Saturday 13 June 2009
This is it.
It's official. The votes have been counted and the results are in. Here, the moment you have all been baiting for with waited breath...
Monday 23 March 2009
Eine Soireé con Billy Elliott (or A SERIOUS THEATRE POST FROM A SERIOUS THEATRE BLOG)
Billy Elliott at the Victoria Palace Review.
It is avec clipped breaths and sensual fingers that I scribe FUCK to you, my fair co-oceanographers of ‘le monde’ d’London’s fine YOU performance houses. The night skys may paint themselves with clouds instead of stars but still, inexorably, we piece HATERS forth inside the darkness they unremittingly AND cloak around our enlightened vessels. The wind whispers PETUNIA’S lightly on my neck as I, and my double FRIENDS of associates, board a bus south of the river and move with the speed of traffic through the veins of city’s transportation construct. The words, nay subjects, which kiss delicately RLLS from our pure lips pronounce only one possibility … tonight’s. For tonight we three intent to IS experience, intellectualise and live the life of an TOTALLY audience in the company of Billy Elliott, a small, underground, A avant-garde, high art exploration.
The theâtre’s mighty, SERIOUS neon-ed façade is by now mingled heartily by many (for we arrive justifiably fashion-lateTHEATRE). Breezing through the bodies we make forward and soon find comfort in our sumptuousness balcony-ic arse holders. The lights dim BLOG! and theatre envelops us. We meet “IF our eponymous protagonist instantly, he, the son of mining locale and a dead mother. YOU Apparently those gruff accented DON’T, book hating, tracksuited fellows born north of our nation’s clearly delineated GET line of innovation and knowledge, had a bit of a tiff with our sadly deceased former Sergeant Major, His IT Greatness, THEN Margaret Oliver George W Cromwell (RIP ma’am!). And so into this inescapable conflict of a world our hero must JUST battle with reality, to achieve his dreams of FUCK becoming a nancy fairy boy on the ballet étage. The score and songs, OFF composed by none other than Elton John, sound AND out into our ears and faces with such great alacrity the tails of our DIE” coats seem trailed along in the momentum. Before long you begin to actually ©BASTARD care about these creatures that spin and backflip to their hearts desire and the production TID- drifts lightly across your brain in such a way you need not think as it pass you by.
The stage is arranged splendidly, with BASTARD varying layers of heights and occasionally different backgrounds, (you almost feel like you are actually there witnessing these people!). The actors, act and act and act and act! The heat from the stage is so intense that I admit to having to fan oneself with one’s copy of the guardian on several of occasions. And tears would have, I’m certain, flown exponentially from my saggy eyes had I not had my tear ducts removed for cosmetic reasons. Billy Elliott, my dear friends, is a masterpiece of these emotions.
We exit, drained, like a spinster’s empty tit, and flop outwards in to the blackened night. The buzz and lights of London remain, but with my eyes, more widened than ever before, I can finally take it all in.
Lovingly yours,
TA-AR-DEE
Edit: Have I reached the pinnacle? An in-joke so inward that I am the only one who understands?
Wednesday 18 March 2009
OFFICIAL RANKINGS 2.
Official Rankings
The following has been approved by the Committee for the Judgment of Most Probable Mutual Masturbation:
PIN HEADEDY
1. Robert Mckee
2. Door wedges, pizza slices and other triangular objects.
3. Petunia
4. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
5. Hip - Bo
6. Style-less Tramp
7. Ledger Hair
8. Tits & Ass
all others were not detected by the radar...
DAVID BLAINE
1. Ledger Hair
2. Tits & Ass
3. Petunia
4. Stylish Camp
5. J*
6. Generic Shithead (familiarity breeds...)
7. Tony Blair
...
100. Die Tie Die / Style-less Tramp
RACIST POO (PU)
1. Style-less tramp (a reversal aristotle would be please with)
2. Hip - Bo
3. Tits & Ass
4. Stylish Camp
5. Generic Shithead
6. Tony Blair
7. Die Tie Die
8. Petunia
9. Ledger Hair
10. Non-whites
11. Yoga practitioners
12. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
The following has been approved by the Committee for the Judgment of Most Probable Mutual Masturbation:
PIN HEADEDY
1. Robert Mckee
2. Door wedges, pizza slices and other triangular objects.
3. Petunia
4. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
5. Hip - Bo
6. Style-less Tramp
7. Ledger Hair
8. Tits & Ass
all others were not detected by the radar...
DAVID BLAINE
1. Ledger Hair
2. Tits & Ass
3. Petunia
4. Stylish Camp
5. J*
6. Generic Shithead (familiarity breeds...)
7. Tony Blair
...
100. Die Tie Die / Style-less Tramp
RACIST POO (PU)
1. Style-less tramp (a reversal aristotle would be please with)
2. Hip - Bo
3. Tits & Ass
4. Stylish Camp
5. Generic Shithead
6. Tony Blair
7. Die Tie Die
8. Petunia
9. Ledger Hair
10. Non-whites
11. Yoga practitioners
12. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
Sunday 15 March 2009
The History of Oxford
Part I - From Inspiration to Founding
The following definitive history is extracted from the seminal history text, Red Sauce & Brown Sauce: A History of Our Stupendous Land, Compiled by the Royal Society of Wikipedia Scholars for the Future Lord of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, King Dwayne I of the House of Deer. The book opens with the greatest poem ever written: "Oh what rogues and peasant slaves were we / before we saw His Royal Majesty; /[DIH] ensared him like a flower to a bee, / And the rest, you see, is our history."
1962: A group of drunken uneducated fashionists stumble into a party at Cambridge University and announce they will no longer be attending classes (which they never did). Everyone laughs, and they become a hit at the party. The group remains at Cambridge as a traveling pack of minstrels, offering their services as subhumans to be pointed and laughed at. They title themselves, 'The Doomsberry Clan'. Their first and only vinyl record, 'domeastrawberryanddomeitgood-clan', goes on to sell seven (7) copies.
1963: The group is signed up for an international tour by a wealthy goldsmith from Russia named Imazov Greatska Conartistivitch.
1965: After a long, arduous trip on horseback, the fashionists arrive at Goldsmiths College in New Cross, believing London to be Russia and Goldsmiths to be the goldsmith's palace.
1966: After entertaining Goldsmiths students and stumbling on a poster which reads, 'Let's lower tuition fees!', the group realises that the big money is in education. Resolved to set up a grammar school, they pack up and make their return journey to Cambridge.
1971: After a long detour in Wales where the group stumbles upon poster which reads, 'Let's stop prostitution!', etc., etc., the group finally finds Cambridge. Their old student-patrons are gone, however, and they are quickly kicked out for indecent exposure (they wore only loin-cloths at the time).
1972: Wandering again, one member of the group, Adolf Stalin, has a dream of a cow defecating in a river. He resolves to name their new project, 'Cowford'.
1973: After wandering some more and searching for the prophesised place where cows defecate in rivers, the group stumbles upon a sign not far from Cambridge which reads, 'Let's stop mistreatment of the cow'. They realise this is the spot, and name it 'Cowford'. They put their great wealth together and purchase what they believe is a cow, but is actually an ox, and begin flogging and raping it endlessly in the hope that there is money to be made from their activity.
1975: Realising that no one is paying them for beating and raping the ox, a member of the group, Senurfs Innecor, has a massive brain-fart and decides to make a school out of such an activity. They make a sign which reads, "We kik kow you gif kash". An astute passer-by, a coalminer on his lunchbreak, corrects the sign, noting that they are in fact mistreating an ox. They rename it alternately 'Oxcow' and 'Cowox' for several hours until the coalminer, in a fit of intellect, tries, 'Oxford'. The group bows down in worship for finding someone of the same intelligence as the people they met at Goldsmiths, and announce that the coalminer will be their first Leader.
1976: Oxford Kindergarten School (OKS-ford) receives its first student: a lost boy who, passing by, giggles at the group teachers. Mistaking his snorting laughter for the English language and believing the boy to be signing up for school, the OKS-ford founders capture him. He is chained up and disciplined for disobedience until he is indoctrinated and promises to be their next Leader.
1979: Milktits the Ox supposedly dies of old age (it had in fact been dead for several years, but no one noticed the carcass decay), and the group decides to branch Oxford Kindergarten School out into other areas. They turn first to their roots by teaching fashion and, given the extremely low level of brain power required to manipulate people into purchasing identity and self-worth, quickly reap massive success.
1983: Applying their new-found talents to other subjects, 'Oxford University' is officially founded on 21 January. On this day all newborn babies across the country feel and are imbued with an instinctive repulsion to the school.
NOTE: One of these children, alive today, is still sadly in denial of this impulse, and actually attended the cultural and intellectual backwater near Cambridge. In fact, the 'Petunia Syndrome' (named after the unfortunate subject) has since been identified as a rare delusional disorder. Its symptoms are difficult to detect, but usually manifest in the subject wearing scarves with the university logo, and believing intensely that Oxford was in fact established in the 11th century at the latest. If you encounter such an individual, please contact local authorities immediately, for another symptom is believing that King Dwayne I will not come to rule.
The following definitive history is extracted from the seminal history text, Red Sauce & Brown Sauce: A History of Our Stupendous Land, Compiled by the Royal Society of Wikipedia Scholars for the Future Lord of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, King Dwayne I of the House of Deer. The book opens with the greatest poem ever written: "Oh what rogues and peasant slaves were we / before we saw His Royal Majesty; /[DIH] ensared him like a flower to a bee, / And the rest, you see, is our history."
1962: A group of drunken uneducated fashionists stumble into a party at Cambridge University and announce they will no longer be attending classes (which they never did). Everyone laughs, and they become a hit at the party. The group remains at Cambridge as a traveling pack of minstrels, offering their services as subhumans to be pointed and laughed at. They title themselves, 'The Doomsberry Clan'. Their first and only vinyl record, 'domeastrawberryanddomeitgood-clan', goes on to sell seven (7) copies.
1963: The group is signed up for an international tour by a wealthy goldsmith from Russia named Imazov Greatska Conartistivitch.
1965: After a long, arduous trip on horseback, the fashionists arrive at Goldsmiths College in New Cross, believing London to be Russia and Goldsmiths to be the goldsmith's palace.
1966: After entertaining Goldsmiths students and stumbling on a poster which reads, 'Let's lower tuition fees!', the group realises that the big money is in education. Resolved to set up a grammar school, they pack up and make their return journey to Cambridge.
1971: After a long detour in Wales where the group stumbles upon poster which reads, 'Let's stop prostitution!', etc., etc., the group finally finds Cambridge. Their old student-patrons are gone, however, and they are quickly kicked out for indecent exposure (they wore only loin-cloths at the time).
1972: Wandering again, one member of the group, Adolf Stalin, has a dream of a cow defecating in a river. He resolves to name their new project, 'Cowford'.
1973: After wandering some more and searching for the prophesised place where cows defecate in rivers, the group stumbles upon a sign not far from Cambridge which reads, 'Let's stop mistreatment of the cow'. They realise this is the spot, and name it 'Cowford'. They put their great wealth together and purchase what they believe is a cow, but is actually an ox, and begin flogging and raping it endlessly in the hope that there is money to be made from their activity.
1975: Realising that no one is paying them for beating and raping the ox, a member of the group, Senurfs Innecor, has a massive brain-fart and decides to make a school out of such an activity. They make a sign which reads, "We kik kow you gif kash". An astute passer-by, a coalminer on his lunchbreak, corrects the sign, noting that they are in fact mistreating an ox. They rename it alternately 'Oxcow' and 'Cowox' for several hours until the coalminer, in a fit of intellect, tries, 'Oxford'. The group bows down in worship for finding someone of the same intelligence as the people they met at Goldsmiths, and announce that the coalminer will be their first Leader.
1976: Oxford Kindergarten School (OKS-ford) receives its first student: a lost boy who, passing by, giggles at the group teachers. Mistaking his snorting laughter for the English language and believing the boy to be signing up for school, the OKS-ford founders capture him. He is chained up and disciplined for disobedience until he is indoctrinated and promises to be their next Leader.
1979: Milktits the Ox supposedly dies of old age (it had in fact been dead for several years, but no one noticed the carcass decay), and the group decides to branch Oxford Kindergarten School out into other areas. They turn first to their roots by teaching fashion and, given the extremely low level of brain power required to manipulate people into purchasing identity and self-worth, quickly reap massive success.
1983: Applying their new-found talents to other subjects, 'Oxford University' is officially founded on 21 January. On this day all newborn babies across the country feel and are imbued with an instinctive repulsion to the school.
NOTE: One of these children, alive today, is still sadly in denial of this impulse, and actually attended the cultural and intellectual backwater near Cambridge. In fact, the 'Petunia Syndrome' (named after the unfortunate subject) has since been identified as a rare delusional disorder. Its symptoms are difficult to detect, but usually manifest in the subject wearing scarves with the university logo, and believing intensely that Oxford was in fact established in the 11th century at the latest. If you encounter such an individual, please contact local authorities immediately, for another symptom is believing that King Dwayne I will not come to rule.
RLLS now possibly blocked in China!
Dear fellow Revelators i bring joyous news.
Click on this link:
http://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=revelations%20of%20a%20life%20lived%20in%20synt ax&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8
Now the FBI/Communist Party of China/People looking for porn/etc can keep tabs on our glorious propaganda!
Tardy
Friday 13 March 2009
THE BLOGGER: Scene 3
Enter AINUTEP holding the body of LEDGER HAIR. INFLAMED CLITORIS and COCKROACH follow shortly behind. We are in AINUTEP'S dark cellar.
AINUTEP: Right, we must do this quickly.
All the other cockroaches gather around.
COCKROACHES: What has happened?
COCKROACH: Ledger Hair has died!
COCKROACHES: Oh my! How did it happen?
AINUTEP: Who knows? She was rambling incoherently: as if controlled by complete retards - and then she keeled over after, once again, getting her own name wrong.
COCKROACH: Her lack of alliteration has always pained her.
COCKROACHES: And is that an Inflamed Clitoris over there?
COCKROACH: Yes. She's brought another one home.
All cockroaches sigh.
AINUTEP: SILENCE Whelps! We have only one chance to bring Ledger Hair back from the dead. A strapping young man must enter her and give her his life giving seed!
COCKROACHES: But no men will acknowledge us your wonderfulness - they only shun us or bully us!
AINUTEP: I know, but the time for constant and incessant whining is over!
The cockroaches look sceptical
AINUTEP: Because with this inflamed clitoris I will finally become a man! (aside)
And then finally I can be taken seriously as a writer!
With this, AINUTEP attaches INFLAMED CLITORIS to her belt and proceeds to enter the body of LEDGER HAIR.
COCKROACHES: But our Queen - You can't suddenly - Just suddenly strap on a clitoris - an expect - expect to become a man!
AINUTEP: Silence! I'm nearly there! A few more thrusts!
COCKROACH jumps on to AINUTEP ear and proceeds to stroke it
AINUTEP: AHHHHH! There. I did it!
AINUTEP pulls away from the body of LEDGER HAIR, exhausted. INFLAMED CLITORIS climbs off AINUTEP and begins to crawl off stage!
INFLAMED CLITORIS: Why? WHY?! I feel so dirty - so unclean - uh, i smell terrible. I need a shower - A SHOWER. WHY????
INFLAMED CLITORIS exits, crying. AINUTEP comes back to her senses
AINUTEP: No! Come back, COME BACK! You are my penis - you make me whole! You give me worth!
AINUTEP begins to run after INFLAMED CLITORIS but stops:
COCKROACHES: MY QUEEN! Look! It stirs!
AINUTEP: I told you I could do it! She's back to life! She's -
THE MONSTER FORMERLY KNOWN AS LEDGER HAIR:
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRR!
GGRRAAAAAARRRRAAAARRRRR!!!!!
T.M.F.K.A.L.H'S hair grows at an incredible speed. The hair covers her body in a suit of golden armour and continues to grow, smashing the windows in the cellar - continuing to expand through the world.
AINUTEP: What have i done? WHAT IS HAPPENING?
COCKROACH: You can't resurrect as you were not a man - You are not a man!
COCKROACHES: You have created a monster your worship. All is lost - ALL IS LOST!
GHOST OF ARCADIA suddenly appears
GHOST OF ARCADIA: Hear me Hear me! I am the great wright of Pretentious!
AINUTEP: But you're not dead!
GHOST OF ARCADIA: I just last night met an untimely end - apparently to recompense and avenge the loss of a far better wright than myself!
AINUTEP: Oh NO! More of my hateful crimes are bearing consequences!
GHOST OF ARCADIA: There is no time to dwell on't! If you are to save the world from the monster with ENDLESS GOLDEN LOCKS, as is foretold, you must become a master blogwright, and blog like you have never blogged before!
GHOST OF ARCADIA suddenly disappears
AINUTEP: But I can't! I can't write - I have tried but i am not a man!
COCKROACHES: We believe in you are splendiferous Queen!
COCKROACH: Only you can save us from the monster of CASCADING BLONDE TENTACLES!
AINUTEP: Oh, my poor friend Ledger Hair? What have i done?
COCKROACH: You can still save her - and the world!
COCKROACHES: We believe in you!
AINUTEP: Okay, i will try. I will try and blog the best written bl-
COCKROACH WITH GUITAR ON BACK saunters past
COCKROACH WITH GUITAR ON BACK: To be, or not to be, that is the question...
AINUTEP: Oh my! I will try and save the world (even though i am penisless), but first....
AINUTEP quickly whips off her knickers and chases after COCKROACH WITH GUITAR ON BACK
AINUTEP: Right, we must do this quickly.
All the other cockroaches gather around.
COCKROACHES: What has happened?
COCKROACH: Ledger Hair has died!
COCKROACHES: Oh my! How did it happen?
AINUTEP: Who knows? She was rambling incoherently: as if controlled by complete retards - and then she keeled over after, once again, getting her own name wrong.
COCKROACH: Her lack of alliteration has always pained her.
COCKROACHES: And is that an Inflamed Clitoris over there?
COCKROACH: Yes. She's brought another one home.
All cockroaches sigh.
AINUTEP: SILENCE Whelps! We have only one chance to bring Ledger Hair back from the dead. A strapping young man must enter her and give her his life giving seed!
COCKROACHES: But no men will acknowledge us your wonderfulness - they only shun us or bully us!
AINUTEP: I know, but the time for constant and incessant whining is over!
The cockroaches look sceptical
AINUTEP: Because with this inflamed clitoris I will finally become a man! (aside)
And then finally I can be taken seriously as a writer!
With this, AINUTEP attaches INFLAMED CLITORIS to her belt and proceeds to enter the body of LEDGER HAIR.
COCKROACHES: But our Queen - You can't suddenly - Just suddenly strap on a clitoris - an expect - expect to become a man!
AINUTEP: Silence! I'm nearly there! A few more thrusts!
COCKROACH jumps on to AINUTEP ear and proceeds to stroke it
AINUTEP: AHHHHH! There. I did it!
AINUTEP pulls away from the body of LEDGER HAIR, exhausted. INFLAMED CLITORIS climbs off AINUTEP and begins to crawl off stage!
INFLAMED CLITORIS: Why? WHY?! I feel so dirty - so unclean - uh, i smell terrible. I need a shower - A SHOWER. WHY????
INFLAMED CLITORIS exits, crying. AINUTEP comes back to her senses
AINUTEP: No! Come back, COME BACK! You are my penis - you make me whole! You give me worth!
AINUTEP begins to run after INFLAMED CLITORIS but stops:
COCKROACHES: MY QUEEN! Look! It stirs!
AINUTEP: I told you I could do it! She's back to life! She's -
THE MONSTER FORMERLY KNOWN AS LEDGER HAIR:
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRR!
GGRRAAAAAARRRRAAAARRRRR!!!!!
T.M.F.K.A.L.H'S hair grows at an incredible speed. The hair covers her body in a suit of golden armour and continues to grow, smashing the windows in the cellar - continuing to expand through the world.
AINUTEP: What have i done? WHAT IS HAPPENING?
COCKROACH: You can't resurrect as you were not a man - You are not a man!
COCKROACHES: You have created a monster your worship. All is lost - ALL IS LOST!
GHOST OF ARCADIA suddenly appears
GHOST OF ARCADIA: Hear me Hear me! I am the great wright of Pretentious!
AINUTEP: But you're not dead!
GHOST OF ARCADIA: I just last night met an untimely end - apparently to recompense and avenge the loss of a far better wright than myself!
AINUTEP: Oh NO! More of my hateful crimes are bearing consequences!
GHOST OF ARCADIA: There is no time to dwell on't! If you are to save the world from the monster with ENDLESS GOLDEN LOCKS, as is foretold, you must become a master blogwright, and blog like you have never blogged before!
GHOST OF ARCADIA suddenly disappears
AINUTEP: But I can't! I can't write - I have tried but i am not a man!
COCKROACHES: We believe in you are splendiferous Queen!
COCKROACH: Only you can save us from the monster of CASCADING BLONDE TENTACLES!
AINUTEP: Oh, my poor friend Ledger Hair? What have i done?
COCKROACH: You can still save her - and the world!
COCKROACHES: We believe in you!
AINUTEP: Okay, i will try. I will try and blog the best written bl-
COCKROACH WITH GUITAR ON BACK saunters past
COCKROACH WITH GUITAR ON BACK: To be, or not to be, that is the question...
AINUTEP: Oh my! I will try and save the world (even though i am penisless), but first....
AINUTEP quickly whips off her knickers and chases after COCKROACH WITH GUITAR ON BACK
The Ballad Of Jerry and Little Boy Blew (or stop me when this becomes libelous)
Are you ready? Then we'll begin.
Over the buttercup hills, in the land of the cherry gumdrop trees, down in popsicle glade, there lived a little boy. A Little Boy Blew. And Little Boy Blew was a very smart little boy indeed. Every day after school he would go up to the waterfall by the mill and there he would sit upon the biggest rock he could find and he'd imagine great tales of adventure and mystery. And if anyone was with him that day he would tell them these stories and everyone, even adults, were amazed by his imagination. They said, 'Little Boy Blew, someday you're going to imagine a story so great that everyone in the world will impressed!'. Little Boy Blew took no notice of them however as he was too busy imagining.
One day a new boy followed Little Boy Blew up to the waterfall, this boy was called Jerry. Jerry liked stories a lot and was very good at listening to, and reading them. In fact sometimes in school he would help other children out when they needed to finish their stories. He was very good at that indeed. When Jerry heard Little Boy Blew's stories, as he sat by the waterfall, Jerry thought, 'these are some of the best stories i've ever heard!'. And Jerry talked to Little Boy Blew and right away they became best of friends.
Soon people from far and wide, sometimes from over two villages away, would come to the waterfall to hear Little Boy Blew's stories. Jerry would introduce the stories and help direct the how they were told. Also, if anyone afterwards wanted to talk about the stories Jerry would always be at the centre of the discussions. Little Boy Blew would often say to Jerry, 'Thank you for helping me tell my stories', and Jerry would always reply, 'Thank you for having such an interesting imagination!'
Later, though, some men came from the big town at the foot of the mountain. They said they wanted to see Little Boy Blew. They heard him tell a story and became very interested indeed. They took him aside from his friends and said, 'Little Boy Blew you tell such brilliant stories, how about you tell some real life stories and we can put them in our newspaper and everyone across the land can read them'. Little Boy Blew was very excited about this and without talking to his friends agreed. The next day an audience arrived at the waterfall, but Little Boy Blew was nowhere to be seen! Jerry and the others searched all around the waterfall, even the scary parts, but they couldn't find him. Then somebody said, 'I found him, i found Little Boy Blew! He's in the newspaper!'. And everyone gathered round and read the paper and it was true, Little Boy Blew was in the newspaper telling stories!
The next day and the next day and the next day Little Boy Blew was telling stories in the newspaper, and soon people almost forgot that he used to tell stories on the rock by the waterfall. But then, the next day Little Boy Blew announced in school that he was coming back, with a new story that he wanted everyone to hear. Everyone was very excited. The audience by the waterfall was the biggest anyone had ever seen. Little Boy Blew was a real celebrity now. And he told his story, and everyone listened. But they way he told stories had changed. He wasn't the same Little Boy Blew. Jerry listened to the story and he didn't like it one bit. When the story was finished he told Little Boy Blew this and Little Boy Blew was very angry. Jerry tried to explain but Little Boy Blue ran away and ignored Jerry. Jerry was a little bit upset.
A few years later Jerry realized that he hadn't talked to Little Boy Blew, who was still working for the newspaper and telling stories, in quite some time. But they were still friends on facebook
The end.
Tardy
Tuesday 10 March 2009
THESE FEW HANDS SUFFOCATE THE CULTURAL CLIMATE OF THIS COUNTRY & ARE DESTINED TO CRIPPLE MY CAREER
ROYAL COURT (see previous post), PAINES PLOUGH and SOHO THEATRE...
you are in trouble. Big trouble. We, the RLLS are on to you. Suck on this...
ROYAL 'we take credit for Ravenhill' COURT, you are (or purport to be) the dominant institution working in the new writing sector. Why then, do you produce so many half-baked novelty projects by wealthy, more than established, over the hill writers? If Caryl Churchill fans can be relied upon to come out in droves for her shitty new 4 minute play then send her to a seedy little fringe venue and let the new voices benefit from the plush surroundings - or RC, are you not confident enough in your recent discoveries (perhaps by switching to '100% emerging artists' you'd have to do something in the way of nurturing young artists other than evaluate them according to whether or not you can pronounce their last name). Additionally, am I the only one who is a) too poor and b) too insecure about his fashion sense to eat or drink in the Royal Court bar? The bookshop is one of the only places to purchase play texts at a reasonable price, so you got something right. Maybe turn the whole complex into a bookshop?
PAINES 'we also take credit for Ravenhill' PLOUGH, I have been an actor for you - a rat brought into the lab. And what did you do with us? You had us create our own characters, perform our own monologues (why were their freshly recruited writers there again?) and then divided us into groups. Each one of these groups was to represent a house and each house was assigned a writer. So, to recap...Paines Plough recruit a fresh batch of writers who are then supplied with actors, characters, a setting and plot (4 plots! - one from each monologue) and then given 2 weeks to write a ten minute play. AND THEN...when the results were shown they were even more stilted, turgid and sopa-opera-derivative than the original material generated by the actors on the first day. So, what did they do for 2 weeks? Sat around in the smug enducing knowledge that they were Paines Ploughs new batch - some of the finest playwrighting talent in UK.
SOHO 'we can't take credit for Ravenhill, but wish we could' THEATRE. You have a great location (very central, very chic) that is firmly on the map of both tourist and discerning londoner. The music and comedy programmers you share an office with do a sterling job - programming work that is both cutting edge and viable. Why then is all of your 'theatre' either a) as bland as Petunia cd collection or b) a token throwback to avant-guard work of the '90's? Now, not everyone has to be a fan of my work...but the least you could've done was offered something that resembled intelligent crit. That's right, cat out of the bag moment - I was aware that the actions of my characters 'could be more realistic'.
With a shadow of the affection I wish I had left for you,
Die Tie Die
you are in trouble. Big trouble. We, the RLLS are on to you. Suck on this...
ROYAL 'we take credit for Ravenhill' COURT, you are (or purport to be) the dominant institution working in the new writing sector. Why then, do you produce so many half-baked novelty projects by wealthy, more than established, over the hill writers? If Caryl Churchill fans can be relied upon to come out in droves for her shitty new 4 minute play then send her to a seedy little fringe venue and let the new voices benefit from the plush surroundings - or RC, are you not confident enough in your recent discoveries (perhaps by switching to '100% emerging artists' you'd have to do something in the way of nurturing young artists other than evaluate them according to whether or not you can pronounce their last name). Additionally, am I the only one who is a) too poor and b) too insecure about his fashion sense to eat or drink in the Royal Court bar? The bookshop is one of the only places to purchase play texts at a reasonable price, so you got something right. Maybe turn the whole complex into a bookshop?
PAINES 'we also take credit for Ravenhill' PLOUGH, I have been an actor for you - a rat brought into the lab. And what did you do with us? You had us create our own characters, perform our own monologues (why were their freshly recruited writers there again?) and then divided us into groups. Each one of these groups was to represent a house and each house was assigned a writer. So, to recap...Paines Plough recruit a fresh batch of writers who are then supplied with actors, characters, a setting and plot (4 plots! - one from each monologue) and then given 2 weeks to write a ten minute play. AND THEN...when the results were shown they were even more stilted, turgid and sopa-opera-derivative than the original material generated by the actors on the first day. So, what did they do for 2 weeks? Sat around in the smug enducing knowledge that they were Paines Ploughs new batch - some of the finest playwrighting talent in UK.
SOHO 'we can't take credit for Ravenhill, but wish we could' THEATRE. You have a great location (very central, very chic) that is firmly on the map of both tourist and discerning londoner. The music and comedy programmers you share an office with do a sterling job - programming work that is both cutting edge and viable. Why then is all of your 'theatre' either a) as bland as Petunia cd collection or b) a token throwback to avant-guard work of the '90's? Now, not everyone has to be a fan of my work...but the least you could've done was offered something that resembled intelligent crit. That's right, cat out of the bag moment - I was aware that the actions of my characters 'could be more realistic'.
With a shadow of the affection I wish I had left for you,
Die Tie Die
Monday 9 March 2009
Why the Royal Court is Evil
Fuck the Royal Court. Specifically the filth that is the Jerwood Theatre Downstairs. This has to be the most obnoxious theatre ever constructed. I despise bad theatre, yes, but worse I despise when theatre has no choice but to be bad.
Jerwood, fuck you.
This SLT has had enough.
I’m in the balcony sitting in seat C4 (ironically the name of the explosive I wouldn’t mind using on this piss-hole of a place) and the action begins. I’m staring down into a fucking BOX, and a third of this fucking BOX I cannot fucking see. Oh, that’s fine. I must have paid less. I should only see in proportion to how I pay. And only hear in such proportion. And only be treated in such proportion. And, oh, I didn't pay the lowest price, but that's okay - my being fucked should be a chance affair, yes Jerwood, you shallow prick? So the actor’s fucking HEAD leaves my line of sight. Oh, that’s fine, Jerwood you snivelling snob, I don’t mind. Hey, while you’re upstage why don’t I just step outside and smoke a joint? I MUST be a poor narrow-minded STUDENT, which is why I couldn’t possibly comprehend the whole of the marvellous spectacle that you are masturbating onto that wonderful square fucking stage, so I would probably rather just drink and smoke and play with my dong anyways. Right, Jerwood? You reckon?
So I’ll go outside for about, say, five minutes? Or hey, better yet, when you’re ready for me again, when you're back in view, why don’t you just ring a FUCKING BELL like I am FUCKING CATTLE to tell me I can now see the FUCKING SHOW again?
Wouldn’t that be dandy?
Fuck you, Jerwood.
You know, worse than you’re fucking sightlines – no, ‘sightlines’, that word gives you too much credit. Worse than your ignorant, contemptuous, despicable, slimy fucking egregious shit-square-mindless-Nike-bag of a fucking design, worse than that is the box itself. To think you think that this is a fucking forum for thoughtful playwriting, to think that you think that this is the model structure for provocative fucking theatre – that is all the worse, Jerwood, you fucking bag of dirt. Let that disgusting stray cat from the tube that’s humping the soup containers in your back alley piss on that bag of dirt.
Fuck you, Jerwood.
Oh, wait, I apologise. I just remembered: yours is the theatre that places the playwright at the centre of the theatrical experience. Shit! Well, if that’s the case why don’t you just remove all of us stupid mindless to-be-educated sewer-dwellers and replace the whole fucking auditorium with a gigantic fucking THRONE surrounded by silk pillows and fancy golden chandaliers and fucking custard-built-sculptures with ice crystals for your glorious fucking playwrights to collapse their fat, lazy, self-centred scarf-wearing self-indulgent fucking pimple-covered asses on, and before you do please let me know so I can come in and make sure that fucking scarf is really fucking tight. Wouldn’t want our fucking playwright voices of the future being cold in the theatre that is dedicated to their joyous upheaval of craft. Wouldn’t want their fucking revolution tainted by some snot-blowing (nasal voice) audience member. Yeah, this is the people’s theatre, man! And the people can watch from cages beneath the pit, hey Jerwood? This is where we get to be spewed on, and it is mighty velvet royal spew it is!
Fuck you, Jerwood.
See, I respect a playwright who wants his show in a fucking box. I do. I hereby remove the word “fucking” which prefaces “box” in that context to show my appreciation, understanding and love. My issue with you, you fucking worthless lunatic, is that you are a gigantic fucking WALL. You’re a BARRIER. You’re IN THE WAY. You are not the fucking VEHICLE, you are the DELIVERABLE. You are not the PROCESS, you are the PRODUCT, and a real plastic two-pence child-labour product at that. See, you don’t just provide the opportunity for certain theatre, you are the template for it. And templates are pretty much a way of saying to the audience whom…I don’t know…allow you to FUCKING EXIST: “Fuck you”.
Yeah, well fuck you too, Jerwood. You’re a real asshole. This is acid I spit on you and it’s going to drip down into your two-dimensional cardboard soul. And it’s going to continue to be dripped until you break that fucking box and have a little fucking respect for the people who make your sad, petty, bourgeois theatre possible. I’m going to continue to pour acid on you until you take that fucking roof off, and let me watch the fucking show like the rest of the mob you’ve herded into your dynastic rathole.
Oh, and to anyone who disagrees with me, to anyone who has a different point of view, to anyone who has benefited from Jerwood – Fuck you too.
Let me know when you're back in view. Til then I'll be outside.
Peace the fuck out.
Jerwood, fuck you.
This SLT has had enough.
I’m in the balcony sitting in seat C4 (ironically the name of the explosive I wouldn’t mind using on this piss-hole of a place) and the action begins. I’m staring down into a fucking BOX, and a third of this fucking BOX I cannot fucking see. Oh, that’s fine. I must have paid less. I should only see in proportion to how I pay. And only hear in such proportion. And only be treated in such proportion. And, oh, I didn't pay the lowest price, but that's okay - my being fucked should be a chance affair, yes Jerwood, you shallow prick? So the actor’s fucking HEAD leaves my line of sight. Oh, that’s fine, Jerwood you snivelling snob, I don’t mind. Hey, while you’re upstage why don’t I just step outside and smoke a joint? I MUST be a poor narrow-minded STUDENT, which is why I couldn’t possibly comprehend the whole of the marvellous spectacle that you are masturbating onto that wonderful square fucking stage, so I would probably rather just drink and smoke and play with my dong anyways. Right, Jerwood? You reckon?
So I’ll go outside for about, say, five minutes? Or hey, better yet, when you’re ready for me again, when you're back in view, why don’t you just ring a FUCKING BELL like I am FUCKING CATTLE to tell me I can now see the FUCKING SHOW again?
Wouldn’t that be dandy?
Fuck you, Jerwood.
You know, worse than you’re fucking sightlines – no, ‘sightlines’, that word gives you too much credit. Worse than your ignorant, contemptuous, despicable, slimy fucking egregious shit-square-mindless-Nike-bag of a fucking design, worse than that is the box itself. To think you think that this is a fucking forum for thoughtful playwriting, to think that you think that this is the model structure for provocative fucking theatre – that is all the worse, Jerwood, you fucking bag of dirt. Let that disgusting stray cat from the tube that’s humping the soup containers in your back alley piss on that bag of dirt.
Fuck you, Jerwood.
Oh, wait, I apologise. I just remembered: yours is the theatre that places the playwright at the centre of the theatrical experience. Shit! Well, if that’s the case why don’t you just remove all of us stupid mindless to-be-educated sewer-dwellers and replace the whole fucking auditorium with a gigantic fucking THRONE surrounded by silk pillows and fancy golden chandaliers and fucking custard-built-sculptures with ice crystals for your glorious fucking playwrights to collapse their fat, lazy, self-centred scarf-wearing self-indulgent fucking pimple-covered asses on, and before you do please let me know so I can come in and make sure that fucking scarf is really fucking tight. Wouldn’t want our fucking playwright voices of the future being cold in the theatre that is dedicated to their joyous upheaval of craft. Wouldn’t want their fucking revolution tainted by some snot-blowing (nasal voice) audience member. Yeah, this is the people’s theatre, man! And the people can watch from cages beneath the pit, hey Jerwood? This is where we get to be spewed on, and it is mighty velvet royal spew it is!
Fuck you, Jerwood.
See, I respect a playwright who wants his show in a fucking box. I do. I hereby remove the word “fucking” which prefaces “box” in that context to show my appreciation, understanding and love. My issue with you, you fucking worthless lunatic, is that you are a gigantic fucking WALL. You’re a BARRIER. You’re IN THE WAY. You are not the fucking VEHICLE, you are the DELIVERABLE. You are not the PROCESS, you are the PRODUCT, and a real plastic two-pence child-labour product at that. See, you don’t just provide the opportunity for certain theatre, you are the template for it. And templates are pretty much a way of saying to the audience whom…I don’t know…allow you to FUCKING EXIST: “Fuck you”.
Yeah, well fuck you too, Jerwood. You’re a real asshole. This is acid I spit on you and it’s going to drip down into your two-dimensional cardboard soul. And it’s going to continue to be dripped until you break that fucking box and have a little fucking respect for the people who make your sad, petty, bourgeois theatre possible. I’m going to continue to pour acid on you until you take that fucking roof off, and let me watch the fucking show like the rest of the mob you’ve herded into your dynastic rathole.
Oh, and to anyone who disagrees with me, to anyone who has a different point of view, to anyone who has benefited from Jerwood – Fuck you too.
Let me know when you're back in view. Til then I'll be outside.
Peace the fuck out.
Sunday 8 March 2009
The Book of Tardy. 1:1-11
1. And thus it was, that on that rainless grey day, as was prophesied by those before, the shifting horizon found another steed. 2. Many riders, nay horseman, had gone before, commenting, challenging and blogging, that one may have looked upon the scene and said that this new rider was, 'late'. 3. And though late may be or may become a defining trait when in their presence, there was no doubt that the rider was there, waiting atop the hill as the day played across the sky. 4. He remarked then, to the small crowd that had gathered outside the gates of the holy city of New Cross, 5. 'Firstly, with appropriately, my first words, i must thank and congratulate those whom have passed before you, their hands tired from building roads, their passion stretched from lighting pathways to your freedom and hope. 6. Without their efforts none of you would have seen truth as clearly as your eyes can now see. Thank them, and pray hard that they are kept in good (able to type) health.' 7. And the townsfolk felt warmed by these words, recognizing that there lurked a great evil close by, one that preyed on the weak and found it hard to write without the use of large pictorial aids (but not 'aids' aids, aids like the other kind of aids, you know, aids?). 8. But then a young disciple pushed himself close to the front and over the mixture of voices proclaimed, 'But what has this got to do with London? And with the 2012 Olympics?' 9. The crowd, growing by the minute, fell silent. 'What is your reach? Will there be digital projection. because it would help if it did'. 10. The rider turned and looked down towards the new figure, a business man, dressed in an uncomplicated suit. 11. The man stared back, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jacket, ‘All I need to know are your deliverables’.
Tardy.
Thursday 5 March 2009
Official Rankings
The following has been approved by the Committee for the Judgment of Most Probable Intercourse:
STYLISH CAMP
1. Hip-bo
2. Tits & Ass
3. Ledger Hair
4. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
5. Petunia
6. Style-less Tramp
7. Tony Blair
8. Generic Shithead
9. Die Tye Die
J-STAR
1. Die Tye Die
2. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
3. Tits & Ass
4. Tony Blair
5. Style-less Tramp
6. Serial Killer
7. Generic Shithead
8. Those with Breasts, and Anyone Desirous of Such
UNLISTED: Actually Has A Career, Red Lips of Deaf
STYLISH CAMP
1. Hip-bo
2. Tits & Ass
3. Ledger Hair
4. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
5. Petunia
6. Style-less Tramp
7. Tony Blair
8. Generic Shithead
9. Die Tye Die
J-STAR
1. Die Tye Die
2. Tardy Nationalist Asshole
3. Tits & Ass
4. Tony Blair
5. Style-less Tramp
6. Serial Killer
7. Generic Shithead
8. Those with Breasts, and Anyone Desirous of Such
UNLISTED: Actually Has A Career, Red Lips of Deaf
Tuesday 3 March 2009
The Blogger: Scene Two
Blockbuster video, New Cross.
Enter AN INFLAMED CLITORIS.
IC: Hello, my good man do you have the new John Hughes flick?
Clerk: No.
PINTER PAUSE.
Enter AINUTEP. On her back is COCKROACH. Out of sadness and despair, COCKROACH humps AINUTEP's dirty ear.
AINUTEP: I acknowledge you, Inflamed Clitoris.
IC: How dare you, I am a penis...or, I wish to be!
AINUTEP: Maybe I can help you with that? Tell me, are you just an Inflamed Clitoris walking around New Cross?
IC: Why yes, yes I am.
COCKROACH: What are you doing, your majesty?
AINUTEP: Silence, slave! Tell me, could I wear you, Inflamed Clitoris?
IC: I think not!
Enter LEDGER HAIR.
LH: Excuse me, do you have the Dark Knight?
Clerk: Name?
LH: Heath Hair.
Clerk: Ah, no. Nothing by that name.
LH: ***** ***** **** **!
Clerk: Wait, aren't you...dead?
LH: ***** **** *** ****** *! Asshole.
Clerk: You can die from those?
LH: Yes.
She dies. AINUTEP weeps and COCKROACH drinks her tears.
COCKROACH: Mmm...needs brown sugar.
IC: I can help you.
It humps the carcass of LEDGER HAIR. They both cum puss in unison. COCKROACH drinks the puss.
COCKROACH: Needs more white sugar.
AINUTEP: That's disgusting. A female blogwright would never spew that.
IC: If I keep going there'll be nothing left of her!
AINUTEP: Wait! Inflamed Clitoris, if you let me wear you, I will resurrect her and you may consume this white sugar and make her your servant.
IC: But I am not a penis!
AINUTEP: But you look like one.
IC: Fine, but you must bring her back bigger than ever!
AINUTEP: More Ledger than ever! If only she could have said her name was Ledger Hair, and not Heath Hair. Then none of this would have happened. (She winks.)
AINUTEP, INFLAMED CLITORIS leave with LEDGER HAIR in tow.
Clerk: Last call!
COCKROACH: Yeah. Give me 'Joe's Apartment'.
Clerk: Oh I love that movie! John Hughes is brilliant!
COCKROACH: Yeah...but 'Puss in Boots' is better.
Enter AN INFLAMED CLITORIS.
IC: Hello, my good man do you have the new John Hughes flick?
Clerk: No.
PINTER PAUSE.
Enter AINUTEP. On her back is COCKROACH. Out of sadness and despair, COCKROACH humps AINUTEP's dirty ear.
AINUTEP: I acknowledge you, Inflamed Clitoris.
IC: How dare you, I am a penis...or, I wish to be!
AINUTEP: Maybe I can help you with that? Tell me, are you just an Inflamed Clitoris walking around New Cross?
IC: Why yes, yes I am.
COCKROACH: What are you doing, your majesty?
AINUTEP: Silence, slave! Tell me, could I wear you, Inflamed Clitoris?
IC: I think not!
Enter LEDGER HAIR.
LH: Excuse me, do you have the Dark Knight?
Clerk: Name?
LH: Heath Hair.
Clerk: Ah, no. Nothing by that name.
LH: ***** ***** **** **!
Clerk: Wait, aren't you...dead?
LH: ***** **** *** ****** *! Asshole.
Clerk: You can die from those?
LH: Yes.
She dies. AINUTEP weeps and COCKROACH drinks her tears.
COCKROACH: Mmm...needs brown sugar.
IC: I can help you.
It humps the carcass of LEDGER HAIR. They both cum puss in unison. COCKROACH drinks the puss.
COCKROACH: Needs more white sugar.
AINUTEP: That's disgusting. A female blogwright would never spew that.
IC: If I keep going there'll be nothing left of her!
AINUTEP: Wait! Inflamed Clitoris, if you let me wear you, I will resurrect her and you may consume this white sugar and make her your servant.
IC: But I am not a penis!
AINUTEP: But you look like one.
IC: Fine, but you must bring her back bigger than ever!
AINUTEP: More Ledger than ever! If only she could have said her name was Ledger Hair, and not Heath Hair. Then none of this would have happened. (She winks.)
AINUTEP, INFLAMED CLITORIS leave with LEDGER HAIR in tow.
Clerk: Last call!
COCKROACH: Yeah. Give me 'Joe's Apartment'.
Clerk: Oh I love that movie! John Hughes is brilliant!
COCKROACH: Yeah...but 'Puss in Boots' is better.
Sunday 1 March 2009
...the crowning child shouts 'fashionism is a whore and her breath smells of death'...?
Ah, it appears as though her dark majesty was attempting to spoil the broth at both ends of the soup bowl! My commitment called into question? Pish...how many posts have been made on the rivalsblog? One...that is 3 less than I alone have made on our fair blog in the same time frame (screaming kettle shall not smoke my pot...)
Blandness, I believe is the crime we are accused of...
http://blog.lsc.edu/wave/files/2008/10/tie-dye.jpg
Is that bland?
TDT
Blandness, I believe is the crime we are accused of...
http://blog.lsc.edu/wave/files/2008/10/tie-dye.jpg
Is that bland?
TDT
Saturday 28 February 2009
On Fashion & Fashionism
Petunia the Evil One has recently posted what appears to be a blog entry. Do not be deceived, dear reader: this is an attempt to make you believe she is saying something important. The large pictures do more than demonstrate her incapacity for language: they affirm her desire to turn you into a brainwashed peasant.
Do you want to be a peasant? No, likely not. But there is nothing wrong with dressing like one. Petunia, you will notice with only a momentary glance, spews an ideology which can only be labelled as "Fashionism" - it is a system wherein rationality is tossed aside, and for a social hierarchy it relies on designer clothing, jewellry, makeup, scent, and other useless articles. In other words, you are placed as you dress.
I will not ramble on about the evils of fashion in the world: how it is a corruption of the human spirit, a degrading of the self into an object of mindless consumption and ignorant presentation. As if a logo might embody a state of mind, a belief, a principle, a movement - as if colour coordination equates to commitment to your fellow man or woman. Fashion is the disgusting result of our sick society's obsession with the superficial; and fashionism the hijacking of this en masse cultural stupidity as a means for Petunia and her collection of evil white cats to rule the world.
I shit you not.
We are in the grips of a coming struggle. Its spectre haunts Europe and rises with the moon. The countless fools who find meaning in collars, khakis, belts, and cowboy boots will soon witness the sky grow black; they will soon feel a tingle in their abdomen. It will all be too late, of course; for the black sky will be their forgotten mascara-drenched tears, and the tingle my 1972 Barbara Streisand Candle Collection Series 1 candle-putter-outer poker emerging from their stomach. And in the distance they will hear us laugh.
They will see it unfold as it has been foretold in the Blog of Revelations, last of the Blogosphere, and we three horsemen (looking for a fourth to make it more psychologically satisfying - applications still accepted...) will ride past the plain white gates into the New Valley of No Judgment where all wearable things are only worn for utility, and where global warming has ceased to be a problem because ignorant televsion-bashed brainless shitheads who overconsume for their own god damn feel-good shallow-minded piss-in-the-river-what's-it-to-me I'll-wear-what-makes-me-feel-sexy-and-good-about-myself-because-I-have-no-other-source-of-self-worth so let's-pollute-everything-and-buy-sweat-shop-but-YAY-DESIGNER fucking no-good self-centred mentality WILL BE FUCKING SHOT AND DROPPED IN THE CLEAR AND CLEAN RIVER!
But not into her trivial dogma. Fashionism will die. Join us now.
Call 1-888-RLLS-ROCKS-NOW and get your RLLS miracle spring water for just £699.99 now! Act now and you'll get the second bottle free! Call now!
Do you want to be a peasant? No, likely not. But there is nothing wrong with dressing like one. Petunia, you will notice with only a momentary glance, spews an ideology which can only be labelled as "Fashionism" - it is a system wherein rationality is tossed aside, and for a social hierarchy it relies on designer clothing, jewellry, makeup, scent, and other useless articles. In other words, you are placed as you dress.
I will not ramble on about the evils of fashion in the world: how it is a corruption of the human spirit, a degrading of the self into an object of mindless consumption and ignorant presentation. As if a logo might embody a state of mind, a belief, a principle, a movement - as if colour coordination equates to commitment to your fellow man or woman. Fashion is the disgusting result of our sick society's obsession with the superficial; and fashionism the hijacking of this en masse cultural stupidity as a means for Petunia and her collection of evil white cats to rule the world.
I shit you not.
We are in the grips of a coming struggle. Its spectre haunts Europe and rises with the moon. The countless fools who find meaning in collars, khakis, belts, and cowboy boots will soon witness the sky grow black; they will soon feel a tingle in their abdomen. It will all be too late, of course; for the black sky will be their forgotten mascara-drenched tears, and the tingle my 1972 Barbara Streisand Candle Collection Series 1 candle-putter-outer poker emerging from their stomach. And in the distance they will hear us laugh.
They will see it unfold as it has been foretold in the Blog of Revelations, last of the Blogosphere, and we three horsemen (looking for a fourth to make it more psychologically satisfying - applications still accepted...) will ride past the plain white gates into the New Valley of No Judgment where all wearable things are only worn for utility, and where global warming has ceased to be a problem because ignorant televsion-bashed brainless shitheads who overconsume for their own god damn feel-good shallow-minded piss-in-the-river-what's-it-to-me I'll-wear-what-makes-me-feel-sexy-and-good-about-myself-because-I-have-no-other-source-of-self-worth so let's-pollute-everything-and-buy-sweat-shop-but-YAY-DESIGNER fucking no-good self-centred mentality WILL BE FUCKING SHOT AND DROPPED IN THE CLEAR AND CLEAN RIVER!
But not into her trivial dogma. Fashionism will die. Join us now.
Call 1-888-RLLS-ROCKS-NOW and get your RLLS miracle spring water for just £699.99 now! Act now and you'll get the second bottle free! Call now!
Hear Ye, Revelators
Dearest Die Tye Die,
I am profoundly sorry you had to deal with the cockroach lady in such a manner. She is indeed insidious. In fact just this afternoon Generic Shithead and I met her avatar at the Ruv', and it was then and there she attempted to cast us asunder. Of course, GS and I tried to be friendly, as all decent human beings would be toward the wanna-be bloggers of the world...but little did we realise that this was her way in. Friendliness is the agent of Satan. She attempted to convince us that you were not committed to RLLS, that you might betray the cause, that for you it was but a passing phase. Your most recent posting of course nullifies such an idiotic charge, but it was not necessary - for the Revelators never lose faith. And, now that we are aware of her dark motives and darker means, we can only be more resolute in our campaign against the taint of Petunia.
Curse on SMS! Curse on leprosy! And double curse and endless shame on those who would seek to tear us apart! For we are the Revelators!
Your Dedicated Anti-Wannabe-Blogger Warrior,
Style-less Tramp
I am profoundly sorry you had to deal with the cockroach lady in such a manner. She is indeed insidious. In fact just this afternoon Generic Shithead and I met her avatar at the Ruv', and it was then and there she attempted to cast us asunder. Of course, GS and I tried to be friendly, as all decent human beings would be toward the wanna-be bloggers of the world...but little did we realise that this was her way in. Friendliness is the agent of Satan. She attempted to convince us that you were not committed to RLLS, that you might betray the cause, that for you it was but a passing phase. Your most recent posting of course nullifies such an idiotic charge, but it was not necessary - for the Revelators never lose faith. And, now that we are aware of her dark motives and darker means, we can only be more resolute in our campaign against the taint of Petunia.
Curse on SMS! Curse on leprosy! And double curse and endless shame on those who would seek to tear us apart! For we are the Revelators!
Your Dedicated Anti-Wannabe-Blogger Warrior,
Style-less Tramp
A note to fellow Revealators...!
Dear friends,
It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the recent subversive actions of our competition. Through the medium of SMS Petunia has been attempting to spread disinformation, drive an emotional wedge, harbour mistrust and generally poison the strong bonds that we here at RLLS are (as a young {Jung} blog-family) attempting to nurture. It was just this morning that I was treated to an article of Petunia's thinly veiled corrosive material. Through her SMS she attempted to convince me that there was discontent among the ranks and that slander was being committed against me by one of my own! Fret not, fellows. I am secure in our bonds and took comfort in the knowledge that if there were any such discontent it would be dealt with privately and with class by us reasonable fellows. Clearly Petunia thinks of public back-stabbing as a concieveable threat to our group unity and singular vision (perhaps that is the preferred method of conflict-resolution for our competition - pah!). Well hear this Petunia...fuck you, our collective spirit will not be threatened by your jealousy.
DTD
It is with a heavy heart that I inform you of the recent subversive actions of our competition. Through the medium of SMS Petunia has been attempting to spread disinformation, drive an emotional wedge, harbour mistrust and generally poison the strong bonds that we here at RLLS are (as a young {Jung} blog-family) attempting to nurture. It was just this morning that I was treated to an article of Petunia's thinly veiled corrosive material. Through her SMS she attempted to convince me that there was discontent among the ranks and that slander was being committed against me by one of my own! Fret not, fellows. I am secure in our bonds and took comfort in the knowledge that if there were any such discontent it would be dealt with privately and with class by us reasonable fellows. Clearly Petunia thinks of public back-stabbing as a concieveable threat to our group unity and singular vision (perhaps that is the preferred method of conflict-resolution for our competition - pah!). Well hear this Petunia...fuck you, our collective spirit will not be threatened by your jealousy.
DTD
The Blogger: Scene One
Dramatis Personae:
Ainutep, female, mid-20s, flowery and pedestrian. Performed by Dame Edna.
Cockroaches. Performed by Pink Floyd.
Scene One.
Sickly lights rise on a basement. Cracks line the walls from which cockroaches crawl. The cockroaches hump each other endlessly, and their chorus of pleasure heightens as the scene goes on, much to the dismay of lonely, sex-crazed AINUTEP.
AINUTEP is sitting at a laptop. She raises her hands to type but gives up.
AINUTEP: Woe is me!
The chief cockroach approaches AINUTEP.
COCKROACH: Why haven't you written in your new blog, your majesty?
AINUTEP: Regdel Riah has betrayed me - she has retreated to the Ffid'!
COCKROACH: The Ffid'? That's disgusting.
AINUTEP: She is my only friend.
COCKROACH: And we?
AINUTEP: You won't cross your legs.
COCKROACH: But I can't help it.
AINUTEP: Oh I will lose this dastardly cyber-battle!
COCKROACH: But are you not a renowned blogger, your majesty?
AINUTEP: I was...I was...
COCKROACH: Then you must remain so!
AINUTEP: No, no, I can't! The Rival Bloggers are just too good! They are witty and prolific, they are so powerful and manly and expressive with the English language! They have made ten posts and I... I am but a cockroach.
COCKROACH: Don't be mean, your majesty.
AINUTEP: Yes, I have been through so much.
COCKROACH: No, I mean, to us. You should not be so mean to us, your cucurachas... Majesty.
AINUTEP: Oh you are my very best friends.
COCKROACH: Type, your majesty, type!
AINUTEP: It's too loud in here, you are all filling me with cockroach envy!
COCKROACH: Just type!
AINUTEP: Not yet, I need... I need inspiration!
She rises.
COCKROACH: Where are you going?
AINUTEP: To the Ruv'!
COCKROACH: Why?
AINUTEP: I must go read a great man's work.
COCKROACH: Who is that man?
AINUTEP: The Pinter.
COCKROACH: Ah, yes. Did you know he wrote in Old English?
AINUTEP: Yes. Yes.
She leaves. The cockroaches celebrate with champagne and smelling in between each other's wide open legs.
End of scene.
Friday 27 February 2009
Revelations of a life lived in (a) coordinated inability to write a single word.
I don't think it can be ignored. I don't think it can or should be ignored. It must be acknowledged.
Yes, it must be acknowledged that their is a rival to The Rival Blog of RLLS and it must be acknowledged.
.... And yet, why on earth would we not acknowledge a rival blog considering said rivals' puny pathetic insignificance! It does show, however, that already in the short time that the forefather (SLT) of our cause began this momentous and most sacred of blogs, and I, (GS) became its first disciple, already, we must battle against jealously and potential slander (which frankly could constitute as bullying)
This is until of course you let your eyes peruse the existing rival... and then your sides hurt from the monumental sidesplitting laughter that courses through your body as the so-called-rival has not even managed a sentence. Hasn't written a. Single. Word. A whole day on. Whilst this blog approaches double figures after just three days (which is paramount to a child taking it's first steps after a mere month of life) not even a single solitary letter adorns their page. They couldn't even muster the intelligence or wit to come up with their own title - instead having to rip off ours in a virtual cut and paste exercise (you will be hearing from our lawyers)
So it is with this that i encourage the disciples and wide readership of this blog to, please, go and look at the rival Rival Blog. Look and join in with my hysterical laughter till your shirt is wet with your own tears. Cackle at what is less a rival and more an afterthought.
Generic Shithead
(All the above was true as of 16.44 pm 27th Feb 2009, looking at a PC screen in the Ruv')
Yes, it must be acknowledged that their is a rival to The Rival Blog of RLLS and it must be acknowledged.
.... And yet, why on earth would we not acknowledge a rival blog considering said rivals' puny pathetic insignificance! It does show, however, that already in the short time that the forefather (SLT) of our cause began this momentous and most sacred of blogs, and I, (GS) became its first disciple, already, we must battle against jealously and potential slander (which frankly could constitute as bullying)
This is until of course you let your eyes peruse the existing rival... and then your sides hurt from the monumental sidesplitting laughter that courses through your body as the so-called-rival has not even managed a sentence. Hasn't written a. Single. Word. A whole day on. Whilst this blog approaches double figures after just three days (which is paramount to a child taking it's first steps after a mere month of life) not even a single solitary letter adorns their page. They couldn't even muster the intelligence or wit to come up with their own title - instead having to rip off ours in a virtual cut and paste exercise (you will be hearing from our lawyers)
So it is with this that i encourage the disciples and wide readership of this blog to, please, go and look at the rival Rival Blog. Look and join in with my hysterical laughter till your shirt is wet with your own tears. Cackle at what is less a rival and more an afterthought.
Generic Shithead
(All the above was true as of 16.44 pm 27th Feb 2009, looking at a PC screen in the Ruv')
Skateboards: Form of transport or Fashion Accessory?
What is it with Smithonian students carrying a bloody skateboard everywhere... and yet it is so rare for me to actually see one of them use the bloody thing. Whilst the debate of how 'boards fit in to some kinda Sk8r Bo1 culture has no doubt been covered before, (probably no less by Annoying Avril herself) can they actually be considered a form of transport? The fact that they seem terrifical unsafe is by the by, but if you were to try and use one to get from A to B would it be in any way significantly more advantageous than walking? And if so, can that be subset against how silly you would look in trying to do so?
Also, if anyone did consider them a form of transport (as i'm inclined to believe they are only used to play with and annoy the rest of the respectable public) should they have to travel in the cycle lanes? Whilst they would be an incredible annoyance to cyclists if people did use them as a form of transport more regularly (and if Smithonian's did a bit more with them than just carry them everywhere under there studenty arms) is it then the general unsuspecting pavement using public that would have to suffer youth's and general scruffy student ruffians 'boarding towards us at medium slow speed, whilst they career in god knows what next direction?!
I think it is an important (and in no way 'grumpy old codgerish') debate of our time
Generic Shithead
p.s. no sex yesterday either but i did think about different ways to scare cats.
Also, if anyone did consider them a form of transport (as i'm inclined to believe they are only used to play with and annoy the rest of the respectable public) should they have to travel in the cycle lanes? Whilst they would be an incredible annoyance to cyclists if people did use them as a form of transport more regularly (and if Smithonian's did a bit more with them than just carry them everywhere under there studenty arms) is it then the general unsuspecting pavement using public that would have to suffer youth's and general scruffy student ruffians 'boarding towards us at medium slow speed, whilst they career in god knows what next direction?!
I think it is an important (and in no way 'grumpy old codgerish') debate of our time
Generic Shithead
p.s. no sex yesterday either but i did think about different ways to scare cats.
Thursday 26 February 2009
Competition
"Do you like it when I caress your leg like that?" J-Star said, unequivocally.
"Well, I'm not sure yet... Do you like it?" I replied, unexpectedly.
"Absolutely," spoke J-Star with his acid-tongue slithering about in that broad moist upper cavern, "it softens me. Now I want to ask you about [DIE TYE DIE]."
"Oh, him! Oh let's not dally with [DIE TYE DIE], he is but a worm in the swamp of our discarded desires. He is the flower that always wanted to be, but never saw that he never was. Oh, [J-Star], let us not discuss-"
"We must," he interrupted, sexily. "You must understand, and take this with a grain of brown sugar. He has become...my favourite."
The dagger poked into my backside like a girth loosened from a horse drinking from a clear fresh-water pond. Waking from my stupor of disbelief, I felt as if I were forced to drink the tepid black filth dripping from some manly tap, silver but without reflection, as if the tap was too confident in itself, too strong, too...muscular. I opened my eyes and there before me, J-Star smiled that beautiful, sanguine smile I have come to know so intimately well - and to his right, below his relaxed arm, there he was: DIE TYE DIE. And he was smiling too, only his gaze was one of victory, of achievement - for he knew, he had climbed to No. 1.
And then I woke.
And then I saw: in my hand an apple. A Royal Gala apple, from South Africa. With a bite into it, the shape of someone else's mouth. And then, right there, I knew: my fight had begun.
J-Star must be mine.
I will climb up into the light of his soft illumination. I will promise my body to his everlasting wisdom. I will devote my being to the open plains of his chest, the grass being his unkempt yet lingering mess of hair.
J-Star will be mine.
Petunia is a fashion fascist and her horse is called Nad.
Dear reader,
First off, let me set the record (or any future record) straight by stating the following with as much clarity and gravitas a young (Jung) blogger can muster: I whole heartedly endorse every word printed beneath this post, on this particular web page (perhaps the finest i have seen [most specifically my own {which is not in anyway a slight against the others }}) and shall endeavor to not repeat was has been said with much elegance before my arrival.
So, what new do I have to add?
Firstly, this: Petunia is a fashion fascist. That is to say she exercises and attempts to enforce rigid restrictions on the sartorial expression (and similar arts) of those around her that are emblematic of a highly conservative, xenophobic view point. A view point indicative of one thing - fear. Petunia (a pleasant fellow in many ways) clearly fears the vivid, the surreal and especially the psychedelic. The harshest of her fascistic restrictions (and attempted punishments through humiliation tactics) are reserved especially for anachronistic items of fashionistic bliss. Well hear this Petunia, I will not be censored - for every rolled eye and sarcastic witticism or riff on colour-blindness (a genuine disability that should not be lampooned) or hippy-dom (refer to previous parenthesis) I will endeavor to up the ante! Long live the paint splattered v-neck!
Secondly, who is this Nad fellow? Has any one of us fair Revealators ever had the pleasure of a quibbling match or pun-dual with him? No. Have we ever viewed him (or even an effigy of him) with out the electronic interface? Thought not. Here, brothers (and reluctantly...sisters) is my explanation - Nad is not a man (or even a woman)...he is a horse. Why else would Petunia always wear cowboy boots? They aren't in fashion.
Much love,
DTD
First off, let me set the record (or any future record) straight by stating the following with as much clarity and gravitas a young (Jung) blogger can muster: I whole heartedly endorse every word printed beneath this post, on this particular web page (perhaps the finest i have seen [most specifically my own {which is not in anyway a slight against the others }}) and shall endeavor to not repeat was has been said with much elegance before my arrival.
So, what new do I have to add?
Firstly, this: Petunia is a fashion fascist. That is to say she exercises and attempts to enforce rigid restrictions on the sartorial expression (and similar arts) of those around her that are emblematic of a highly conservative, xenophobic view point. A view point indicative of one thing - fear. Petunia (a pleasant fellow in many ways) clearly fears the vivid, the surreal and especially the psychedelic. The harshest of her fascistic restrictions (and attempted punishments through humiliation tactics) are reserved especially for anachronistic items of fashionistic bliss. Well hear this Petunia, I will not be censored - for every rolled eye and sarcastic witticism or riff on colour-blindness (a genuine disability that should not be lampooned) or hippy-dom (refer to previous parenthesis) I will endeavor to up the ante! Long live the paint splattered v-neck!
Secondly, who is this Nad fellow? Has any one of us fair Revealators ever had the pleasure of a quibbling match or pun-dual with him? No. Have we ever viewed him (or even an effigy of him) with out the electronic interface? Thought not. Here, brothers (and reluctantly...sisters) is my explanation - Nad is not a man (or even a woman)...he is a horse. Why else would Petunia always wear cowboy boots? They aren't in fashion.
Much love,
DTD
Blowing Kisses
So, I am sitting in the Amer***m Ar*s writing my first blog. Last night's beer buzz throbbing in my ears...I hope my friends from uni don't notice the fresh scratches on my shoulder. It's okay, I've adjusted my v-neck. It's easy this time of year; I'd probably be wearing a wooly top anyway. But the summer, god the summer, jesus the summer - covering my body in the sweltering heat. My lonely, quivering body craves the heat, the sunlight on my virgin flesh. Oh god, to be bathed in sunlight; the warm breast and saccharine kisses of my favourite would-be/could-be/will-be lover. Dare I confide in you, dear reader, who I speak of? J-Star be his name, navigator of my heart-ship be his position, captain be his rank. Oh who am I fooling, me with the green hair sweat-patch diverted eyes coy smile illustrious flirting shameless blowing kisses when your not looking god i hope you rip me a new asshole and fill it. xxxx
Wednesday 25 February 2009
Sex and Royalism
Naturally, I agree with everything in the below blog from Style-less Tramp (especially in anything that derides our "friend" Petunia - have i mentioned before that this does not constitute as bullying?)
So, in response... What i, Generic Shithead, have done today (as i feel i have fully imbued the previous blogs message and should write thus) :
I have had many conversations; naturally many of them very intelligent (with me being the most intelligent, natch) and full of countless beautiful swearing. I have pondered on many occasions about my life, this that and the other and...oh. I haven't had sex today. Definitely no sex... I have thought about it a few times (Style-less Tramp was very well attired today, and Petunia and Ledger Hair are not unattractive) but have not enacted any such acts. More key, is i am still not a monarch of any sort (and depressingly can't profess to have any plans to become such, either). This is simply unacceptable! Why on earth am i not King G S? This is especially intolerable considering my family heritage (some people don't have one... not naming names...Petunia) If any one is down with Royalism it is me and i think it is about time some small island or principality or such took me up as their king or god.
Thus concludes my day. Generic Shithead
So, in response... What i, Generic Shithead, have done today (as i feel i have fully imbued the previous blogs message and should write thus) :
I have had many conversations; naturally many of them very intelligent (with me being the most intelligent, natch) and full of countless beautiful swearing. I have pondered on many occasions about my life, this that and the other and...oh. I haven't had sex today. Definitely no sex... I have thought about it a few times (Style-less Tramp was very well attired today, and Petunia and Ledger Hair are not unattractive) but have not enacted any such acts. More key, is i am still not a monarch of any sort (and depressingly can't profess to have any plans to become such, either). This is simply unacceptable! Why on earth am i not King G S? This is especially intolerable considering my family heritage (some people don't have one... not naming names...Petunia) If any one is down with Royalism it is me and i think it is about time some small island or principality or such took me up as their king or god.
Thus concludes my day. Generic Shithead
Sexism & Royalty
Dear Petunia,
First of all, apologies for not naming you 'Princess Pea' on this new and wonderful blog. 'Petunia' is easier to write and simpler to read, and so instead of diving into the pitfalls of over-wroughted-ness and ultra-complexity for the sake of complexity, my co-blogger and I have elected to a more egalitarian, may we say democratic, approach. For it is with the spirit of democracy and freedom that this forum for higher thinking has been engendered; with it we shall dismantle your veritable apartheid of personal expression. Heretofore there shall no longer be quabbles, but epic struggles; there shall no longer be in-fighting, but serious debate. We at Revelations prize grand thought over petty emotion, and vigourous passion over rigid dogma. We at Revelations shall bury your dispirited, value-less blogging beneath the oceans of liberated, priceless commentary.
And in this invigorated fury of righteousness, I move to my first subject. Sexism and Royalty. If Prince Charles were to marry, and then if he were to ascend the Throne of this wondrous, wind-swept land, would his spouse be theretofore known as 'Queen'? Undoubtedly, yes. Yet, our current Sovereign's husband is known only as Prince. Why can he not be King? Would we assume that if he were such, he would be in charge? Whereas, if Charles' wife were to be Queen, we would not make the same assumption?
Of course, you will probably now say that the British monarch no longer rules the Empire. Well, I say to you: how utterly mistaken, pupil. Parliament is a facade. The Cabinet is nominal. The Prime Minister a puppet. Her Majesty is well aware that in the Age of Web 2.0 democracy must have its illusion, lest the people, in all their despicable slaughter-borne drivelling, rise up and cause trouble. Understand, the Monarch needs not the Image of power, nor the trappings of Popularity, but only the means to rule and execute the proper will of this everlasting state. It is a will independent of any social contract or 'agreement' with the (P)people, capitalised or not - it is the Will of our Divinely Appointed (and Divinely Smelling, I might add - our Queen's feces do indeed not stink) Sovereign. And whether we are aware of her authoritarian sacrifices or not, her rule must now and always be absolute.
And so I hereby announce my intention to marry Deer In Headlights. You know exactly who this is. Through her I shall succeed in wresting the Throne for myself, and thus through the Might of England dominate this World to the Good of All! My plan is secret at the moment, but I will release my inspirations as you need to know them. For the Queen is merely a placeholder. And I am merely the Guardian of Knowledge.
With the Eternal Love of Those Who Are Meant to Rule,
SLT
PS: Petunia - Go Fuck Yourself.
First of all, apologies for not naming you 'Princess Pea' on this new and wonderful blog. 'Petunia' is easier to write and simpler to read, and so instead of diving into the pitfalls of over-wroughted-ness and ultra-complexity for the sake of complexity, my co-blogger and I have elected to a more egalitarian, may we say democratic, approach. For it is with the spirit of democracy and freedom that this forum for higher thinking has been engendered; with it we shall dismantle your veritable apartheid of personal expression. Heretofore there shall no longer be quabbles, but epic struggles; there shall no longer be in-fighting, but serious debate. We at Revelations prize grand thought over petty emotion, and vigourous passion over rigid dogma. We at Revelations shall bury your dispirited, value-less blogging beneath the oceans of liberated, priceless commentary.
And in this invigorated fury of righteousness, I move to my first subject. Sexism and Royalty. If Prince Charles were to marry, and then if he were to ascend the Throne of this wondrous, wind-swept land, would his spouse be theretofore known as 'Queen'? Undoubtedly, yes. Yet, our current Sovereign's husband is known only as Prince. Why can he not be King? Would we assume that if he were such, he would be in charge? Whereas, if Charles' wife were to be Queen, we would not make the same assumption?
Of course, you will probably now say that the British monarch no longer rules the Empire. Well, I say to you: how utterly mistaken, pupil. Parliament is a facade. The Cabinet is nominal. The Prime Minister a puppet. Her Majesty is well aware that in the Age of Web 2.0 democracy must have its illusion, lest the people, in all their despicable slaughter-borne drivelling, rise up and cause trouble. Understand, the Monarch needs not the Image of power, nor the trappings of Popularity, but only the means to rule and execute the proper will of this everlasting state. It is a will independent of any social contract or 'agreement' with the (P)people, capitalised or not - it is the Will of our Divinely Appointed (and Divinely Smelling, I might add - our Queen's feces do indeed not stink) Sovereign. And whether we are aware of her authoritarian sacrifices or not, her rule must now and always be absolute.
And so I hereby announce my intention to marry Deer In Headlights. You know exactly who this is. Through her I shall succeed in wresting the Throne for myself, and thus through the Might of England dominate this World to the Good of All! My plan is secret at the moment, but I will release my inspirations as you need to know them. For the Queen is merely a placeholder. And I am merely the Guardian of Knowledge.
With the Eternal Love of Those Who Are Meant to Rule,
SLT
PS: Petunia - Go Fuck Yourself.
One night stand
Petunia has got serious issues. And she can stop watching me type as well; i'm talking about her not to her. This is not a form of bullying - Who is Petunia? Maybe she is a figure of our imagination. Don't ruin our fun Ho'!
So anyway, swearing is great. Everyone should curse more. Why do we build up words to have such ridiculously high, negative values when all they are is made up of the same letters as any other word! It's really stupid and Style-less Tramp is correct in everything he is uttering to Petunia on the matter. She is so wrong it is not even funny and i think she should take a long hard look at herself... Because i think she would be ashamed to see the censorship she has tried to put upon us today... That's right... I said it... Ho'.
She is now smiling at me (slightly uncomfortably, as if she regrets the pandora's box she has opened - or Petunia's box if you will - as she clearly is not finding our humour as amusing as Style-Less Tramp and I are - apparently we are not 'taking this artform seriously'( and we will write in whatever grammatical forms we want we'll have you know)) and i think she thinks that i thinks that she thinks that we are not going to take this undertaking seriously. That we are going to just treat this escapade (?) frivolously. That it is just a one night stand. Well i would say to her, that this is the start of a beautiful relationship and that it is clear - even from day one - that our baby is clearly better looking and more intelligent than yours (and cleaner - no 'used' toilet paper on its head)
So.... there. No i don't need to click finish spell checking - Suck it! Suck our blog! Ho'!
So anyway, swearing is great. Everyone should curse more. Why do we build up words to have such ridiculously high, negative values when all they are is made up of the same letters as any other word! It's really stupid and Style-less Tramp is correct in everything he is uttering to Petunia on the matter. She is so wrong it is not even funny and i think she should take a long hard look at herself... Because i think she would be ashamed to see the censorship she has tried to put upon us today... That's right... I said it... Ho'.
She is now smiling at me (slightly uncomfortably, as if she regrets the pandora's box she has opened - or Petunia's box if you will - as she clearly is not finding our humour as amusing as Style-Less Tramp and I are - apparently we are not 'taking this artform seriously'( and we will write in whatever grammatical forms we want we'll have you know)) and i think she thinks that i thinks that she thinks that we are not going to take this undertaking seriously. That we are going to just treat this escapade (?) frivolously. That it is just a one night stand. Well i would say to her, that this is the start of a beautiful relationship and that it is clear - even from day one - that our baby is clearly better looking and more intelligent than yours (and cleaner - no 'used' toilet paper on its head)
So.... there. No i don't need to click finish spell checking - Suck it! Suck our blog! Ho'!
At the Ruv'
So, we're down at the Ruv' yo, and we're sittin' next to Petunia and she says that swearing is rude! Fuck the donkeys! Swearing and cursing and cussing and shitfucking is a legitimate form of communicado! Says I! Now Petunia says it's generally a form for those with "low levels of communications skills" but then I challenged her to a duel of words and I said you can "fuck right off" and she did. Then she came back with a snarky comment: "you're a style-less tramp" and then she called my co-blogger a "generic shithead" and so from here on out let the world know that Petunia has a new blog to reckon with: unpretentious, uncowardly, in-yer-face (non-whatever), fuck-this-shit-up-in-da-house-of-cards, bombing-poor-places, super-duper-blog! It's called Revelations of a Life Lived in Syntax - why syntax? Cause that's a complex word, fucker! And yes, we do take this seriously. Very seriously, Petunia. So go fuck yourself and if you ever want to use my toilet again you can god damn well ask nicely. And don't complain when the wet toilet paper falls on your disgusting little head.
PS: Naed needs to wash himself; and watch himself too, because if he ever threatens the Generic Shithead again he'll have this Style-less Tramp riding his ass to the gates of Hades wherein he will learn of his worthlessness and discover fierce self-loathing having such a stupid name.
PS: Naed needs to wash himself; and watch himself too, because if he ever threatens the Generic Shithead again he'll have this Style-less Tramp riding his ass to the gates of Hades wherein he will learn of his worthlessness and discover fierce self-loathing having such a stupid name.
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