub. I don’t know why I stopped, but I did, and everyday it’s harder to start again. Everyday I don’t know what I was doing in the first place, why I wanted to be like I was. Like I am.

I dress in a certain way because it makes me laugh. My hair is shit because I don’t give a fuck. But now I’ve been like this so long the joke is over, and I look like a dick, so I am a dick. My opinions get worse, my sense of humour gets worse, my life gets worse.

And yet I’ve never had it so good.

All the things I wanted to be when I was young. All the things I didn’t want to be. I fucked them both up. And I’ve never being doing so good.

I don’t care what people think. I don’t care what the general population has to say about me or anything else. I think most people are stupid and easily led. I think most people have their eyes closed and just listen to their masters voice, because, well why wouldn’t they?

But now I’ve closed my eyes. Now I want a master to listen to. Now I’m stupid.

I gotta get out. I gotta get up. I gotta get going. I’m running out of time. We all are, but the only way to play it is to keep your eyes closed and keep listening, or else who knows what will happen. The unknown is scary, but fuck that, maybe I should want to be scared. Again. Maybe I should want the unknown. Maybe I should fuck it all, everything I’ve built and be the fuckwit I always wanted to be. Always was. Always am. Always am though of as. Because at least that was fun.

Fucking Bill Hicks. Why did I take you so seriously? You’re dead and yet I can’t help but listen to your impersonator. I can’t help but make him my masters voice and he said we should do something, so I’m gonna do something. Something good.

It’s been a long fucking time since I wrote anything and it’s already cathartic. I love that clicking sound a keyboard makes. I love the shape of letters. I love the form of words. I love watching my hands type and being amazed that they go for the right keys. I love how print feels on paper. I love new thoughts, new expressions, new ideas. I love the uniqueness of just pouring your brain out.

I gotta get out. Fuck the Tories.