Two thousand and eleven. 2011. 20 hundred and ten and 1.
Two thousand and eleven. 2011. 20 hundred and ten and 1.
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:
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.
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.
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”:
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.
That could be god – sorry – God.
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.