Two thousand and eleven. 2011. 20 hundred and ten and 1.
Whatever.
JAZZ:
Blert.
Those Crazy Kids
Hi. Yeah. “Hi.”
Here’s another video I made. It’s got kids and monkeys and an elephant and swingy things. You love all that shit:
Blert
The Lonely Man – The birth of David Banner
Hello.
Use as many eyes as you can muster and all the ears attached to your body to enjoy/endure a video I made for amazing Jazz trio: Bourne/Davis/Kane:
Blert.
The Cominginging
I know you’ve been waiting for it like cats on hot tin roofs with baited breath and tender hooks. Shit, that sounds horrible. Saw IX. Saw IX will be like that. Cats melting on metal with hooks and a clown and blood and 3D and IMAX and popcorn that costs more than the cinema ticket and a Coke cup big enough to drown a puppy in.*
*Don’t drown puppies, and if you really really have to drown one, don’t do it in Coke. Coke Zero maybe, but not Coke. Poor puppy, you puppy killing sick puppy.
Yeah, so that thing thing you’ve been waiting for, all none of you, is the ‘real me’ being revealed. Huh? You weren’t waiting for that? You don’t care in the slightest? You… Yeah, fair enough actually. There are billions of people on this planet, some of them with muscles and jobs and plans and houses and shit, so you should probably take more interest in them. But, while I have your humming bird attention, I’m starting another wordpress to rival the stratospheric success of this one. “And the name of this site?” I hear your inner child scream for a billionth of a second, before thoughts turn back to toasted sandwiches and Jeff Goldblum movies and how to shave your ass without being able to see, and whether the thought of such an act – never mind following it through -makes you a gayer and you want to just be like your Granddad was in the 50s and go work a job for 10 hours a day, come home for supper, read the paper, listen to the wireless, and not be told that the wireless modem is playing up, or that iPlayer keeps freezing, or that your online presence isn’t what it should be, and and and life’s too complicated when it should be simple. Get a mirror out and shave your ass, you big straight man, you.
Well, it’s ingeniously called Raykaneraykane.wordpress.com
Yeah… seems someone else is called my name and took it first, so I doubled up, like a 2am Jack Daniels. I might puke. I think I’m going to puke. Nah, I’ll be fine. I’ll puke later. I need to puke. “Don’t puke now mate!” “What? If he’s going to puke, get the fuck outta my cab!” “Whaaaaaa… I’m fiiiiiiiiiine. Heeeeerrrrcupppppp.”
So look out for Raykaneraykane where you will find… Lots of boring stuff really. Pictures of design work I’ve done. Some words I’ve written for proper sites and magazines (not very many, mind, as I’m not a show off, or successful, but I need money one of these days, and maybe one if you knows someone who knows someone who can send me an email and get my hopes up enough that I have a place in this world, and then I can phone my parents and be all like, “Hey, yo! What? Yeah! Yeah, I do actually! Yeah, and he’s going to pay me. Huh? Paul Squatalucci. Squatalucci’s a real name. Italian, probably. He found me on the internet. Yeah, yeah, Internet. Internet, Mum. Not on The Facebook, but on the other bit of the Internet. The bigger bit and he saw my site and dug it with spades) and the occasional amusing picture, like this one:
That’s amusing, right? AIDS coming from a vomiting mythical machination? And then a spider that can talk a bit eats it? And then that spider goes off and bites a… man or something? And then that man gets AIDS? Yeah, that’s funny. Ha ha. See. Funny. What? Well, where did it come from then? You tell me. Go on… Tell me. Nah, don’t bother actually. I’ll just look it up on Wiki. That’ll be accurate.
That’s me done for now. I need another coffee. I need a job. I need I need I need and I want.
Blert.
Write for your right to potty
What does it say about my life, when a human can enter the “sentence”; ‘mirror picture doesn’t realize poop in t’ and be directed to my words?
Writing may not have been the wisest choice.
I’ve never believed in the concept of having writer’s block. It’s merely an excuse to be lazy. That’s all it is. Being a ‘creative’ enables ‘creatives’ to ‘create’ (wait, didn’t need to put that in quotations), create a secure, impenetrable world around that thing they sometimes do and seldom get paid for. So as a writer, you can get up late, watch Sky News for 4 hours, drink copious cups of coffee and take multitudinous dumps, as we all know that the toilet is the best place to achieve greatness.
Flux capacitor inventor:
The indefatigable truth about being a writer with writer’s block, is that it’s unrelentingly depressing. Calling yourself a writer on a good day is soul crushingly sad. You gear yourself up to sort out a script, or finish 3000 words of your novel about a Dog called Karl that shits gold and runs in the Olympics because it has a more human face than Sarah Jessica Parker but finishes 4th but then shits out its own gold medal and then tries to eat it and chokes and dies because IT’S A DOG. YOU’RE WRITING ABOUT A DOG THAT SHITS GOLD, YOU UTTER MONKEY-SWEAT-PISSING-SHIT-WEASEL.
Nah, good luck with your book about the gold shitting dog. I’d read it. Will there be sex in it? Will there be a strong female character? Will there be resolutions and redemptions and reversals and and and all the things that a book/script/haiku should have? Will it have a snappy title? Will it have a nice cover design? Will it be adaptable for a movie? Will there be vampires and magic? Will you change every word I tell you? Will you…
Go get a job in a factory.
Factory life becomes more appealing by the day. You punch in at 8, cuppa tea and a biccie at 10, lunch at 1 and speeding out of the car park at 5.01, home in time for Neighbors, which you’re entitled to watch guilt free because you’ve done a hard days work and people can see it on your hands and there’s dirt on your face and you’ve got a proper pay cheque at the end of the week, with NI and tax deducted and everything. You’re now free to go to the pub and drink a fuck ton of pints and shoot pool and talk too loud and make inappropriate remarks about ugly women and… be free to live your life as the drunkest person ever… only at the weekend of course.
If you’re really lucky, you might never have a mid-life crisis. You may never suffer a death bed revelation. You might not pray forgiveness for not becoming a conceptual artist and making ideas for art installations that would probably make the world a better place, if the world was a better place, i.e. the way that you wish the world to be, which you aren’t completely certain of yourself, but you know there wouldn’t be any pikies and chavs and neds and spides and steeks and stovos clogging up the joint, and KFC would be made from real chicken and people would eat with their mouths closed and cats wouldn’t shed their hair and your teeth wouldn’t rot and your shits would be delicious and smell like Anabelle Croft’s handkerchief.
I’m writing a film treatment at the moment. I’ve been writing said treatment – on and off – for about 5 months now. I’ve still not finished it. In that time I’ve played nearly 100 games on Lexulous – poor man’s Facebook Scrabble, for the uninitiated – losing nearly all of them. My perspicacity has not improved but my ability to steal pompous words such as ‘perspicacity’ has improved tenfold, thanks to repeats of The Simpsons, when Lisa uses such words as ‘perspicacity’.
Cartoons have taught me everything I know.
Blert.
Mmm… Fresh, young, unwrinkled money.
All it took was one comment.
6 months. I haven’t slept, waiting… I’m so hungry. But today. Glorious today (or maybe a while ago as I haven’t been bum juiced to check this) it arrived, so now I’m back writing stupid nonsensical cat eye drippings for .00000000000000000000001% of people with Internet who google for blogs with the words “Poop Anus” and “Your mum’s boobs” in this Godless, God filled world.
I had two crumpets today and a cup of coffee. My knee hurts. My…
Nah. I did though, but nah. I am of course going to talk about the “Paedophile Pound”:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/8619329.stm
Now, if your not really up to speed with the business world and can’t spare the time to read the Financial Times or ‘FT’ – as people who have less time to spare than you but wear suits and get taxis and eat lunch and don’t jerk off unless they’ve paid for it – call it, then I’ll get you up to speed.
The “Paedophile Pound” was introduced in the early 18th Century, when Rent Boys in the East End of London – eager to avoid jail and the free daily bummings they’d have to endure – set up their own currency and penetrated a juicy legal loophole. From that day forward, stock in the Paedo Pound has continued to rise, and now sits in parity with the Queen’s stupid Pound:
Notes come in Ones, all the way up to Thirteens, because – allegedly – according to articulate Oscar winning director Roman Polanski: “There ain’t no fucking point going higher than thirteen, is there like? Huh? I’m talking to you, shit mouth! Oh, didn’t know you were still listening n’all. Over thirteen and there might be weird squiggly hair and all sortsa old person noise in the stupid kid’s kecks. No self-respecting Paedo wants that fugkkin’ mess when they’re just trying to have a nice time with a nice young person… Threes-up in the Hot Tub at my house at 4pm! Just kidding, International Police Forces!“
Roman’s handsome face currently occupies pride of place on the 6 Pound note:
The Paedo Pound was also a trail blazer in typography. One of it’s top Paedo’s, John Herbomangademonbrawn, a graphic designer from Scunthorpe, invented “Comic Sans”, a font so alluring as to render any child that sees it a jibbering wreck, incapable of thinking of anything but fun and goodness. All notes 5 inches long, purple and smeared with three-day-old Baby Bell and also carry the image of an item beloved by children, as illustrated on Roman’s note, where a large bucket of sweets seems to scream out to the child: “Put me in your mouth and gorge until you’re sick!”
The idea for the various images; tricycles, puppies, cake and TV, came from prominent Paedophile Gary Glitter. If he had been interviewed about the subject, he would have no doubt said, “All kids are well dumb but mmmmmm…. so damn attractive and light.”
When asked how he could consider children to be dumb, when he himself took his computer into PC World to be fixed, loaded with the most vile images known to humanity, Glitter took his wig off, pulled down his trousers and put said follicle fakery on his fecund penis and shriveled testicles, shouting Glam Rock slogans from the 1970s.
With the rude health of the Paedo Pound, Media Moguls are getting in on the act and their influence can already be felt in risque adverts for Pampers, where gratuitous close-ups of babies bums have aired pre-watershed. Readers of The Daily Mail are said to be somewhat concerned but are waiting to be told exactly what to think and how to feel, lest they suffer the indignity of making an informed opinion of their own.
Primark spokesperson, Barry Gallawooginheginshireson, had this to say about his company’s seeming shift into the lucrative market of the Paedo Pound:
“The padded bras for 7 year olds were a great success and we made a right mint out of them because all our workers are Chinks… sorry, Chinesers, and the Chinesers work for F all as they can barely see out of their weird, slanty, non-British eyes and so they can’t even tell when they’re being ripped off! Look out for boys Y-Fronts with extra crotch padding, in stores soon. 5 pairs for a fucking quid.”
What a world we live in. What? No, we do. It’s a world. It’s not just the Internet. I was shocked too…
So my financial tip for today is put all your money in the Paedo Pound. Unlike property prices and interest rates, with the Paedo Pound, you know your money is always secure because we live on a fucked up little planet where nice things and truly abhorrent things happen every minute of the day, and still, we are the only intelligent life forms known in our Solar System. How terribly, terribly sad.
I’m away to send NASA a fiver.
Blert.
GoD/JeSuS/CrEaToR
That could be god – sorry – God.
Yikes.
Hate him – sorry – Him… Fuck… Shit, swearing at god – God…
Where was I?..
Hate god – God – Not that I hate god – God – it’s all So confuse… Aghhh, used it too early and now I’m all confused and and and and and and and and I would hate for god God GOd GOD to know I tried to identify him – Him without a capital letter.
God had a big vagina.
God splat the world out that gash.
God queefed clouds and plants and Rich Tea biscuits out that opening.
God spurted dinghies and pamphlets and Patrick Keilty out of that aching, crinkled, puss filled pooner.
Nice one Mate.
Blert
Said To Bee Beneficial
I was just duking out a loaf there and… Sorry? You didn’t want to know that? Too late now. Now you already now it. You know I just crimped a dump. From my bum. Like you do. LIKE YOU DO TOO. King of the world. Queen of the Empire. You expunge all your waste from a small opening in your buttcakes. You do. You do. You’re Tom Cruise and you still have to make shit biscuits. Loser.
It’s a funny one, reading something that you didn’t want to know but isn’t it also potentially exciting? Everyday life can be like American Psycho. One minute, taking about Huey Lewis and the News, and the next moment describing in ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson uppercut circa 1990 brutality as a malnourished gutter dweller is released into the love cavern of the most unfortunate woman in literary history.
(Contains lots of F-bombs and S-bombs)
Well, perhaps she was the second most unfortunate woman, after Bridget Jones of course. God, wasn’t that awful when her big knickers were showing and she dropped a cream bun on her cream skirt and had spinach in her teeth when she kissed Hugh Grant!
I don’t know. I’ve not seen it/read it/however it is you ingest such a thing. I’ll push a copy into one of my many orifices and see what effect it has.
Where was I…
Honey.
Yup. Taking a plop, reading the Home section of The Sunday Times, the actual PAPER version no less and… Can you believe it? Me. A man. Under 30 (just about). Reading things printed on paper like the Romans probably/definitely/might have done/did on the steps/stairs of the Colosseum/stadium in Rome/Roma.
The laptop and plop combo is tricky, with immense risk of: leg burnage; stinky keys; and slippage onto a tiled floor, resulting in an inexplainable “My Macbook broke under normal conditions and I have Apple Care so fix it you “Genius”, go on, “Genius”… No that’s not toilet paper stuck to the bottom…” type situation.
Sure, printed media is yesterday’s news at tomorrow’s prices but it doesn’t break, plus there’s always a chance Sarah Beeney will crop up with a page of tips to sell the house you probably don’t have, while wearing an H&M top that’s 3 times too small for her bilious, though strangely alluring body which makes me think:
“I am depraved and wouldn’t mind seeing those chebs and she’s way older than me and had loads of kids and I know it’s wrong to think these thoughts but I deal with it and you – ‘you’ being other people who aren’t me and I therefore project all my failings onto without meeting face to face as I hide in a blog – just pretend that you’re not like me because you have a job and a house and shoes not trainers but you’re way more fucked up than me and if anyone was to go on a killing spree I’d be straight down Paddy Power to put a tenner on you. You Idiot licker.”
Here, Beeny utilizes her complete lack of Further Education to check the structural integrity of a window:
I only read the Times when I poo. I’m not entirely sure why that’s the case but after the serious poundage of a Sunday dinner, I find AA Gill’s restaurant reviews help me crap. He’s my favourite laxative.
Jesus, this is going nowhere. Concentrate… Concentrating….
Yeah. Got it. So in the Home section of the Sunday Times, there’s an article about HONEY and apparently this HONEY made from manuka nectar is “said to have therapeutic qualities.”
SAID TO?
What? How does that work? The sweat from my testicles is “said to have” the exact medicinal properties that would have stopped Marilyn Monroe dying from an overdose if she’d added 5mls if it to 6 litres of pulped wombat hearts and had Michael Jackson’s doctor inject the concoction between her toes:
And that’s why, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t trust people who smile a lot.
Blert
Rubber Cranium Exit Hole
How best to describe David Lynch’s “Eraserhead”? It’s like discovering after all these years that I’ve got a second anus, and this anus does things completely differently.
The poop doesn’t just drop out of this one to leave a stinky trail requiring a swipe for a tree slice before I can re-bag my junk. No, this newly uncovered manhole fires out all the sunbeams, fog, smoke and thunder I’ve ever swallowed on a tiny pink cow standing on the shoulders of a 43 year old Japanese bird-eating spider with no legs and 8 feet.
That’s something I never knew I could poop.
That’s something I haven’t ever dreamed of pooping.
That’s something I will never poop again.
It’s strange to find something utterly new, that has existed since before you were born, and discover that that thing changes the way you think and see and do what it is you think you do.
That second anus might not sound appealing but given the opportunity, wouldn’t we all want to see what it’s like to have?
Okay, so the answer to that is more than likely “No, you busted mental box,” but that has to be the greatest reply of all. Imagine we all loved the strangest things the most original minds squirted out…
Go on.
Imagine.
Imagine it right now.
Urggg. Weird, right? You’re suddenly watching Irreversible with your granny and she loves the honest brutality of the rape scene. You’re eating French Fancies with your Uncle Dennis as he makes a case for “Salo” to be shown on either ITV1 or ITV2 or ITV3 or ITV4. You’re sharing a bag of burnt Butterkist with your Mum’s mate Joan, as she waxes lyrical on MSN to her elderly sister in Cork about Herzog’s “Even Dwarfs Started Small”.
I’m just like you: I’m an idiot. Nah, just kidding, I’m not an idiot. Nah, just kidding, you’re not an idiot either. Here’s an idiot and a stripper in one:
Sex sells. There was even some side boobage in Eraserhead. Blogs have boobs. Here’s some boobs:
‘Eraserhead’ is incredible. See it. See it with your mum. See it with your mum’s mate Caron. She’s got waccy baccy. Bet ya she does. See it with someone who’ll hate it and understand more about who you are as a human as a result.
I’ve been very visual today. Tomorrow I may write more. Tomorrow I may also discover that second anus for real and if that happens, I’ll be busy pooping for two.
Blert.
Up and Running
2 readers… And I coerced at least one of them. Oh well, maybe things will pick up now I’m… “Up and Running”.
Speaking of running, (God, it just flows like treacle) Caster Semenya – New world 2 laps champion at doing running – has been asked to take a gender test to prove she’s a non-man. According to the IAAF who look after all the stuff at the running and jumping and throwing things championships, “extremely complex, difficult” test results were not due for several weeks.
Hmm… Confusing. ‘It’ (we’ll call he/she ‘It’ for now as not to offend ‘It’ incase ‘It’ happens to be the other reader of my noise) runs races wearing skin tight colourful lycra. Now, call me simple…
Go on.
Call me simple.
I’m waiting.
Waiting.
Hmm…
But I’ve always found it rather straightforward to distinguish between men and women. Here are my 5 foolproof methods:
1: If ‘It’ likes shopping it’s a woman.
Nah, kidding. I couldn’t resist. The comic stylings of Jim Davison and Bernard Manning had such a profound effect on me that it’s become part of my genetic makeup, along with my actual makeup from Max Factor. That would be a good name: “Hi, Max Factor”. People would shit where they stood.
Boy, old fat dead racist Bernard could sing though:
2: If ‘It’ slams doors and has a strop over water being left in the kitchen sink, it’s a woman.
Nah, I’m kidding. Seriously though, what’s the problem with leaving warm soapy water in there? Something’s always forgotten: Teaspoon. Mug. Smelly solid milk carver AKA Cheese Knife. “So I empty the sink and wipe it dry and THEN you find a fork that needs washed… JEEEEEESUS CHR… I’m washing it. I’m washing it now, it’s fine, it’s FINE. I’m not angry. Im not.. you’re angry, you’re angry. Wash your own fork! You’re not my mother! Huh? Oh. Shit, you are. Sorry mummy. Didn’t mean to swear neither. Sorry.”
3: If ‘It’ cries at…
Actually, forget all this. ONE quick test:
If ‘It’ has a weiner, ‘It’ is more than likely a man. Or Lady Gaga:
If ‘It’ has a mimsy, ‘It’ is more than likely a woman, or Miriam:
If ‘It’ has a series of scars like an East London Comprehensive detention room desk, just let ‘It’ keep the gold medal…
Man/Woman, life’s confusing. I’m going to have to take another look at my junk in the mirror. I hope this thing’s a penis. If it’s not, I’ve made some terrible mistakes…
Blert.
