Resentment

Pull me up,
by my socks,
She's flipping strong,
for a Goldilocks.

Now, because I'm so naturally charming and gifted I engender peace and love wherever I go. In fact I'm so likable I'm sure that even the people that already like me are hoping I'll stop this self aggrandising rubbish and get back to being British.

Difficult isn't it - especially when you're as good as me.

So what causes resentment? I think it's probably being rubbish - which is a shame because I've never ever ever experienced that feeling so can't possibly associate with you guys who have. Apart from that one time when I got goofed in the knackers by, oh wait, that happened more than once.

But who grades rubbish anyway - and maybe my goolies are just unusually talented at attracting shins - did you ever think of that Year 8 - did you!?!?

Isn't it all about perception - like parking? Oh and by the way, don't accidentally insinuate that your betrothed can't physically drive at all, because I've learnt that's not a good way to conduct a relationship.

I've been told before that you were happy for me to have a blog, because you thought it might be releasing pressure on my psyche, and giving me space to vent my mental - I don't think you'll be proud when we're all big and famous though - not without aggressive use of the DEL button, fo' sho'.

So just finish reading in a second, when you reach the end of what I'm typing and wonder how you're actually involved in all this, how you ended up there, with your eyes effectively on the other end of my fingers drumming rubbish straight into your brain.

It's probably a good thing - right?

Monetise my eyes

I will charge you for looking at me, that is my new plan.

There is a button up there when I write these things that says Monetise. I don't like this button, mostly because it implies I'm not already receiving money from people for reading my things, but also because the button is owned by the evil elgoog, who I've casually disguised.

But I was free associating the word monetise and I went for rhymes - which led me to eyes.

Conversely my eyes lead me to most things, even when I'm short of my fantastic visionorama aids Win XP SP3. To be lead around by the knackers is a corruption of an expression I've similarly just free associated but an interesting theory when talking about the elgoog, who seem to have most people by the hair where their bits should be.

I'm no conspiracy theorist - I leave that to my other personalities - but when someone does something there are consequences and without being more specific in the first part of the sentence I cannot really fully expand in the latter portion.

This is what happens when you frustrate a person, they fume, unless they're not a French smoker in which case they probably have a blog; even I have a blog.

And I mostly don't care.

But back to my plan, to charge you for use of my physical representation, or being a consumer of it. Before I go any further if this is the year 2032 and you are trying to use this blog to set a legal precedent please don't, I'm very tired and really not to be trusted for that kind of thing.

Of course if it's 2045 then go right ahead, I'm aiming to not be in the country then anyway.

Back to my plan.

When you look at me, what do you see? Me, right? Right. So, who owns me? I do. And I've decided I'm not free, so you're going to have to pay to see me. Rich and famous people do this all the time, so I figure I might as well give it a crack. Unless you're someone I like in which case it's free for the first twenty times.

The only problem I can see is if I were to see someone who is equal to or > < my value, in which case we'll have to work on some complex bartering system, or just close our eyes, feel around and pretend we haven't seen each other.

Wasn't the world a much easier place when elgoog weren't inspiring this kind of thing?

I was funny once.

I'd like you to know that this has nothing to do with the fact that I just got engaged a short while ago.

No, this is to do with re re re re reading some of my old bloggings, which I enjoyed and made myself laugh by listening to as I read them outloud.

So where have I been in the gap between now and the last funny which has caused me to lose my voom va va? Well, I've been all over. All over England and Wales and even bits in between and not. I've been doing some of my mind pirating, some of my award winning musical impressions and just generally farting about. But not actually farting, obviously, my mum doesn't like that.

Speaking of people who don't like things, welcome back Herbert! He's been away see and he gets very uppity if I don't 'show him some big love' on his return.

'Don't put me in quote marks, that's not what I actually said, you're making me out to be some kind of idiot or mental person'.

Herbert, you're a wooden giraffe, the patron saint and religious leader of some scandinavian geese and a CD rack. What about you isn't very crazy?

'My horns. They're actually quite lifelike really'.

I've never understood why a giraffe should have horns, it's not like you're going to fight with them.

'Actually we totally do. There's a complex mating ritual, very complex. For little giraffes it involves ladders and puppets.'

I didn't dare to ask why little giraffes should be doing mating things, but for all I know he didn't actually mean young'uns.

Losing your funny isn't necessarily a disease that you contract for a lifetime, but certainly for the length of a blog post.

Difficult, isn't it? The rambly nature of this post is due to it being started in a different year to that in which it was finished.

Special

I got inspired by the word Special which was on a friends b-log, that makes two readers now Woody!

I like the word special, it has a strong taste, but is warm, like brandy infused cheese, not that I'd know 'cause I'm mostly off the sauce these days.

Off the sauce, you cry, but aren't you a pirate? I thought they were synonyms, sauce and pirate - interchangeable word friends that hold each others hands when they're trapped by Whales and their friends are being eaten by the Welsh.

Well no, not exactly, as I don't even have a parrot which keeps my shoulder warm. I have a giraffe, which takes up less space than you might think and also doesn't do nasty things to epaulettes.

I've had more ideas about writing things, I wish I made the time to finish them, some of them are really good ideas. I love having ideas, it's one of my favourite things to do and it's especially good when people give you the time and space to have a few good ones, but not good if they don't back you up to finish them. Finishing is where the real stuff happens, I've decided, so there.

I think I might try writing a serialised story based post again, called The Death of S.S. Washington, but I'm not sure, it's an idea I had for a novel but I'll never get the time to write it, so basically I'll knock together a dodgy version so that google can own it on this blog. Yep.

What's a job that starts at Christmastime where I can get paid to write my nonsense? Find it and bring it back to me.

Would you like to sniff my gazebo?

It's a particularly dull time at the moment, and I'll tell you for why.

A lot of the people we work for and with are in Europe and slack off over the August time, leaving us to twiddle our thumbs and try not to get caught twiddling other people's thumbs. Or blogging, as it's known.

My co-conspirator and life barometer - The Wiblinator - is in deepest darkest (not in a racist way) Africa, slaying Hippos and tenting and stuff. With Gorillas.

The people I share my Parent's house with (my family including parents and siblings, but not including pets) are off on holiday, while I stay and work a while. I still have Herbert, and the endless need to create personalities to attach to CD racks, but you never know, I might grow out of that, like a frog jumping to a bigger pond, I may well create personalities for desks and other bits of furniture.

Have you heard of my bin, George?

Doesn't quite work, does it. What about a table named Mikey who is actually a cutting edge physicist? I'll find one that works, eventually.

So the real reason I'm back doing this, other than my boredom, is that I read a friends blog and remembered how little I'd done on here in any time frame. Still, success they say, is not measured by the quart but by the quince, which was great for medieval fruit pie makers.

I once met a medieval pie maker who had no nose!

How did he smell?

Dead.

And as anyone knows, quince are small fruit that grow on small trees and the tree and the fruit have the same name. Mental!

Not as mental as this sheep I saw doing river dance the other day though, that was properly mental! And tasty, after we'd cooked him.

There you go, that's your lot of unfinished segues and falsities, have a good 'un.

Spazzing Doom Biscuits!

It's a hard life.

It's been a while since I've entered the blogosphere so here I am, back with gay abandon as I search for something to tell you all, something boggling and bending and furiously funicular. (Of course I know what that means you silly billy, but imagine if it actually pertained to fun, wouldn't that be great!)


The other day I saw a naked woman wearing a horse's head and almost fell asleep. That was pretty much the highlight too, which is to say that it didn't get much better, but it would have if I had fallen asleep and dreamt of something better.

So, a woman with a horse's head caused narcolepsy in me, due to her unfathomable dullness. I'm not normally one to watch naked ladies, so that was a bit of a culture shock for me, being all proper and dignified and used to clothed women and that, so I closed my eyes and turned her into a radio program. Which made it worse. A lot worse, which didn't help my impending boredom catastrophe.

Naturally, this isn't a real catastrophe, in that I work in a boring job and sometimes get bored, but I've over-played and over-stated it for dramatic effect, which is also enhanced by italics.

The impending boredom catastrophe may be averted by some of the things I'm trying to take on, some of which are called hobbies and being more active, others of which aren't, but I'm too bored to tell you about all of them, so you'll get the edited highlights.

I'm writing a novel.

I've started a new blog about running and exercising.

There you go, that was pretty quick, wasn't it?

A novel! Yes. What's it about? Not telling. Will it be good? Hope so. Oh.

Running and exercising, do you do them? Yes, a bit. Why? I like it, and I found a movement which causes a massive double chin, so that has to go. Also, I read a book (yay for you, thanks) which was good and inspiring and stuff.

Ah well, I'm off for a poo.

Sometimes, in the morning...

Sometimes, in the morning, when the sun is just creeping up and beginning to spill it's light all over the land...
Sometimes, when you people are going to bed and old people are getting up from theirs, again...
Sometimes.

Sometimes, at elevenses, when the tea wasn't made right by your co-worker's less than dainty hands...
Sometimes, at elevenses, as the farmer is ploughing his furrows fondly, straight as a broadbean...
Sometimes.

Sometimes at lunch time, when the TV's on standby, the bacon's on the bap and the tray upon the lap...
Sometimes at lunch time, when the car is sat in nuetral and your brain no more engaged...
Sometimes.


But sometimes I get distracted.