One of the real pleasures

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At times, it’s a little embarrassing having a “blog”.  Or two, in my case.   That being said, there are several hidden benefits.

One particularly bonus, one that is probably more applicable to strange premised blogs is “incoming search terms”.  That is, the search phrase that brought you to my particular corner of the internation.

Whilst I have not updated the sleep blog in some time, it still gets residual hittage on some seriously strange subjects.  This one takes some cake.  Not all of it, but, gee, really?

Nice

Clicking further…

http://www.google.co.uk/search?q=my+boyfriend+my+brother+should+i+be+worried&hl=en&rlz=1C1CHMF_en-GB___GB319&start=30&sa=N

What really disappoints me is the fact that truly, I don’t fulfill the terms of the search.  Here we have some poor misguided individual, looking for help and I have failed to inform.

So, in event that you should return, my friend, or anybody else.  On the subject of whether you should worry if your boyfriend is your brother…

FUCK NO.  BANG ON!

Furthermore..

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I rate morons who actually think they are guaranteed eternal existence (through fervant delusion) as the very smuggest smug cunts of them all.  Every time someone dies, you find idiots, dispatching “stream of consciousness” comments such as these:

Yeahhh..

It is certainly interesting that these towering bastions of morality are so quick to wade in with their own brand of “inappropriate” inanity.

I feel fairly confident that this champion of logic has failed to realise that there will be no internet in hell.

(Actually, come to think of it, there will obviously be Ashton Kutcher’s twitter)

Nightmare.

The Hopeless Internet Romantic

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Whilst I do not believe in current events blogging (eckk), I am somewhat a student of human nature and this amused me.  (The youtube video being “Thriller” by the departed).

Inevitability

See, with this being mere hours after the fact, at face value, this is an incredibly classless comment delivered at the absolute peak of the poor taste timing scale.  Sure, even for the common man those pedo jokes will rise again – but not for at least a few weeks.   We’re civilised people after all – we may have very little true collective respect or memory for that which no longer exists but we do at least offer a minor grace period in which we offer generous media driven sentimentality until of course, the story stops selling and/or some other news byte takes focus.  On with the show.

That’s why I admire the internet hater so much.  He’s the unrelenting beast man of the grace period.  He pulls no punches.  If anything, he punches harder when the chips are down.  There is always one of him, at ground zero, ready to strike for maximum taboo pointage.  He never misses an opportunity.  He will journey thousands of account bannations (perhaps this, his twelth incarnation of his edreg user) in his quest to always be the first man there to distort and challenge the moment.  Morality?  Pish.  Posh.

Some might say that would make me a psychopath.  I don’t think so.  I’m just terribly amused by those who without any remorse, time their responses so perfectly for maximum effect.  They are (in their own special way) mutations of the human sociological constant.  Sociological Terrorists.  Traditions can be wonderful things – but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be challenged, to see if they are still relevent.

Perhaps you disagree.  Good for you.  Personally, I say, whilst it is true that seemingly, the apex of human relationship bonding is getting drunk, mingling in loud, conversation unfriendly sweatboxes, trying to secure cunt / cock for the future (through random chance), I say, keep challenging the norm.  Keep fighting the good fight.

Another Grim Realisation

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Perhaps you’d figured this one out – I hadn’t.

I’ve always felt that the inclusion of an exhaust fan in the bog was a largely, the hallmark of a pussy.  I mean, of course, we’re all quite embarrassed by the horror of our refuse, but, it was my contention that someone so desperate for nasallion avoidance of “The Awful Truth”, going to all that trouble of pumping air out for the minor time spent in there – that person will be one of the first we eat when the doomsday scenario occurs.

Personally, I couldn’t care less about the smell.  As long as I can ninja out of there, leaving the victim to curse an anonymous perp – I’m all good.  One thing I do dislike, is the unexpected butt-trumpet.  I think we need to spend less time mitigating stench and more time researching anti-”I shot a blank, emphatically discovering that it wasn’t in fact the big one, it was trapped air” sound filtration devices.  I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of dangling myself at that precipice, clueless, unsure as to the mystic chemical state this next pulse will be at, taking that inevitable risk – only to be severely rebutted by rasping, rigorous announcements of HEY, HEY, BIG TURD, BIG TURD, BIG TURD HAPPENING HERE! ringing out from my buttockian public address system.

Having moved recently, I have managed to score myself the much heralded one subscriber mantoilet.  Befoul away.  Great stuff.  Time to spruce this new lair up.  In went some old carpet (stone floors I feel are detrimental to the overall launch experience), the usual literature (astrophysics and the words of Karl Pilkington – both ends of the bullshit scale covered) and the cheapest luxury 3-ply sandpaper I could lay my hands on.  Doing it right, you know.  Only that cup holder to go and the deal is sealed.  Home Sweet Home.

Quite a small toilet, this one.  Much smaller than any toilet I’ve had in a while.   I’ve been using it for about 6 weeks now.   Lately I’ve been getting depressed about the task in hand, hesitant to go in there.  Shit-saving is never a good sign.

I have a working theory that it is partially due to the fact every time I go in there, I both expel waste and read a few pages of Karl’s latest book, Karlology.  My theory is that I’m not dispatching enough equivalent waste to account for the utter nonsense I’m taking in.  Funny it may be, Karlology is the literary equivalent of a particularly savage quadruple sequel late night shitsplatter-constipationathon.  (You know the type – the one where every man on earth thinks the same thing: “This Is Exactly What It Is Like To Have A Child.  Fuck That”).

Clearly, my feng shit is out of whack.  So many troubles, from unsteady vibes, to birthing falseturds – life certainly is tough.

I believe I have uncovered a more serious problem, though.

It turns out that after doing these magnificent, relieving turds, the size of the toilet, coupled with the lack of exhaust fan contributes to the fact that I become a human shitair supersponge.  In most standard toiletogical cases there is enough dispersion of air that this effect is minor and likely wears off before the offending originator realises.  In a small box, as the marijuana aficionadoes of this world will testify, the “dutch oven” becomes more exponentially effective and thus, creates the phenomenon whereby an honorable stench of pride, freedom and glory is bestowed upon my clothing for at least an hour after a big one.

Someone has to set the right, manly, example, though.

Mistaken Identity

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This came in via teh emails.  After verifying that the email was genuine (the gentleman in question has infact recorded the tape mentioned), fun was haddened.  Fun is always experiencated when opportunities such as this arisomate.

The Email:

Hi Rich, I just got through listening to the audio with you and Claudia as part of our telecourse on Analytical Trilogy. Very interesting.    May I please have a copy of Norberto Keppe’s book “Liberation of the People – Pathology of Power”.  Not sure if you can send on line or need a home address, so here is both.

Please send to: salteredemail@mail.com

or

Julia

The Response:

Julia,

I’m glad you liked it.  I certainly enjoyed taping it.  And that night after… if you know what I mean.  (What a beast!).

Unfortunately I have just sent the last copy out this morning, at 8am.  At the time I thought to myself “this will likely not be the last request for Norberto’s grand opus maximus”.  Instantly, with this thought in my mind, like a tiger pouncing upon a gazelle, ripping the throat out of its prey, I ordered several hundred more copies to regenerate my supply.  Thus, allowing me to send you two copies (one for the magazine rack in the bathroom), when my order arrives.  I look forward to receiving my order, repackaging up the books and placing it in the mailbox and pushing it in (Experiencing the satifying “thump” is a guilty pleasure of mine).

On the same subject, I’m also writing a piece entitled “Analytical Quadrilogy:  Expansion of Ripley’s Conundrum”.  I wonder if, when the time comes, you’d like a secret draft copy to peruse?  I must confess, there are some in the society who will be unhappy with my corrective expansion of Norberto’s (slightly flawed) concepts.  I hope, that with the right approach, I will be vindicated with a modicum of glory.  Certainly, I do not mean to take control, it is simply the case that I was born to lead the society into future.  Warp speed, tricorders at the ready Julia, for the Romulans are upon us!

When the moment comes, it would be good to know that people such as yourself are at my side.

Sincerly
Rich.

The aftermath:

Funnily enough, I might have laid it just a bit too thick.  No reply.  Guess she wasn’t ready to join the revolution.

Moving on to the same topic, mistaken identity via visitors from search engines.

To the gentleman searching for a gay, disabled Rich Jones, if I were you, I’d definitely expand your target group.  I suggest increasing your pickup potential by trying to nail a gay, disabled John Smith.  Statistically more likely.

Search Hits From The Underworld

(Now If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some three sets of 6 skullcrushers at the gym to crank out and then on to an all important serving of tofu-and-dick on toast for post workout nutrition).

Breaking News

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It’s somewhat embarrassing to accept that a gentleman has his most significant thoughts during the morning thronological delivery, but this simply the case for me.   So it isn’t surprising that the subject of this post occurs at ground zero,aka the portal of doom.  Actually, the office portal of doom.  Communal boggage receptacle 1 of 2.  (So, there is an exit plan if this thing goes pear shaped).

Over the past few weeks I’ve observed (been the victim of, actually) a fantastic technique of toilet cuntery and I simply have to pass it on.  I call this technique “shitbombing”.  Unfortunately, “shitbombing” is somewhat of a loaded term, in that there are many different (and perhaps more gruesome) interpretations of such a zinger.  In actual fact, this is subtle, and likely only works in certain scenarios.  Having experienced the aftermath, twice, now, I’m sure of the particulars and thus am now in a position to spread this disease upon the internet.

Anyway, I’ll summarise in steps:

Shitbombing for dummies

Step one:

Do a horror turd.  One so terribly awful you cannot bare to survey the carnage or for that matter, allow it any more oxygen than is absolutely possible.

Step Two:

The all important part.  Prior to flushing, put the cover down.  Flush.  If you’re feeling particularly mischievous, scream an impromptu “FIRE IN THE HOLE”.

Step Three:

Swiftly leave.  Use ninja techniques to make sure nobody knows it was you (important).

Step Four (To be completed by third party):

If this toilet has a voracious flush.  There will be something down there.  This something being a distributed shit spray of diluted fecal water all over the cover (and the seat, if enough time has been allocated to fermentation and gravitational effects). The water will have enough discolouration that the victim will be forced into a difficult decision based on stomachian comfort level, other receptacle options and general belief in cleaning ability.

In my case, when the exit plan is a disabled toilet that the people who are making drinks in the kitchen can hear your shitplops, the decision is difficult and consequently, this morning I was the victim of the perfect crime.

Good luck in your efforts.  Go forth and multiply.

The trouble with….

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The trouble with blog comments is they betray your popularity.  Obviously, this blog is not.  Infact, if truth be told, hitwise, it’s nothing but trickle-down pussy from the sleep blog.  Which, for the record, is predominantely search engine spiders and people who think you can be possessed by demons, whilst sleeping.   Most of these people don’t even have pussies.  These people/robots are definitely not expecting to be assaulted with what is, as I’ve always said, a bunch of swearing / pseudoshockjocking masking lack of talent or flair for anything else.

Even worse for me, is that I am a cuntocracy.  I do not care for anything a commenter has to contribute.  Being self absorbed requires a certain level of .. lack of absorption in someone else’s opinion.  Now if I go absorptionating other people’s opinions, I’ve failed in my quest to generate strange new angles, undistorted by societies silly little “rules”.  I like to do all my thinking whilst sucking in the fumes of a solid (or liquid, which often provides increased relief upon dispatch) morning turd.  Some people like to do drugs to enhance their imagination.  Not me, I prefer the insightful, nasal twang of feces.  In a way, I might just be the quintessential “Jenkem Genius”.

Anyway, In other news, lately, I’ve gotten bored when I’ve won the lottery in my mind (whilst turding of course).  I guess I just have the strategy all laid out.  I’d go as far as to say that there is limited point in it happening now – as I’ve already experienced it all in my brain.  One point for it happening relates to the fact that a year ago my brother quoted me $12,000 to take a man’s blowjob.  Now that university is finished and he is out in the workforce, his pricetag has significantly “blown out”.  In fact, it may now be necessary to win the lottery after all.  All settled then.  I’ll do it.

So, to try to spice up my fecalogical mental drifting, this morning, I thought about how shit it’d be to have laser eyes and no other powers, namely, how quick I would get shot in the back of the head.  I came to the conclusion that I’d just have to keep the powers to myself and help nobody else (not a big deal).  Maybe use them instead of a saw in the garage, if I get lucky castrate the occasional mugger thus enabling a bazinga catchphrase “This cock tastes like burnt salami”.  Jenkemgenius.

Pretty standard stuff really.   Still better than being rich, been there, done that.  Boring.

So in short (not my forte), this page will now be a full blown cuntocracy, the simple man will no longer be invited to offer his rolex watch / cheap pharmaceutical themed interjection (who am I kidding, even spammers do not tread here).   This way, when the success comes, and my brother is getting his dick sucked – You idiots will still think I’m the common man.  Which is important, at least, in Australia, where we prefer everybody to be as mediocre as the rest of us.  (I believe it is known as “prolifically growing dandelion syndrome”.  Atleast, I think that is what it is.  Leave a message in the comments if you know).

It does beg the question, if you’re farming google link power and I’m talking about vicious cuntstorms, does this harm your g-cred?  The G’s at oogle are known to frown upon associating with the undesirables of the intranets.  This site thing could be a trap for young players.