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.