Dear Diary,
Another year has passed and yet I feel strangely optimistic about the path that my dreams and ambitions are starting to travel along. Yes, life is such a cruel master. I feel one thing and yet I know another to be true. Why must I suffer with this wretched duality?!?! Talking of masters, my master was born on the fifth of the first month and he is a very cruel master to be sure. He banished me from my home and made me walk the lonely, cursed earth for more than fifty thousand years. Anyway, enough of the past, let's look to the future. My new course is oddly delightful. I hate most of the people on it, and I think most of them hate me too, but I do love to stare at the whiteboard whilst pretending to think. It gives me great joy knowing that my tutor believes me to be much smarter than I really am.
All of this deception has left me feeling somewhat confused, dear Diary. What should I do? Keep pretending to know what I'm talking about or stand up and implode into a small mutant army of red demons who have the power to brainwash willing human flesh and take over your blue planet? I've been pondering this dilemma for quite some time now. I've consulted friends, lovers (too many to mention, too few to cut deep), astrologers, kings, queens, and even the Pope himself. Again, chaos rears its vicious head. Many say keep on pretending, others say let the implosion prevail. I'm just so confused. Is this what I really want????
Anyway, today's class was actually mildly interesting. We learnt about the unconscious and this thing called the paradigm. It was probably all bullshit but I felt I gave one of my best class performances to date. When the tutor asked me to define the difference between dreams and reality, instead of giving a straight forward, human-like answer, I grimaced, nodded my head to the left, pointed to my nose and said "it's each man to their own device, my learned friend." The tutor gave me a knowing look and placed a red handkerchief on his brow. I believe he thinks my IQ is somewhere in the region of 173 to 180. A good day's work! Thanks, dear Diary. I sometimes feel like you're the only one who really listens to me :-(
Wednesday 20 May 2009
KENNETH'S ANGER
Boom boom boom! Bang bang bang! Kenneth's wife was at it again; dressing up as Paul McCartney and playing the drums badly during rehearsals for her Wings tribute band's performance at the Royal Dune Inn on Sadavost Street. "Why do they have to bloody do it whilst the match is on?" thought Kenneth to himself. He kicked Russell the dog for a bit of short term anger release. "Bloody Vivian and her crap Wings tribute band" thought Russell the dog. "It's always me who ends up with a sore behind. Life's just not fair! It wouldn't be so bad if she could actually play the drums, or maybe even looked a little bit like Paul McCartney. What a monumental waste of space!" Unfortunately, the next door neighbour's black cat got bitten in a symbolic act of vengeance against Russell's master's wife's awful acts of inhumanity against the glorious songs of McCartney's Wings, especially Mull of Kintyre. Vivian's thin vocals just couldn't handle the majestic complexity of Macca's fruity whine on that one.
"Far have I wandered and much have I seen
Dark distant temples in colours of green
Fast tainted desserts, the sun sets on fire
As he carries me up to the Mall of Kantyre."
The black cat was by now properly miffed at the biting it had received from that drunken lout Kenneth's miserable swine of a dog. "A cat as pure and beautiful as I does not merit such unwanted thuggish behavior from low-life, common, BBC watching filth like that lot next door. They'll rue the day they made my pretty ginger and gold speckled tail bleed!" The cat then began to perform an ancient Egyptian death ritual but gave up after a few minutes when he was lured back indoors by the scintillating smell of Whisker's duck liver and rabbit chunks in gravy. Clearly, a very close call for the World's population there as the death ritual had supposedly been taught to one of the ancient Pharaohs by a lipstick wearing alien who thought he was a god.
Lol.
"Far have I wandered and much have I seen
Dark distant temples in colours of green
Fast tainted desserts, the sun sets on fire
As he carries me up to the Mall of Kantyre."
The black cat was by now properly miffed at the biting it had received from that drunken lout Kenneth's miserable swine of a dog. "A cat as pure and beautiful as I does not merit such unwanted thuggish behavior from low-life, common, BBC watching filth like that lot next door. They'll rue the day they made my pretty ginger and gold speckled tail bleed!" The cat then began to perform an ancient Egyptian death ritual but gave up after a few minutes when he was lured back indoors by the scintillating smell of Whisker's duck liver and rabbit chunks in gravy. Clearly, a very close call for the World's population there as the death ritual had supposedly been taught to one of the ancient Pharaohs by a lipstick wearing alien who thought he was a god.
Lol.
WEEK 4 AT MADAME LA'S
The wind blew hard. His hair was starting to annoy him. He knew he should cut it, but didn't think it'd make any difference. The crows would still know him. He walked a few blocks further and entered the tiny room he liked to call Madame La's. The truth is never as golden as Madame La's. A robotic mannequin brought him a chair, so he sat on it. A speechless parrot spat out a whiskey chaser and the party began. Turntables turned and honky tunes started to fill the room. He didn't like to dance, but he sure does now! The room begins to fill with happening young girls and malchicks. Russian porters carry large fish through the dancefloor into the kitchen. He follows and examines a mackerel being deboned. A large, lusty woman grabs him by the arm and begins to kiss him. The rest is all a blur.
Week 2 at Madame La's wasn't so good. The robots were malfunctioning, the parrots were squawking and the large, lustful women were getting violent. He removed his head with an axe and put it in the chef's hands. Monsieur Valtong wasn't accustomed to cooking the heads of young English alpha males, let alone those of pale, malnourished, suit-wearing believers. The head was back in the hands of its owner. He didn't much fancy putting it back on, so instead threw it towards the dance floor. Tony, malfunctioning robot number three, flicked it up with his left foot and spun it over to the DJ. Fat beats jumped from the stacks and the crowd was pumping. Shame a disembodied head was floating around. Its owner was missing all the fun.
Week 3 at Madame La's started with a bang. He wanted his head back and wasn't going to squabble over details. A cute devotchka had become quite taken with it and had even chosen a name. This would not stand too well with the true owner's mother. She created that face, gave it a name, brushed its hair and loved it with all her heart. He knew she was looking down and wanted him to stick up for himself. The bullet exited through the left breast and left the head thief gasping for more. The second punctured her cheek, whilst the third was merely a flesh wound to the right buttock. The walk home was uncomfortable. The wind was blowing, but no longer was he worried about his hair. He removed his tie and secured the scabby neck to its meaty shoulders. A robot skipped along behind, ready to catch the lovely head should it fall.
Week 4 at Madame La's was sure to be fun. All the gang were going to show for his birthday and dance till the sun came up. Luckily for them, something happened to him on the way home that morning. He stopped believing, a sin more fatal than three, four or five bullet wounds. Back home in his bed, he let the ceiling fall down on him. Malfunctioning robots poured water in his grave and watched him slowly float to the bottom of a milky abyss. They'd have cried if they could, but robots never shed tears for strangers. If only they knew what he knew. The secret he carried with him to his watery resting place; Madame La's just lost the best customer it ever had.
Week 2 at Madame La's wasn't so good. The robots were malfunctioning, the parrots were squawking and the large, lustful women were getting violent. He removed his head with an axe and put it in the chef's hands. Monsieur Valtong wasn't accustomed to cooking the heads of young English alpha males, let alone those of pale, malnourished, suit-wearing believers. The head was back in the hands of its owner. He didn't much fancy putting it back on, so instead threw it towards the dance floor. Tony, malfunctioning robot number three, flicked it up with his left foot and spun it over to the DJ. Fat beats jumped from the stacks and the crowd was pumping. Shame a disembodied head was floating around. Its owner was missing all the fun.
Week 3 at Madame La's started with a bang. He wanted his head back and wasn't going to squabble over details. A cute devotchka had become quite taken with it and had even chosen a name. This would not stand too well with the true owner's mother. She created that face, gave it a name, brushed its hair and loved it with all her heart. He knew she was looking down and wanted him to stick up for himself. The bullet exited through the left breast and left the head thief gasping for more. The second punctured her cheek, whilst the third was merely a flesh wound to the right buttock. The walk home was uncomfortable. The wind was blowing, but no longer was he worried about his hair. He removed his tie and secured the scabby neck to its meaty shoulders. A robot skipped along behind, ready to catch the lovely head should it fall.
Week 4 at Madame La's was sure to be fun. All the gang were going to show for his birthday and dance till the sun came up. Luckily for them, something happened to him on the way home that morning. He stopped believing, a sin more fatal than three, four or five bullet wounds. Back home in his bed, he let the ceiling fall down on him. Malfunctioning robots poured water in his grave and watched him slowly float to the bottom of a milky abyss. They'd have cried if they could, but robots never shed tears for strangers. If only they knew what he knew. The secret he carried with him to his watery resting place; Madame La's just lost the best customer it ever had.
TONY SAYS NOTHING
Tony loved to think about things that other people would probably consider to be strange. He'd been afflicted by this peculiar hobby ever since he first laid eyes on a pretty thing he thought he loved, namely, a pink ice-cream van driven during the swelteringly hot summer months by a stick-thin girl called Sally. It wasn't so much the van, or even the girl, that caught Tony's eye on that fateful August morn. No, they held little interest to a brain as warped as his. Instead, he fell head over heels, mad as a hatter in love with the rather gruesome, multicoloured fluorescent font which was sprayed along both sides of the rusting pink van. "Sally's Sweet Ices" was what it read, and those simple words seemed like God's very own poetry to young Tony, though admittedly he knew very little about poetry at all.
Every day he'd travel down to the beach where Sally parked her van, grab a pew on his favourite smooth rock, and gaze at those dreamy words for a daily average of five hours, forty-three minutes, and fifteen seconds. Tony soon realised that by staring at inanimate patterns for a long enough period of time, he was able to send himself into a mild kind of trance, one in which he'd often imagine himself to be a Roman guard marching behind Jesus on his way up to Calvary. He'd always wake from this sedately violent form of entertainment with a half-melted ice-cream cone in his hand and an uneven number of small wasps sucking on the gooey vanilla mess which usually accompanied it on his left knee. This seemed to him a strange occurrence as he'd always awake with the melting cone grasped firmly in his right hand. Anyway....
Tony and stick-thin Sally were eventually married on a stormy day in December by the local vicar, who was once a leading member of the burgeoning Hartlepool branch of rubber and whip fetishists. Vicar "Charles" (as we'll call him for the sake of his kids) swore off the rubber after a close encounter with a Ford Mondeo, three rampaging antelopes, and an unfortunately large golf club. The only acts of savagery he can now stomach are invariably acted out in his head whilst doing mundane chores such as dusting book shelves, peeling carrots, replying to written requests for confessional sittings, and marrying young couples.
"Charles" and stick-thin Sally started a brief affair the morning before Tony had written off the pink ice-cream van during a heavy night's font-gazing down the local pier. The poster read "fat chips make for happy fish" and was painted in a style reminiscent of many early art deco signs of the 1920s. After three hours of mellow gazing, all focus blurred and beautiful pictures started to flood the black gaps in his head; men in fedora hats berating a young girl for levitating before a flaming orange rainbow on Sunset Boulevard....an army of floating angels in green heralding the birth of a new king.....Tony didn't even notice when the tree slammed into the backside of Sally's pink van, scraping his beloved poetry from the left-hand side and causing a frothy stream of milk to spray from a small hole into the middle of the road. Fire quickly caught light and spread from front to back. Tony watched entranced with chips in right hand, ketchup on left knee, and an empty matchbox on his left shoe.
The divorce was quick and absolute. Tony went one way, Sally the other, ten years passed but neither could find another. They remarried in a smaller chapel than the last, inviting only a handful of guests, many of whom couldn't remember if it was Tony or Sally who'd been caught on bended knee with the vicar all those years ago. This second union lasted slightly longer than the first, only coming to an end after a disagreement over the font style for their new green ice cream van, which was to be driven during the winter months by Tony on a Wednesday and Sally on a Saturday. He went one way, she the other, neither could be bothered, they both loved to suffer. "Charles" eventually gave up the life of God and went on to form a new fetish club, catering for people who enjoy eating Mcvitie's biscuits whilst emptying the contents of their bowels into china bowls. For more information on becoming a member of this group please contact "Charles" on 07767 573458. Goodbye.
Every day he'd travel down to the beach where Sally parked her van, grab a pew on his favourite smooth rock, and gaze at those dreamy words for a daily average of five hours, forty-three minutes, and fifteen seconds. Tony soon realised that by staring at inanimate patterns for a long enough period of time, he was able to send himself into a mild kind of trance, one in which he'd often imagine himself to be a Roman guard marching behind Jesus on his way up to Calvary. He'd always wake from this sedately violent form of entertainment with a half-melted ice-cream cone in his hand and an uneven number of small wasps sucking on the gooey vanilla mess which usually accompanied it on his left knee. This seemed to him a strange occurrence as he'd always awake with the melting cone grasped firmly in his right hand. Anyway....
Tony and stick-thin Sally were eventually married on a stormy day in December by the local vicar, who was once a leading member of the burgeoning Hartlepool branch of rubber and whip fetishists. Vicar "Charles" (as we'll call him for the sake of his kids) swore off the rubber after a close encounter with a Ford Mondeo, three rampaging antelopes, and an unfortunately large golf club. The only acts of savagery he can now stomach are invariably acted out in his head whilst doing mundane chores such as dusting book shelves, peeling carrots, replying to written requests for confessional sittings, and marrying young couples.
"Charles" and stick-thin Sally started a brief affair the morning before Tony had written off the pink ice-cream van during a heavy night's font-gazing down the local pier. The poster read "fat chips make for happy fish" and was painted in a style reminiscent of many early art deco signs of the 1920s. After three hours of mellow gazing, all focus blurred and beautiful pictures started to flood the black gaps in his head; men in fedora hats berating a young girl for levitating before a flaming orange rainbow on Sunset Boulevard....an army of floating angels in green heralding the birth of a new king.....Tony didn't even notice when the tree slammed into the backside of Sally's pink van, scraping his beloved poetry from the left-hand side and causing a frothy stream of milk to spray from a small hole into the middle of the road. Fire quickly caught light and spread from front to back. Tony watched entranced with chips in right hand, ketchup on left knee, and an empty matchbox on his left shoe.
The divorce was quick and absolute. Tony went one way, Sally the other, ten years passed but neither could find another. They remarried in a smaller chapel than the last, inviting only a handful of guests, many of whom couldn't remember if it was Tony or Sally who'd been caught on bended knee with the vicar all those years ago. This second union lasted slightly longer than the first, only coming to an end after a disagreement over the font style for their new green ice cream van, which was to be driven during the winter months by Tony on a Wednesday and Sally on a Saturday. He went one way, she the other, neither could be bothered, they both loved to suffer. "Charles" eventually gave up the life of God and went on to form a new fetish club, catering for people who enjoy eating Mcvitie's biscuits whilst emptying the contents of their bowels into china bowls. For more information on becoming a member of this group please contact "Charles" on 07767 573458. Goodbye.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
