Stop It

I hope you don't mind me bending your ear just a little. It's been too long since we've spoken and I really want to see what's up with you. I'm not implying anything is wrong, why would you jump to that conclusion? You seem a little defensive. Is all OK? Is there anything I can do to help? I don't mean to be rude but you seem a little off colour. Oh, it's your new job? Well I can understand, ringing people out of the blue and trying to flog them worthless tat must take it out of you. I'm not judging. My, but your touchy today. No, I don't think you are a terrible person for worming your way into people's heads and houses when you've not been invited into either. I'm just saying, what happened to your dream of being a doctor? I know it would've been a lot of study but you wanted to help people, didn't you? I totally understand that offering insurance, mobile phones, free prize draws, spam, small pox, a holiday, smegma, kibbles and bits is helping people in a different way but it's not quite what you envisaged, is it? Alright, I won't mention it again. All I will say, and I promise this is my last word on the subject, is never fucking ring me again. I love you too.

Wasteful - Nature's Way

Nature is wasteful. It's normal.

Imagine monkeys were in charge of the technology we have slaved over and butchered each other for over the years. Would they do a better job than we have? Of course not. Even our closest relatives in the animal kingdom, the so-called Higher Primates (my arsehole), can't manage the most basic hygiene or cleanliness. Give a monkey a hairbrush, and what happens? It pees on it and sticks it up it's (unclean) arse. Banana skins litter the floors of jungles the world over. Dogs shite wherever they please, and we waste years trying to enforce our pointless rules and train them to clean up after themselves. Why?
Because nature is wasteful.

We waste inordinate amounts of time. We ruminate, quantify, calculate, jargonize, fabricate, theorize and wank our way to oblivion. What's the point? Well, I'm glad you want to know.

Waste, in fact, is the Future.

It's our highest ideal. Our calling, if you will. It is not the things we preserve, but rather the things we carelessly toss aside that define our fetid and purile existence as a species. Every plastic bag, every half-smeared pork-fat lipstick case, every stinking trainer and every snot-filled prophylactic emanates not just human, but animal waste. We gear almost all of our efforts- scientific, literary, spiritual, sexual- towards creating a massive pile of waste. Our children (or should I say your children, since I don't plan to have any) will be forced to root through garbage for their survival. They will feed on mounds of decaying plastic, clawing out each other's eyes and brains to get to the remaining meat left decomposing in shrink-wrappers under stinking heaps of rot. They will defend themselves against giant rats using improvised weapons. They will suffer, and they will die.

Waste is the Future.

I Knew It

Today I decided to follow myself home to see what I was getting up to. I'd had a bad feeling about my behaviour and, quite frankly, I didn't like the rumours I'd been spreading about myself. I watched as I pushed into the lift then I bolted down the stairs so I could watch myself leaving the building. So far I was acting normally but from previous experience I knew better than to trust myself. I walked about ten metres behind myself down Charing Cross Road and followed me as I descended into the tube system. I took the Bakerloo line, making sure that I'd not seen me and gazed as I saw myself not too subtly staring at a lady. Getting out of the tube station I managed to lose myself and charged down the road until I nearly ran head first into myself as I came out of a shop. I managed to keep my head down so I didn't see myself go running by me. I gave myself 5 minutes to get back to the flat before I set off after me again. At the flat I gingerly pushed the door open. I could hear the sounds of me pottering, or so I thought, about the flat. I tip-toed upstairs and was shocked by what I saw. There I was, masturbating furiously on the kitchen table. I turned around and fled in disgust. I shall never trust myself again!

slumpy rut fuck

Slumpy Rut Fuck was lying down as usual. He twiddled his cock absent mindedly, and farted. He was leaning back against a brick wall in an old deserted warehouse, where Batman used to live. Slumpy was notorious among his fans for his reclusive ways. He had made something of an image for himself out of not being there. Postcards of Slumpy were usually blurred or blank, the plastic dolls his manager had had comissioned were actually just the hardened shell of his most famous outfits, and often his gigs didn't even have him listed as performing.

But he was.

In the dark, Slumpy had grown cold and whimsical. He flitted about between shafts of invisible light, dancing among the dust motes and carelessly urinating down his legs. Rolling back the memories of his life, Slumpy fenced himself in with dark, perturbing images dressed up in lichen and overalls. In the dream, he poured emotional syrup up a dead man's arse-cavity. He rode wildebeest headfirst into trees and buggered their corpses. He ejaculated entire populations of new species into the rainbow-blackness of space, through the plapping raw tube of his dessicated urethra.

Slumpy woke from the dream in bed, deep asleep and far away. He climbed out of his body and rode a tiny invisible sheriff off his face and down his rounded little belly. When he reached the base of the pubic trail, Slumpy dismounted and ate the sheriff to death. He set up camp using a stretched section of his larger body's pelvic skin as a canvas. He secured the canvas with some rusty metaphorical nails and a hand-hammer, then set about boiling his eyes.
Soon the tea was ready and Slumpy set-to, slurping away and chanting medieval prayers about old women and hard work. Within minutes, he was bored shitless and decided to sleep in the makeshift tent. He pissed all over the entrance of the tent and went inside.

Within the chamber, Slumpy roamed about into the far corners of skin and kicked out at anything that moved. He was afraid of lichen, and in this ancient stomach-cave, there were several varieties unchecked and florid. The stench was normal. Slumpy wished, as usual, that he knew what the fuck was going on, but he didn't.
Up on the far wall was a crucifix, with a miniature Christ spitting obscenities blindly into the womb-like vestibule. The vaulted rooves echoed divine blasphemy, and little pigeons and doves squawked and chirped merrily along, as though God herself would enjoy hearing it.
Just below the crucifix was a tea towel, hanging up and a little bit soggy from the washing up earlier on. Slumpy tiptoed over, comedy-style just for effect, and yoinked the tea-towel off it's hinges. This hazardous manouevre tore a massive hole in the flesh-tent-church wall and penti-litres of scalding orange juice sprayed out straight into Slumpy's stupid face.
Panicked, Slumpy ran up the staircase to the overhanging mezzanine and shouted at the statue of Jesus.

'Christ! Oi, Christ!'

He yelled, but to no avail, for the Lord was dead and gone...

Gut Mowgan

Gut Mowgan kinderlikkers.

Todane, we hafta fine interval with Idees, Myndswill and chortley Codswallop. Begintoer approximate Da Conclusion. Apropo, rendering lingostics mos' personal, viz FreeThynk.

Firsticles, work'n'kreer zsatta fack. We're pushin forth, nibbagadda cloo around Why or Where4. Nissa mysterrrioso, v the Highest Degree. Youmannity evolutes ultrakwik, no sine of slo-dahn be4 the PokkaLips. And yet...

Conclusion. Lingostics unikate inta mos'personal hexpression fadda massiv. Useless E's? Ditchum.

Papa Cootie

Angel delight

I have a secret.
Under my bed there's a little wooden box, and in the box is an angel.
It's been there for a long time, since I was a child, in fact. One day I saw it sitting innocently in a tree and I asked it to come down. I offered it some chocolate. While it was eating the chocolate I ran to the house and got some red wool from my mother's sewing basket. I dipped the wool in the honeypot in the pantry and ran back to the garden. The angel was still licking the melted chocolate from the tips of its delicate fingers when I slipped a loop of the sticky yarn around its waist. Everybody knows that angels can't get away then. I pushed the angel into a dirty old box that I found in the shed at the bottom of the garden and hid it under my bed. For days and days it hammered on the sides of the box begging for me to release it. After a few months it gave up. Now I only hear it very occasionally. Sometimes if I wake up in the middle of the night and I lie very still I can just make out its tiny, wragged sobs. I know it still wants me to let it out, but I never will, because then I wouldn't have an angel in a box under my bed.

Singularity

…Uh…what was I saying?
I was just talking about something, wasn’t I?
I could’ve sworn I was just in the middle of…but…
…no, it’s gone. I have absolutely no idea…
I just hope it wasn’t important.
I’m sure someone once said that it would come back to you if it was important. I always thought that was a stupid thing to say because if it didn’t “come back” to you then you’d never know that you’d forgotten something important, would you?
If I’d been there I would’ve said that.
Although they’d’ve probably just called me a smart arse…whoever it was.
I wonder how many important things I’ve forgotten like that, and oh god, what was I talking about?
Maybe…
Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe I wasn’t saying anything.
What was the last thing I said? Before this, I mean.
…
Err…no that can’t be right…I must’ve said some…
Alright, who was the last person I spoke to?
Or any person I’ve spoken to?
…
Christ, how can I not think of anyone?
That’s insane.
Unless…I’ve never spoken to anyone.
Yeah, yeah that would explain it – I’ve never actually spoken to another person before.
And now?
Is anyone listening now?
Hello?
…
No.
It’s just me.
Just me.
Just…

Semantic terroraclism

For the most part, the world is full of people who enjoy the feeling of safety. They savour certainties. Jobs, salaries, homes, families and an understanding of their place in the world all sit very comfortably with these people. They are the happy hum-drummers, beating out the predictable rhythms of a pop song existence.

But in the shadows, in the darkened corners of humanity, with the agitators and malcontents, dwell the others. Those who choose to find their own way and deliberately defy the system. They are not anarchists. Oh no, anarchy has been misunderstood for too long. Not a terrifying and unthinkable state of chaos in which nobody adheres to the law, but a peaceful and idyllic place where laws are unnecessary because people are good. No, the people in the dark are not anarchists. They are terrorists. They break laws because it scares everyone else, and fear makes people pay attention. Far too often this is perpetrated for the sake of some absurdly childish squabble ("My God's better than your god!"), but just occasionally a person has something valuable to say and they have to find a way to stop everyone mid-paradiddle and listen. A thinking terrorist - a terroraclist, if you will.

Violence is abhorrent to the thinking terrorist, as is any other extreme action that challenges the laws that protect life and liberty. Instead, how about a little mental terrorism? An attack on the laws that hold our perception of the world together is just as effective as an attack on the world we perceive itself. Indeed, many philosophers would say it was a more direct approach. So let's try sapping one of the cornerstones of understanding. Where would we be without language?

An ability to communicate what we want, think and feel comes in handy in modern society. To do this there is an agreed interpretation of the vocabulary we use. The meanings of new words are either well defined by the coiner or are recognisable constructions from previously understood vocabulary, or else they become clear from their use in context. What a well organised set up. How marvellously and simply open to exploitation it is. To tickle the foundations of meaning and understanding all someone need do is utter some completely original sound and break these semantic laws that should instruct others as to its meaning:

• Decide on a meaning but give no definition.
• Ensure that it is sufficiently different from existing words so that no meaning is suggested.
• Finally, enlist the help of like minded individuals who agree that each should attach his or her own personal meaning to the word, understand that any other meaning is as valid as their own and go about their daily lives using it as frequently as possible safe in the knowledge that nobody will ever truly understand what the hell they are talking about.

Fun, no?

But why? Why try to unsettle people? Why risk being sectioned or merely branded as a weirdo or loony? Because the world is full of pop music and not enough people twiddle the radio dial. Too many people who can think don't think. They are too busy with their jobs and salaries and homes and families and wide screen plasma digital surround sound televisions to worry about thinking for themselves. It wasn't always like this.

Join the crusade and help the world to think again - one word at a time. Start and it will spread like glottmeldy...maybe. Well actually probably not, but it might be fun trying.

Romantic outerlude

It was a beautiful evening. The couple leaning on the railing above the sea looked out into the infinity of the waves, and seemed to frame a postcard memory as the gulls cawed overhead. The man leaned towards the woman, and gently cupping her buttocks drew her towards him. I had a perfect bead on the man’s head, but I thought it would be funnier to shoot him in the neck.
They began to kiss. I was touched deeply, but anyway I squeezed the trigger and from my vantage point on the roof of the pier I watched the man’s body jerk in sudden shock as his neck was ripped open and blood shot front and back. The woman ignored the red mist and continued exploring her partner’s mouth with her own. Admirable stuff.
The man was spasming a bit, but managed to control his motion sufficiently as to be able to continue pleasuring her. I noticed that he was wearing a gold band on his right hand. I couldn’t remember if that was the right hand/ finger combination to symbolise marriage, but I was willing to guess that it probably was. Either that or they were a very familiar couple of cheats, enjoying a romantic seaside assassination scene.
Suddenly, but not altogether unexpectedly, a name-brand digging vehicle roared at impressively high speed up the wooden walkway. The woman stopped kissing her (possible) husband and let go of his hand. He immediately slumped to the planks, hitting his head on the metal railing on the way down with a clank I could hear from up on the roof. I laughed. Times like these I wished I had had a camcorder. Still, it’s not very professional.
The digger was fast approaching. The woman gave her husband a mighty kick, cracking his ribcage and sending his body battering across the boardwalk into the path of the speeding digger. The digger banged into him and was lifted twenty feet into the air as his body crunched and flopped on the rattling planks.
The woman darted to one side, rolled, and spreading her legs in an amazingly gymnastic fashion, let loose an arc of green piss through the open side of the digger’s cab. The jet was clearly incredibly high-velocity; it knocked the driver out of the other side of the cab and threw him right over the railing into the waves on the other side. The woman clamped her piss-flow, flipped to her feet and trotted over to the body of her man, lying in an awkward heap a few metres away. He had thick tyre marks all over his jacket and face, and was clearly dead. She picked him up and hurled him into the sun, where he caused a massive nuclear reaction because he was made of several radioactive isotopes and his skin was an almost impenetrable heat-shield but his eyes didn’t have skin on so the heat burst out of them and the resultant solar-quake burned everyone on Earth to little burned cakes and I ate them all.

Get into my lunch box and eat yourself

Welcome to my lunch box baby!

You’re right next to the grapes
You’re my sweet sensation- not a Mars bar

You’re a little bit melted coz of the sun earlier
I already licked you once
Licked your face

Me and my friends had a picnic, didn’t we?
And we took you out, and showed you the grass…
We got high, and bummed the trees

We bummed the floor
We bummed our own minds

We realised we weren’t real, so we bummed reality
We fingered God
We got ourselves into a reet tangle

Tomorrow we’re planning a space-trip
We’ll get on our tricycles and go to the moon
We’ll take marsh-mallows, and frog spawn and dice

We’ll take hammers to be constructive with
Hammers to be destructive with
Hammering skulls, shattering bones

We’ll party like it’s 1104 AD
We’ll eat mud and rocks
We’ll throw each other up
I’m going to climb back into my Dad

And if it’s fun, I’ll charge
£10 a go, we can all slide up his urethra
Into his testes like a human recycling plant

It’s what he would want.

SEXUALNESS UNBUNGED

The door swings open to reveal velvet-lined walls, a deep shag red carpet and the kind of fine furniture you'd hope for in a high-class brothel.

You step through.

Inside, there's a smell of expensive aftershave mingling with the dryness of conditioned air. A fan beats slowly above, mixing the particles but doing little to cool you off. The empty desk across the room is clear of clutter and looks aesthetic more than functional. You stand still, waiting for an attendant.

Time passes.

A hidden door in the panelled far wall opens. The only noise it makes is the faint brushing of what must be new carpet hairs. A woman steps through; completely naked, looking like a skinny catwalk model with a machine-like perfection to every curve and angle, and with just the right gawk to her grace to make her seem fashionably careless. It's certainly warm enough to walk around nude in here, but you feel a tingle of uncomfortable excitement at the secret promise of things to come...

"Welcome to Vagi-Cock. I'm Stephanie. Unless you want to call me something else..."

The woman is half-sitting on the desk. You allow yourelf the luxury of a mental sensation - her firm skin pressing against the polished hardwood. Mmmm.

"So, first things first. What do you want to be called today?"

"Clintoris please." you mumble.

An unblinking pause. She glances up and to her right, then levels her eyes at you again.

"Will it be the ususal?"

You roll forwards to the floor and clutch at your buttocks, squealing quietly. A sound like tiny elephants emanates from your choked throat. The woman walks across the lushious carpet toawrds you and stands over your prone curled body. You whimper, and avoid looking up.
There was a time when this kind of excitement was too much to bear, but these days it's almost mundane. You close your eyes to hide your obvious boredom, even though it occurs to you that her manner, cliched cool all swank and swagger, seems to almost radiate apathy. By this one could assume that to share in such blandness would build a rapport... But then again is rapport really what you want in this room, right now, clutching around on the expensive new carpet? No. What you want is a damn good mocking.

"You idiot!" she screams. "Stupid, mild-mannered, impolite little petri-scraping!" This insult is a new one.

You roll onto your back, still holding your bum cheeks, as your naked tormentor squats closer in a pose so undignified as to completely shrivel any sense of sexuality. A tiny fart slips out, but she seems to succesfully ignore it. She points at your face, right at your eye.

"Gaaaaaaa." it is a baby-like noise, and she lets a little drool come out when she makes it. It reminds you of the old lady you were rolling through the grass with on the way here. How she stopped you at the bus stop, and lurched melodramatically towards you with her ham in her little fist. How she helped herself to your fruit, and as you were wrapped in each others' skin how she seemed to dwell on those naughty thoughts, pressing you for a flight of fancy that would open her a little more, making her feel young again. You wore her clothes after that romp, so now as this astonishingly mechanical beauty is crouching into your face, you are wearing a tabbard and some pea-soup tights. It's almost enough on it's own, but to get the push you really need, you had to come to Tauntation Motel. Besides, your membership expires in a week, and you know you needed to maximise your opportunity to use the place. It costs enough.

"Peng peng peng. Map mop." She lies down next to you and begins to pull at the carpet. You join in, knowing the protocol. It's boring, but this is what you paid for.

Some people...

Lee I just got this email from a tenant called Sunil, at Farrins rents. I think he wants you to call him.

Dear Sir or Madam

I'm writing for complain you. I very problem my house today. I am call Justine yesterday and talk of problem my cuisine. It have very hot, and burn my finger, so I am maek phones call to NICEROOM and ask help me please. But problem is come when 10pm GMT. It have NICEBUILDER come for maintining my house, but builder is drinked and made loud noise. I am scary. I ask my police to come, but in Farrins Rents is slow police. Builder drinked is come my garden and is urine on my flowers. And. Then I am upset, say to drinked builder please to stop. He very making noise and then come in my house my room and make fire my television. He throw toground my radio and go in kitchen and in same time is my television fired and smoked. Then builder is urine my sink and my cuisine and shout loud song. My next-house people start shout, and police not come still. All of my house friends not in house, but builder then go in all rooms and urine and fire all beds and also eating one set curtains.
Come to 11pm GMT and then builder sleep on floor. I am not know what do.

Now is 9am GMT. House friends come back, but we sit and look drinked sleeped builder for is maybe hours. Builder not moving. House smell of urine and burned. Fire in bedroom upstars not stop. I think have problem now to sleep, to eat and etc.

Please help us Mr Lee Sankey. PLEAES to call me

Lot of problems

Sunil Blistars