Monday, 13 December 2010

an inked up philosopher is the perfect woman, providing she can take a slap

alright, so why do all the decent girls have boyfriends who treat them like dirt? ill be your boyfriend


It is reported that the earliest evidence of the act of tattooing dates back to over 7000 years ago. The concept of modern tattooing on the surface, is for cosmetic advancement. To make yourself look sexier, funkier and cooler in the eyes of the world around you. Sentimental reasons are often cited for the motive behind getting a tattoo. Some people are genuine and earnest in this, some aren't. Some people justify their cause for a tattoo by hiding behind reasons they don't truly believe in because they don't have the confidence or self-esteem to outright declare they're seeking other people's superficial approval. Insecurities run through the collective mannerisms of society like water through a cheese grater. The industrialised, western world is dominated by impression. Seemingly we live in a continuous Crufts show, the main categories for judgment being fashion, taste, appearance and interest. Subjects intended to be shaped and moulded by our DNA and the way we grew into ourselves, i.e. "who we are." Instead they are contrived, customised and cultivated for the viewing pleasure of the onlooking, well herded, unified and united conformist crowd.

However, beneath the lies, fake rationale and artificial justifications, tattooing's routes lie in empowerment and the conquering of one's self. Like piercing, scarring and body building, the purposeful manipulation of our bodies awards us with a primitive, instinctive satisfaction. A staunch symbolism of control and self-mastery that gratifies and feeds us. When survival is all but assured, we seek pleasure and entertainment. When we experience stress or pain, the brain releases Endorphins. That feel good, laid back, no pain, no stress, blowjob in the shower kinda shit. Tattoos are painful. Being tattooed is like dozing peacefully in a hammock on a warm, lazy evening, the birds tweeting gently in the distance, having a beautiful woman fondle your balls and poke at you with hot, sharp sticks. Painful? Yes. Uncomfortable? Sure. Satisfying, gratifying and empowering? Hell yes.

Self-adornment is not an addiction. Pain is. We love pain. We scream and yearn for it like a young child clutches to his mother amidst frenzied fear. We mutilate and burn ourselves for pain, for the appeasing, enchanting bliss it tends to us. Is it any wonder people endure misery in work and relationships when we crave so archaically for self-destruction? What kind of delirious, demented and deranged individual strives for a stress free job and a healthy relationship?

Hey there doll face, I was just wondering if you wanted to come out with me some time? I’m generous, loyal and kind hearted. I’m out for a good time, I’ve always got a smile on my face and I’ll do my best to keep you safe and happy if it’s the last thing I do.

Thanks for the offer, you sniveling, low life fucking pansy - but I think I’ve got a better idea. I’m gonna go sit on that neo-nazi’s face and get off on his harrowing racism whilst his bigoted, prejudiced friends beat my face in with baking trays, belt buckles and beer bottles.

There are shitty people everywhere. From indecent cocksuckers with bad intentions to the dumb, narrow-minded, spineless cocksuckers that put up with them. Never be afraid to cut those people the fuck loose. All of them. Fuck fear. Fuck the fear of being alone, the fear of not being accepted, the fear of non-conformity. People go to waste because they live their lives everlastingly ‘putting up’ with people, with jobs, with shit they plain don’t like. “Let’s shake these chains and start living man!” “Nah, fuck that. I’m gonna stay shackled up in this rotting corner under this fluorescent light and wilt like the ball-less fuck flap I am.”

Have you ever sat down in a reflective mood and done a good bit of soul searching? Everyone must be familiar with that feeling. Well you fucking well shouldn’t be. Soul searching? What the hell is that? What are you even searching for? An answer to your bullshit problems? Apparently the power of your sub-conscious wasn’t enough to figure it out, but settling down and concentrating on the matter as the brain dead, puerile, insensate, dribbling fucking idiot you are will really help to crack the case and solve all your bullshit problems. No one has ever ‘soul searched’ for any one specific thing. People sit around, moping like the self-absorbed, egotistical, delusional degenerates they really are. Then have the outright fantasy to convince themselves they’re being productive and perceptive. ‘Course you’re gonna have problems when you can’t even be honest with yourself. Shit.

Aberrancy amongst beauty will never catch the eye like beauty amongst aberrancy for it is the light that imposes upon the dark and this will always endure. Fuck the grotesque.

Tuesday, 7 December 2010

im fed up of the queen sending me figments of her imagination

send them my regards


An overwhelming, disparagingly large mass of people would readily and happily hard wire a remote control system into their bodies. A button to eat, a button to drink, a button to sleep, a button to walk, run, dance, scratch, smile, frown, read, watch, talk, work, push, pull, hit, press, shake, sit, stand, listen, feel. Remote controls are pioneers of efficiency and in being so are a modest measure of genius. Home entertainment, lighting, car locking, digital cameras, military equipment and all manor of modern electronics utilize remote technology. The idea that the latest and greatest in labour saving gizmos be released without remotes so you can control them whilst sitting on your comatose, inanimate, ambling derrière would render society gobsmacked with shock and fervid disgust.

"However will I fire this nuclear rocket at an unsuspecting 3rd world country without a diamond encrusted, carbon fibre remote with a pulsating, shiny, red button of extirpation to press - served coextensively like a pernicious platter of mass murdering Rudolf nose for my blood spilling delectation."

Well tear my naive limbs from my innocuous body, stick some 2 by 4s in me, dress me in a straw hat, a vintage blazer, carve a wide eyed bodacious, unflinching smile into my face and call me a fucking scarecrow. I just so happen to suppose you'll have to crawl up under that 5 ton hulk of convulsive demolition, hold up a lighter, duck down your head and pray to several, sympathetic Gods simultaneously that you don't get your imperceptive, ignorant, languid fucking eyeballs blown out.

Laziness is a disease. It is contagious, debilitating and cancerous. It has crept through the rigidly controlled, organized, limited and opressed boundaries of civilization and imposed itself on our customs and cultures. Neanderthals weren’t lazy! Shit, do you think the concept of laziness could inflict itself on a primitive, hair enveloped, crooked toothed, hump-backed, stick-wielding predator like a Neanderthal and obtrude into his or her limited consciousness? Hell no! Survival spares no thought for the lazy. What about the sloth? What about the turtle? What about hedgehogs and all the other hibernating, inattentive, lifeless motherfuckers? Well shut up, sit down and take note. There is a difference between the illusion of laziness and conscious laziness. These animals portray the apathetic characteristics our collective imagination associates with laziness. They are however perfectly adapted and suited to the environment they live in. They have no consciousness – they don’t decide to be lazy. Just like the Neanderthals.

We as modern day, super evolved, intelligent humans however are different. Our intellectual prowess gives us the power to innovate and invent. As is said, with great power comes great responsibility, the responsibility in this case being choice. As a conscious, premeditating, rationalizing species we have the choice to exploit and make use of the magnificent tools lain at our feet – or we can choose not to. In a period of evolution where our survival in the industrialized world is no longer a struggle, that is to say – we can do shit, or we can decide not to do shit.

A minority formulates and develops technological advances that seemingly all who are financially viable purchase to further remove themselves from the expenditure of energy. Just as remotes are a measure of genius, technological advancement in general is stimulating and to be applauded. The general attitude behind the mass consumer public buying this shit is a different kettle of fish! In fact, never mind kettle of fish, we’re talking a different café tier of endangered whale right here.

Laziness is found everywhere around you and inside you. From the way we act to the way we talk. The things we do to the things we say. The way we teach to the way we learn. How many people question what they teach, let alone the things they learn? Now it would almost certainly rupture my soul into a shapeless mound of broken soul fragments to bestow upon someone the idea that I might just be an ungrateful, tin-chested, ungracious prick but hold tight, clench hard, buckle up and brace yourselves ‘cos we might just be out of luck on this one; someone recently sent me their regards. Thanks. Thanks for the regards. What shall I do with these newly acquired well wishes, put them in my regards jar with all my other regards and positive implications? Great, maybe one day I’ll pick the jar up to admire my collection of meaningless, inconsequential entities of make believe, drop the jar on my foot and lacerate my Achilles tendon. Again - thanks. Thanks for the regards. Who the fuck do you think you are anyway; the Queen of England? “Send my regards” – thanks for the monumental, condescending effort you put in there you patronizing fuck. If they’re that important to you, send them yourself instead of using a silk cushioned messenger your thoughtless, arrogant Highness.

What the fuck is a regard, literally what the fuck is it? Can you actually answer me that? Regards are hollow and without purpose; regardless. Sending regards is an insubstantial, lazy gesture ill-disguised as a way of attempting to positively influence someone else’s life. It’s custom, one aspect of culture, one practice we indulge in that has no logical thought, meaning or reason behind it. It is a prime demonstration of the fact that no one questions what they say or do or what any of it really means. Intuitive thought amongst the consumer driven masses is harder to come across than a spunk fearing prostitute.

Choose intuition. Encompass and seize responsibility of choice. Negate laziness. Refute acceptability. Question everything. Think for yourself.

Thursday, 2 December 2010

mr muscle's rivalry with the grim reaper is admirable, but there can only be one winner

the unpredictability of death is a blessing in disguise


How gratifyingly ironic that the most calculable of inevitabilities is so recurrently branded as unpredictable. What goes up, must come down; what lives must eventually die. Unless you're Claire Bennet, Peter Petrelli, Adam Monroe or Sylar from Heroes. Each as sexually attractive and effulgently indestructible as the last. Ah, to be immortal. To be able to impress the beautiful and wondrous Claire Bennet with my glimmering immortality. Instead I am condemned to my tenuous daydreams with my pathetic and unimpressive ability to die. She could never love a man like me. Nope, she'd probably write in her diary about how shit I am.

'Dear Diary, today Jack bought me a chocolate milkshake with marshmallows. As he handed it to me with shaking hands, he dropped it on the floor and glass went everywhere. In his haste to clear up the mess, he cut himself. He didn't regenerate immediately and there was blood everywhere. What a good-for-nothing, incompetent, feckless, fucking waste of space that dickhead is. I told him I had to rush home for dinner then stopped by Sylars house, he was so immortal that I sucked him dryer than a freshly laundered towel. Yours forever (literally! Oh Diary, you never tire of that one), Claire xx'

Well I tell you what Claire. Why don't you take that feculent, obscene, polluted language of yours, mould it as a concept into some form of expressive sculpture and shove that sculpture down your filthy, death-defying throat you whore.

Being able to die won’t improve your love life. Going up to a fine looking lady and saying “Hey sugar, see me? Yeaaaahh – I’ll be dead one day” probably won’t get you the sweet lovin’ you so cravingly desire. It’ll most likely get you a puzzled look, a cold shoulder and an escourt outside from security. Mortality is no good thing. It is also no bad thing. It’s neutral. It’s part and parcel of the dreadfully predictable and exquisitely aberrant whirlwind of life. What better motivation could there be to do all the things you’ve ever wanted to do than the fact that you could be crushed into the ground by an uprising army of furiously angry, giant robotic Terrapins? It’s unlikely. Very, very unlikely. But shit! You don’t want the grief of thinking ‘I wish I’d bought a Macbook’ whilst being stomped into the cold, hard ground by an ill-tempered, mechanical reptile. That will actually be Apple’s next major advertising campaign – you heard it here first. “iPhone 5 – because sometimes colossal, motorised Terrapins attack.”

If any fear is rational it’s the fear of death. Brutal, fateful, unforgiving death wiping the slate of your life clean like a noxious, calamitous bottle of poisonous bathroom cleaner. That wily fucking Grim Reaper. Use to be he’d stand boldly before you and smash a scythe upside your head. Now he sneaks up on you like a ninja and does you with a fatal dose of Deathtox (kills 99.9% of bacteria and you). The unpredictability of death is a blessing on the condition you embrace it as such. Therein lies the art of perception and the key to happiness. Always look on the bright side of life. Do you think Eric Idle wrote that song to inject joy, exuberance and comic effect to Monty Python? Of course not! It’s an important life lesson. Why not charge into the unrelenting gunfire of death through the swampy minefield of life? There’s nothing beyond those locked, loaded, projectile firing harbingers of doom but a promise land filled with an infinite number of ways to die. So you can live with fear and without risk, leave your house once in 80 years only to gently fall over a small rock and die of internal bleeding. OR you can charge passionately through life wearing a giddy smile and meet the bullets of death directly with your face! Fuck yeah! There is only a cheap, party shop disguise veiling the blessing that is the unpredictability of death. Stampede with devotion and feeling towards those guns. Head for the promise land! If my death is inevitable then the best I can hope is that it’ll at least be fucking interesting. I don’t want to lie on my deathbed watching re-runs of Inspector Morse, coughing mucus into a cardboard tray. I want to choke to death on a snorkel mid-fight with a shark! Get treated for a critical medical condition by Dr Dre in a hilarious misunderstanding! Get clouted by a car whilst crossing a zebra crossing – on a zebra!

Embrace and envelop your fears. Let them take you to places you never dreamed you’d be. Tend each curse to consecration. Who knows, you might get shot in the face. Brilliant.

Tuesday, 30 November 2010

louis walsh's main exports are bullshit, terrorism and watered down whiskey

konnie huq has degraded herself by doing the x-factor


Spirituality, as a term and concept conjures up clouded, soft coloured images of flowery clothed hippies capering around an auspicious, untamed meadow. Perhaps touching each other in a manner as affectionate as it is causeless. Stroking each other's effervescent, vacant faces with hands made of love and indifferent inquisition. This is a vision which lacks direction and meaning. On a subconscious level, you - as a human, have already detected this. You have filed this information and attached keywords such as listless, vague, nebulous and wank. "Listless hippies; what a load of nebulous wank" - you might say. Well fuck you. Why do you have to be such a downhearted, despondent, dispirited, hate mongering killjoy all the time? Cheer up you depressing sack of sorrow and shit. Spirituality is unbounded, it is absolute, it is what connects us to the hope we dream. It guides us through dark, leads us through aversion and shelters us from storms of hurt. Konnie Huq, popular British television presenter, delineates and illustrates the ongoing contention between spirituality, freedom and popular culture. Her fantastically seductive ways fascinate and enthrall the viewer. The way she sold her velvet lined, soft centered, chicken madras flavoured soul to present The X-Factor embodies the ugliest of all that is imperfect.

Fuck you Konnie Huq. Let your skin singe and smolder in hell as you pay for your pop sins. Then return from Satan's lair with your renewed creativity, unrivaled flair and freshly burnt skin like a devil flavoured crispy bacon sandwich. Oh Konnie, remember Blue Peter? I do. I remember that fine piece of booty, so free in spirit, preparing innovative and revolutionary contraptions before mine very eyes. "Here's one I prepared earlier" you'd say, that spectral glint in your bewitching eyes. You'd pull out a novel creation from under that blue counter of constitution and production, designed to inject both utility and fun into the viewers life - oh how you'd pull out that earlier-prepared gizmo. You'd pull it out so good. Now look at you; working with Dermot 'The Spawn of Satan' O'Leary and Simon Cowell, a man who acts as if he's constantly stuck in the first 2 minutes of a 33 minute porno. And then there's Louis Walsh. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Louis fucking Walsh. You, Louis fucking Walsh, are an impuissant, inadequate, bollocks deprived, testosterone deficient, spineless, nonessential waster. You're not funny. Your opinion is always wrong. Always. You don't even have the backbone to tell shit performers they're shit. If I was alone in a burning building with you, I'd stay in that building for an additional 30 seconds before escaping just so I could have the privacy and opportunity to beat you in your stupid fucking head. The cockeyed arrogance you display in exposing your futile personality to the world is quite frankly off the fucking charts. You are the reason, you are the cause, you are the toxic waste fueling pop culture. You are the consummate contrapositive of spirituality. Your soul is split. You are aimless and misguided. You are fake, your outright demeanor is repugnant and wretched.

Reclaim your soul Konnie. It's not too late, it's never too late. Unless you're Louis Walsh. Then it's always too late. Redemption is as beautiful as it is conciliating. Konnie Huq can currently be juxtaposed to a murderer. That's right, a stone cold, mindless, blood spilling killer. Sure, it's bad. It's definitely bad. Really bad, if anything. But, it's not too late - is it? No, no it isn't. Maybe Konnie murdered out of revenge, maybe the ravenous, animalistic murder was an accident. Who knows? Probably no-one; so to speculate would be wrong. The point is if she pulls something pretty fucking special out the bag, it's not too late for her. As a heartless, inhuman, remorseless executioner her pathway to redemption is narrow and stringent. Her first move must be without question to quit The X-Factor. Not just to quit, but to quit ruthlessly. An act of absolution is required here. She must jump kick a microphone through Louis Walsh's throat with the furious intensity of a thousand horses and then devour the corpse on live TV. Step 2 is crucial if she is to win back the hearts of her fans and the innocence of her soul. Following her violent reprieving act she must stand forth before all, stripped to the flesh, unashamed and she must proclaim in a deranged, war like scream "KONNIE HUQ HATH RETURNED! AS SURE AS MY BLOOD RUNS RED AND MY EYES SEE CLEAR, RELEASE MINE SOUL TO FREEDOM!" As her soul is restored in a blinding, supernal flash of light, she must initiate the 3rd step. To look into the camera lens with those resplendent, glistening eyes and remark, "this soul may not be perfect, but here's one I prepared earlier." The 4th and final step will be to tender a single, flirtatious wink before dancing on the spot, for all eternity. Welcome to freedom Konnie. You've earned it.

Friday, 26 November 2010

perspective is to the wiseman what olive oil is to jamie oliver

I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth (just whip it)
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth (whip it real good)
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth
I whip my hair back and forth


Oh hey there Willow Smith! It's such an honour and a privilege to finally meet you! How are you? Oh great, yeah no I've been good thanks - I'm pretty tired because I've been working quite hard to save up money, I've got a wicked weekend ahead though so plenty to look forward to! Yeah I've heard it on the radio! I think I heard it 4 times on the radio today alone! You must be so thrilled... yeah... well it's great, it's perfectly fine, it's fantastic - I've got a suggestion perhaps for your next song if you really want to hear? Of course... it's so great that you care what the fans think! I just felt that instead of singing the same line over and over, to combat sounding repetitive, what you maybe could have done is SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Willow Smith was born on October 31st 2000. That, at the time of this blog makes her 10 years old. TEN years old. I get it Willow, I really do. You're saying you whip your hair back and forth. It's like letting your hair down, right? Having fun? Sure. Great. What isn't right is that you're trying to be SEXY aren't you? You're 10 and you're implying that you're a party animal. A sexy party animal. A sexy party animal that party's sexually and everything you do is sexual and sexy and seduces everything and everyone around you because you're so sexy. You and everything you represent sickens me to my cold, cynical, judgmental and currently repulsed core. When I was 10 I wasn't trying to be sexy, I didn't know how and I didn't pretend to know how. I was far too busy collecting Pogs and obsessing over what selection of Pokemon I'd have face the Elite 4. Globally, the human race is constantly united in fighting against Paedophilia. Children such as yourselves, Willow, that are trying to be sexy and seductive are not helping. You're undermining the good fight. You're ripping the great and good of human nature fragile limb from fragile limb. You're a paedophiliac cocktease and a terrorist. STOP it. Just stop it. Also, why whip your hair back and forth? That's so unnecessarily aggressive. Why can't you just have gentle, pallid fun? Why must you inject fear and danger into your fun having? All people want is to have a good time and you're ruining it for everyone. It's like playing Connect 4 with Atilla the Hun. It starts out innocent and righteous, things get playful, the wrong thing gets said and all of a sudden you've got a spear through your left lung.

A message for your brother and a moral for the pair of you. Jaden; you need to become cool again. Sharpish. Let's get the blindingly obvious out the way first and foremost, you have the single coolest Dad in the world. If you took a random poll asking people who their ideal coolest Dad would be, 78% would answer Will Smith. Not only is this an overwhelming majority, but it's also the same as the amount of nitrogen in the air we breathe. Nitrogen is cool. Coincidence? Shut the fuck up Jaden, I don't want your opinion. You need to grow up, you need to mature, you need to gain perspective of yourselves and the world around you before you attempt to follow in your parents footsteps. Or carry on the way you are, sell out. You'll excuse it as just 'having fun and experiencing life, journeying down avenues that so happen to be open to you.' More accurately, your Dad will excuse it as that, because he's that fucking awesome that he'll defend you no matter how much of a cretin you are. Have some class, some dignity - grow up, physically and mentally then show the world your beautifully crafted and talented Smith genes.

Wednesday, 24 November 2010

cupid has the wings of an angel, arrows of love and u.s military standard issue hand grenades

you can fall in love in a month


You can fall in love in a month, a week, a day, an hour, a minute, a second, a heartbeat. Not a year. If it's been a year, probably move on, try someone else - you can always come back later. Falling in love is tantamount to religion. If a priest fucked you as a child you're probably going to have issues about it later in life. There's no scientific proof for it, like religion. You can't take a sample of love, mix it with Rubidium, put it in a test tube over a bunsen burner for 5 minutes and write a dissertation about the ramifications of mixing love with varyingly hostile alkalis. That would be like holding an olympic ceremony for mermaids. Mermaids aren't real and there wasn't even a mermaid olympics, it just went straight to the ceremony, it's just a waste of time and resources. Besides, even if there was a mermaid olympics, how many different events would there actually be? Swimming is one event. ONE event. They can't do track and field, they'd be awful at it. They might aswell just tag along to the special olympics, at least the competitors would get a kick out of seeing some mermaids.

People are fascinated by the notion of falling in love. It is championed in every romantic film, advocated in every love story, idolised and sanctioned in every love song. It is drilled into our vulnerably absorbent minds with intense, burning, rushing rapture. It never ceases, it is unrelenting. It is no suprise that people are obsessed by falling in love when placed in this amity themed pressure cooker.

There can be no time scale on love. Who is to say when a painting is finished besides the artist themselves? No one. Anyone who rules the roost on a subjective matter is undermining their own attitude and displaying industrial portions of stupidity. The sort of swamp brained know nothing idiot that would bemoan the destructive nature of man whilst throwing an oil covered Cambodian child at a newly born polar bear, brushing their teeth with a petrol powered toothbrush.

Go ahead and fall in love in whatever amount of time you wish. Or be original and find an alternative; jump into non-hate, slide out of resentment or transpose to fondness.

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

wisdom is gift wrapped in perception and tracing paper

if you're going to point your fingers, make sure your hands are clean


The pinnacle of all things gracious and divine is beauty. Beauty makes life worth living. It makes the birds sing, the sun shine, the rivers flow and volcanos erupt. Without beauty, hope would abate, miracles would wither, temptation would wilt. Beauty is found in all that we see, smell, hear, taste and touch but in nothing is it found more in than balance. Balance is utterly and undeniably crucial to our existence. It is the explanation, the glue and the reason behind all that equates, that is to say; everything.

A hypocrite is like that one particularly fat kid that was in your school. You know the one I mean. Seriously fat, the sort of fat where the fatness is beyond fatness. It's like when a world record holding baker announces he's been baking a pie for the past 3 months. You know for damn sure that's going to be one outlandish monstrosity of a pie. You finally see this pie of preposterous pastry proportions and you think to yourself, "yeah. That's a pie right there. Not just a pie. That's beyond a pie. That's a 'for the love of all things savory' kind of pie. I am in awe of said pie." That level of fat. So fat it's like they had to eat more than excessive amounts of wholesome and delicious food to become so astonishingly whalesome. Like they went beyond food and started eating concepts and emotions. Maybe they ate the concept of sensory trajectory, albophobia and love. Maybe that's why it's called infatuation? Imagine this beastsome thunder bucket of a child walking into a playground and sitting on a see saw with a sweet, moderately weighted child on the other end. Just like the hypocrite, the over fed Snorlax causes unbalance. And what fun is to be had without balance? If a human becomes unbalanced significantly enough, they will literally vomit on the spot. Oh hey man, I feel like having some fun, shall we drink a couple pitchers, steal a car and go and throw frozen food at hookers? Nah, I think I'm just going to become unbalanced and force myself to vomit instead. How ridiculous. Very ridiculous. That's how ridiculous.

The point is thus: if you're going to point your fingers, make sure your hands are clean. Don't be a hypocrite, don't deny balance and rationality. In light of this thought/discussion/lecture I shall now coin a new phrase:

Wash your hands with metaphoric soap that is actually self awareness and acute realisation of the accuracy of your perception before you metaphorically point your unwashed fingers at someone by accusing them of a deed that you yourself could in return be accused of having done previously by someone with metaphorically clean hands and a valid reason for metaphorically pointing their clean fingers at you by accusing you of the deed previously mentioned.