BETAMAXNOMATES
'All she can do is dial and yell...'20041107
Seven Days that Changed a Week
Today is the one week anniversary of this blog. Well, week and two days. Five-day week, weekend, and a week-false-ending in between.
I had big plans for this milestone: a glossy full-page retrospective charting the history of Day Month Year, it’s effect on the Zeitgeist, and - in the spirit of post-millennial instant nostalgia - a snappily edited blog best-of with contributions from as-seen-on-TV talking faces, Stuart Maconie, Wayne Hemingway and Jayne Middlemiss.
At the last minute however, my newbestfriends at Here To Find intervened, gobbling what I’d typed of my post, flooding my browser with ‘FREE BEST PORN’ and leaving me without an internet connection for 48 whole hours. A lesser man would have run, streaming bitchtears, up to his room to blast out the latest Avril Lavigne and scratch furiously in his purple fur-lined Hello Kitty desk diary about the total, cosmic unfairness of it all.
But not the Big Dog. Like the seemingly unarrestable R. Kelly, I’m not gonna let pornography be the ruin of me: yes, it's comin’ hot and fresh out the kitchen, and got every perv in here pissin’. After some minor tweaks and bugfixes, normal service will resume… right now.
So... pretty exciting day at work today.
I had a half-hour long conversation with a middle-aged woman (lets call her ‘Margaret’ - that is what she called herself) who tried to sell me a bunch of leather jackets that her son had recieved as a present from an Italian student that had stayed with them for a summer. They’d been hanging in her hallway for five years now, never worn, and still, she assured me, with their ‘certificates of authenticity’ attached.
While explaining this to she would occasionally drift off mid-sentence, muttering darkly about her ‘ignorant’ son who refuses to wear leather and who seems to have some kind of Asperger’s-like aversion to the colour brown.
There’s no real climax to this story, though I did get her number (wahey!), something I point out only because it illustrates how, without any conscious effort on my part, I am seemingly irresistible to Women Of A Certain Age.
Now, I’ve nothing against older ladies. Actually I’m quite in favour of them. If there was a referendum tomorrow on whether or not there should be old ladies I’d definitely vote yes. I mean, if it wasn’t for old ladies, where would old men go for sex?
I also suspect that the wife of one of my colleagues is working as a prostitute, or is ‘on the game’ as those people off of The Bill might say. Admittedly, this assumption is based only on the fact that his wife works at night, and, he says, regularly ‘turns’ a lot of money. Suspicious, no?
I mean, he might have said ‘earns’, but I heard ‘turns’ and have passed on his details to the relevant authorities.
Come to think of it, it really wasn’t a very exciting day at all. Maybe I’ll get drunk and give Margaret a call: get her to come round with that dumb fuck of a son and we’ll try out those leathers.
Setting that image to one side, I’d like now to address something possibly even more disturbing. I’m talking about a perversion that runs contrary to all our natural urges and contradicts some of the most fundamental of our beliefs. I speak, of course, of this growing tide of anti-Anti-Americanism on the interweb, and of this Zoomtard character in particular. Suddenly, it seems, criticising America is ‘racist’.
To paraphrase His Holiness The Dalai Lama: back the fuck up there, bitches!
I mean, if it’s ‘racist’ to say that the whatever million who voted for the Monkey Man are TOTAL FUCKING MORONS then I guess I’m racist.
Support the troops...
... but will you be there to support the coffins? 
Now that’s deep, man. This is President Anonymous and I’m repording for dooty.
I had big plans for this milestone: a glossy full-page retrospective charting the history of Day Month Year, it’s effect on the Zeitgeist, and - in the spirit of post-millennial instant nostalgia - a snappily edited blog best-of with contributions from as-seen-on-TV talking faces, Stuart Maconie, Wayne Hemingway and Jayne Middlemiss.
At the last minute however, my newbestfriends at Here To Find intervened, gobbling what I’d typed of my post, flooding my browser with ‘FREE BEST PORN’ and leaving me without an internet connection for 48 whole hours. A lesser man would have run, streaming bitchtears, up to his room to blast out the latest Avril Lavigne and scratch furiously in his purple fur-lined Hello Kitty desk diary about the total, cosmic unfairness of it all.
But not the Big Dog. Like the seemingly unarrestable R. Kelly, I’m not gonna let pornography be the ruin of me: yes, it's comin’ hot and fresh out the kitchen, and got every perv in here pissin’. After some minor tweaks and bugfixes, normal service will resume… right now.
So... pretty exciting day at work today.
I had a half-hour long conversation with a middle-aged woman (lets call her ‘Margaret’ - that is what she called herself) who tried to sell me a bunch of leather jackets that her son had recieved as a present from an Italian student that had stayed with them for a summer. They’d been hanging in her hallway for five years now, never worn, and still, she assured me, with their ‘certificates of authenticity’ attached.
While explaining this to she would occasionally drift off mid-sentence, muttering darkly about her ‘ignorant’ son who refuses to wear leather and who seems to have some kind of Asperger’s-like aversion to the colour brown.
There’s no real climax to this story, though I did get her number (wahey!), something I point out only because it illustrates how, without any conscious effort on my part, I am seemingly irresistible to Women Of A Certain Age.
Now, I’ve nothing against older ladies. Actually I’m quite in favour of them. If there was a referendum tomorrow on whether or not there should be old ladies I’d definitely vote yes. I mean, if it wasn’t for old ladies, where would old men go for sex?
I also suspect that the wife of one of my colleagues is working as a prostitute, or is ‘on the game’ as those people off of The Bill might say. Admittedly, this assumption is based only on the fact that his wife works at night, and, he says, regularly ‘turns’ a lot of money. Suspicious, no?
I mean, he might have said ‘earns’, but I heard ‘turns’ and have passed on his details to the relevant authorities.
Come to think of it, it really wasn’t a very exciting day at all. Maybe I’ll get drunk and give Margaret a call: get her to come round with that dumb fuck of a son and we’ll try out those leathers.
Setting that image to one side, I’d like now to address something possibly even more disturbing. I’m talking about a perversion that runs contrary to all our natural urges and contradicts some of the most fundamental of our beliefs. I speak, of course, of this growing tide of anti-Anti-Americanism on the interweb, and of this Zoomtard character in particular. Suddenly, it seems, criticising America is ‘racist’.
To paraphrase His Holiness The Dalai Lama: back the fuck up there, bitches!
I mean, if it’s ‘racist’ to say that the whatever million who voted for the Monkey Man are TOTAL FUCKING MORONS then I guess I’m racist.
If it’s ‘racist’ to say that the unholy trinity of Rove-Cheney-Rumsfeld makes the Reagan administration look positively conciliatory, then I guess I’m racist there too. Chuck bastard Ashcroft in there too, make it a trinity of four.
And, boy howdy, if it’s ‘racist’ to threaten my infidel neighbour from West Virginia with ceremonial beheading, then cover me in a sheet, get a cross for the kindling, and call me a racist!
I dare say there’s something deeply unpatriotic about all this hating the haterz. And a big fat word on the sheer surreality of Condaleeza ‘Yes, I refer to George Bush as my husband, what of it?’ Rice, there Dave. Keep fighting the good fight.
Support the troops...
... but will you be there to support the coffins?
Now that’s deep, man. This is President Anonymous and I’m repording for dooty.
Comments:
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CONGURTULASHUNS YOU WINNED PRIZE:
BEST JOURNAL ENTRY OF ALL TIME
Seriously man, you need some more traffic on this site.
HILARIOUS I SAY HILARIOUS
Want to come up to my room to see my "leather jackets"?
BEST JOURNAL ENTRY OF ALL TIME
Seriously man, you need some more traffic on this site.
HILARIOUS I SAY HILARIOUS
Want to come up to my room to see my "leather jackets"?
Shite off, webnazi.
Neuro, I shall come to your room only if you wash me in the SAVING BLOOD. That shit still makes me laugh.
Your correspondent, loving them ho's,
Dee Dee.
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Neuro, I shall come to your room only if you wash me in the SAVING BLOOD. That shit still makes me laugh.
Your correspondent, loving them ho's,
Dee Dee.
# posted by 
: 12:25 AM
: 12:25 AMSubscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
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