I'm not a parent. At least, not that I'm aware of and if you know any different I'd be frankly grateful if you could not trouble me with unwelcome knowledge.
If I have impregnated you at some point, I can only apologise to you and your no-doubt confused offspring, but at the end of the day, get over it. A new, surrogate father is always waiting around the corner, even if it happens to be the corner of a primary school and they're dressed in some sort of see-through rain-coat. I don't see why I should be troubled by the fact that some (or one) of my wayward sperm happened to slip through the net. Admittedly, I shouldn't have worn a net but opted for a condom or a plastic bag or perhaps a small penis-hat made from melted wax, or whatever it is one should do to prevent these unfortunate occurances, but I haven't the time for such nonsense.
Inspired by a pub urinal prank I saw once, I realised that ladies could save a lot of bother by just layering their vaginas with clingfilm. Yes, this also takes up time, but I bet even Emily Pankhurst would have laughed her bollocks off when the spunk came splashing back.
Sadly, as a sexually promiscious male to whom contraception means 'opposite views', I will have to deal with the fact that one day my spawn will come knocking at my door, enquiring after my history, well-being and money. But I shall be prepared, when I'm rich and un-sueable.
To start with, I know they won't be knocking, but pressing the door bell. Now, I'm sure it would be a simple system to ensure that my DNA is recognised by said door bell. I'm also sure, it would be a simple thing for the button to work two ways and, if their DNA is recognised as being too much like my own, send a small electrical charge into the presser's body that makes them uncontrollably defecate.
I can not believe that any self-respecting child of my loins would wish to meet me, their father, for the first time, with pants full of excrement. Result: they run away before I can even conceive of getting off the sofa. Of course, there is the slight issue of how this buzzer technology would affect my family if they came to visit, or even those who accidently share some of my genes and just came looking to borrow a cup of sugar but ... Well, my family I would warn off ever visiting me, and nobody in the 21st century borrows a cup of sugar from a neighbour unless they happen to be a very large ant.
Persistence is a family trait, so within a week I expect my accidental offspring may arrive back at the door, only actuallly knocking this time. This is when a security camera would come in handy, something I could point to so when their opening line was "I'm your son/daughter," I would be able to reply:
"Didn't you cack yourself on my doorstep a few days ago?"
Result: hopefully the same shame-faced scuttle away from my living space.
Ah, but yes, they may come back. And yes, I'm prepared.
"Can I come in?"
"Yes, mayhap you should."
I would then insist that they removed their shoes before coming in to talk, and then also insist that they slip their feet into the two dead hedgehogs I keep for such emergencies. If asked why, I'll point out "I know where my feet have been."
If this doesn't put them off, and they slouch around my home with intestines squirting out of my favourite animal's mouths with every step, I may give them cash and love.
God, I hope I get rich.
Saturday, 28 August 2010
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Recycling
Selfish, that's what I call it. Utterly selfish.
No, not recycling ... I'm all for that. I don't do it (except when I run out of toilet roll and there's a newspaper nearby), but just because I don't personally fling myself in the path of a harpoon aimed at a whale or spoon-feed starving children doesn't mean I'm against the concepts involved. On the other hand, I am against feeding whales harpooned children. If ever I read an article about such a horrific practice going on I may even hesitate before wiping my bottom with it.
What I think is selfish is the generally accepted norm that once someone dies, they should be cremated or buried or, worse still, left to medical science. If a load of medical students need to learn about the human body, can't we just give them a living human body? A criminal, or a banker or one of those annoying, clipboard carrying fucks who come up to you in the street and say "Can I just take two minutes of your time?" when what they should actually say is "Can I just drain away any of the money that my charity may earn by pestering you with imbecillic questions in the hope that maybe you will give me some bank account details? Which charity am I working for? Erm ... give me a sec ... What day is it?"
What is it with this weird urge to give out sweets and badges when someone makes a charitable donation?
"I made 20 pounds in that last pub. I had to give out around sixty quids worth of stickers and Chewits but at least it raised awareness."
Bollocks! Everybody is already aware of the difficulties and tragedies occuring in the world, they can't help it if apathy infects them more than an out-of-date sweet. Charitable donations do not lead to street cred.
"Wow, cool badge, dude. Where did you get it from?"
"Some bald guy was selling them. He didn't have any hair."
"Awesome. I want one. Where is he now?"
"Last I saw, he was getting the shit kicked out of him down that alley."
"If I helped out, do you think he would give me a badge for free?"
Save the badges and sweets for the people who really need them, guys!
Actually, don't. That's an awful lot of paedophiles you would be supplying.
Digression, digression, digression. Must stop doing these.
But dead people ... oops, sorry ... corpses ... Oh, come on. Brain function has gone, body is no longer reacting to any outside stimuli ... That lifeless flesh is no longer the person you loved/hated/accidently slept with and murdered one drunken night. It's meat. And what do we do with meat?
Well, we eat it, wear it, stuff it, use it as fertilizer and art ...
I choose to be selfless. Here is my wish.
When I die, I wish for my mourners to partake of a little of my flesh, pan-fried or oven baked. Gratin is optional, but permitted. To those uncomfortable with this idea, I should remind you that you are what you eat, in which case I am a pizza. To ethical vegetarians I say, your body consumes itself, you daily ingest the meat and soul of long dead things, you can not but help destroy life due to your very nature as a living being, you are - in fact - suffering the worst kind of self-delusion since Hitler figured he could make the world a better place. So eat me. EAT ME!
To vegans I say, "what the fuck are you doing here? Get back to the masochistic Hell you belong to! Ooo, look, here's an unfertilized chicken egg ... Scary isn't it, the utter lack of potential this fucking thing had RIGHT FROM THE START! Let me wave this celery in front of you and point out that it has more chance of developing into sentient life than a pot of mayonaise."
Those who partake of my flesh should donate some of the food they would have consumed that day to their nearest tramp.
Then I wish to be skinned, and my skin given to some amazing taxidermist who will put me in an amusing position somewhere. Perhaps I could forever ride the London Underground, artists moving me from tube to tube, always with a different book in my hands and a slightly different grin on my face. That would screw up the persistent commuters and tourists. This thought pleases me. Make it so.
What remains remain put in the ground. Let me do as nature insists, and grow the world. Coffins were invented to keep the outside getting in. An all-too typical act of human arrogance.
If nothing else, at least use my arse cheeks as a bike rack or something.
No, not recycling ... I'm all for that. I don't do it (except when I run out of toilet roll and there's a newspaper nearby), but just because I don't personally fling myself in the path of a harpoon aimed at a whale or spoon-feed starving children doesn't mean I'm against the concepts involved. On the other hand, I am against feeding whales harpooned children. If ever I read an article about such a horrific practice going on I may even hesitate before wiping my bottom with it.
What I think is selfish is the generally accepted norm that once someone dies, they should be cremated or buried or, worse still, left to medical science. If a load of medical students need to learn about the human body, can't we just give them a living human body? A criminal, or a banker or one of those annoying, clipboard carrying fucks who come up to you in the street and say "Can I just take two minutes of your time?" when what they should actually say is "Can I just drain away any of the money that my charity may earn by pestering you with imbecillic questions in the hope that maybe you will give me some bank account details? Which charity am I working for? Erm ... give me a sec ... What day is it?"
What is it with this weird urge to give out sweets and badges when someone makes a charitable donation?
"I made 20 pounds in that last pub. I had to give out around sixty quids worth of stickers and Chewits but at least it raised awareness."
Bollocks! Everybody is already aware of the difficulties and tragedies occuring in the world, they can't help it if apathy infects them more than an out-of-date sweet. Charitable donations do not lead to street cred.
"Wow, cool badge, dude. Where did you get it from?"
"Some bald guy was selling them. He didn't have any hair."
"Awesome. I want one. Where is he now?"
"Last I saw, he was getting the shit kicked out of him down that alley."
"If I helped out, do you think he would give me a badge for free?"
Save the badges and sweets for the people who really need them, guys!
Actually, don't. That's an awful lot of paedophiles you would be supplying.
Digression, digression, digression. Must stop doing these.
But dead people ... oops, sorry ... corpses ... Oh, come on. Brain function has gone, body is no longer reacting to any outside stimuli ... That lifeless flesh is no longer the person you loved/hated/accidently slept with and murdered one drunken night. It's meat. And what do we do with meat?
Well, we eat it, wear it, stuff it, use it as fertilizer and art ...
I choose to be selfless. Here is my wish.
When I die, I wish for my mourners to partake of a little of my flesh, pan-fried or oven baked. Gratin is optional, but permitted. To those uncomfortable with this idea, I should remind you that you are what you eat, in which case I am a pizza. To ethical vegetarians I say, your body consumes itself, you daily ingest the meat and soul of long dead things, you can not but help destroy life due to your very nature as a living being, you are - in fact - suffering the worst kind of self-delusion since Hitler figured he could make the world a better place. So eat me. EAT ME!
To vegans I say, "what the fuck are you doing here? Get back to the masochistic Hell you belong to! Ooo, look, here's an unfertilized chicken egg ... Scary isn't it, the utter lack of potential this fucking thing had RIGHT FROM THE START! Let me wave this celery in front of you and point out that it has more chance of developing into sentient life than a pot of mayonaise."
Those who partake of my flesh should donate some of the food they would have consumed that day to their nearest tramp.
Then I wish to be skinned, and my skin given to some amazing taxidermist who will put me in an amusing position somewhere. Perhaps I could forever ride the London Underground, artists moving me from tube to tube, always with a different book in my hands and a slightly different grin on my face. That would screw up the persistent commuters and tourists. This thought pleases me. Make it so.
What remains remain put in the ground. Let me do as nature insists, and grow the world. Coffins were invented to keep the outside getting in. An all-too typical act of human arrogance.
If nothing else, at least use my arse cheeks as a bike rack or something.
Friday, 6 August 2010
The Barbershop Conspiracy
A little background:
I live in a small town with the approximate population of 43, 000. In the streets of this small town, where the corporate logos are gathering in a menacing fashion as if they had seen The Birds and really liked that bit with the climbing frame, we have an astonishing/horrifying total of 38 hairdressers. One of them is mobile, which is a concept I'm still struggling with: If you are incapable of walking, hopping or rolling to your nearest barbers, who's going to give a flying crap what your hair looks like? Observers are more likely to be questioning the poo all over your trousers than whether or not you should have gone for that bob-cut.
Or is the concept of the mobile hairdresser that they don't start moving until after you've sat down? At which point the cackling hairdresser nods to the driver, some grinning devil with blinding teeth, who puts pedal to metal and hurtles down swerving roads, your swivel chair swivelling accordingly, and all you can do is scream as your locks are lopped off and the silver scissors flash into view in the corner of your eye. Possibly, into the corner of your eye. There may be people out there who live for this kind of thrill, I don't know.
But I digress.
38 hairdressers. 43, 000 people. Now, I'm going to take you through some maths here, but bear with me.
Of those 43, 000 people, around 5% will be too young to be going to get a haircut. We're talking babies. I'm probably being generous with the figure here, but I can't seem to go out for a simple coffee without tripping over a pram and spilling scalding hot liquid on their horrid little lobster-faces.
Old people who have forgotten they have hair accounts for another 5%.
Male pattern baldness affects at least 14% of the population of this fine town. Female pattern baldness is strangely arousing so I'm going to give it 16%.
Vagrants and lunatics easily account for another 10%. Of course, the vagrants may occasionally get their beards cut so they can find that lost lettuce leaf from the MacDonalds they scavanged out of a bin three weeks ago, but I'm not going to let that count. Oh, and the lunatics may take their lettuce to get cut but they would go to a MacDonalds to do it after a lengthy argument with a bin. Again, that doesn't count.
7% of people get their friends to cut their hair or do it themselves, which is always amusing especially when they fuck it up, persevere, and end up looking like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
I'm going to suggest that 9.9% of people go to London to get their head-gardens tended to. This is mainly because everybody around here seems to be a commuter now. At least, I presume that's why they look so miserable.
4% will be hairdressers who clearly live in some kind of dimension where time does not affect the length of their hair until they feel like a change of style, at which point it will either sprout in Hydra-fashion or get sucked back into their heads to take up all the space left by their absent brain.
3% simply refuse to get our hair cut, for fear it would reduce our souls.
And 8% are too cool to go to the hairdressers and so just get a monthly treatment of chemo-therapy.
That's 81.9% of people who don't get their hair cut at a hairdressers in this town. 81.9! I know, I was shocked too. Out of 43, 000, that leaves 7783. This means each salon has only 204.8 customers! Of these customers, let's say 20% get their hair cut every month, 50% every two months, 18% every three, and the final 12% once a year. Let's also say that the average price of a haircut is, ooo, £25.
This means, per annum, each hairdressing establishment in this town only earns ... Oh. That's still quite a lot of money actually.
Damn it, I was going to make a point about how they must be in league with Satan but it appears it's a legitimate, profitable business which profoundly rips us all off. I appear to have wasted your time again, sorry.
I'm still not getting in a mobile one though.
I live in a small town with the approximate population of 43, 000. In the streets of this small town, where the corporate logos are gathering in a menacing fashion as if they had seen The Birds and really liked that bit with the climbing frame, we have an astonishing/horrifying total of 38 hairdressers. One of them is mobile, which is a concept I'm still struggling with: If you are incapable of walking, hopping or rolling to your nearest barbers, who's going to give a flying crap what your hair looks like? Observers are more likely to be questioning the poo all over your trousers than whether or not you should have gone for that bob-cut.
Or is the concept of the mobile hairdresser that they don't start moving until after you've sat down? At which point the cackling hairdresser nods to the driver, some grinning devil with blinding teeth, who puts pedal to metal and hurtles down swerving roads, your swivel chair swivelling accordingly, and all you can do is scream as your locks are lopped off and the silver scissors flash into view in the corner of your eye. Possibly, into the corner of your eye. There may be people out there who live for this kind of thrill, I don't know.
But I digress.
38 hairdressers. 43, 000 people. Now, I'm going to take you through some maths here, but bear with me.
Of those 43, 000 people, around 5% will be too young to be going to get a haircut. We're talking babies. I'm probably being generous with the figure here, but I can't seem to go out for a simple coffee without tripping over a pram and spilling scalding hot liquid on their horrid little lobster-faces.
Old people who have forgotten they have hair accounts for another 5%.
Male pattern baldness affects at least 14% of the population of this fine town. Female pattern baldness is strangely arousing so I'm going to give it 16%.
Vagrants and lunatics easily account for another 10%. Of course, the vagrants may occasionally get their beards cut so they can find that lost lettuce leaf from the MacDonalds they scavanged out of a bin three weeks ago, but I'm not going to let that count. Oh, and the lunatics may take their lettuce to get cut but they would go to a MacDonalds to do it after a lengthy argument with a bin. Again, that doesn't count.
7% of people get their friends to cut their hair or do it themselves, which is always amusing especially when they fuck it up, persevere, and end up looking like Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest.
I'm going to suggest that 9.9% of people go to London to get their head-gardens tended to. This is mainly because everybody around here seems to be a commuter now. At least, I presume that's why they look so miserable.
4% will be hairdressers who clearly live in some kind of dimension where time does not affect the length of their hair until they feel like a change of style, at which point it will either sprout in Hydra-fashion or get sucked back into their heads to take up all the space left by their absent brain.
3% simply refuse to get our hair cut, for fear it would reduce our souls.
And 8% are too cool to go to the hairdressers and so just get a monthly treatment of chemo-therapy.
That's 81.9% of people who don't get their hair cut at a hairdressers in this town. 81.9! I know, I was shocked too. Out of 43, 000, that leaves 7783. This means each salon has only 204.8 customers! Of these customers, let's say 20% get their hair cut every month, 50% every two months, 18% every three, and the final 12% once a year. Let's also say that the average price of a haircut is, ooo, £25.
This means, per annum, each hairdressing establishment in this town only earns ... Oh. That's still quite a lot of money actually.
Damn it, I was going to make a point about how they must be in league with Satan but it appears it's a legitimate, profitable business which profoundly rips us all off. I appear to have wasted your time again, sorry.
I'm still not getting in a mobile one though.
Wednesday, 4 August 2010
A Swift Re-Balancing of the Scales
It has been drawn to my attention that I seem to be slagging off Christianity quite a bit, and I've only written a few posts. This is sadly true: I was brought up in and live in a predominately Western Christian culture and therefore feel it is my right to ridicule it at any given opportunity. However, my feelings about the absolutely farcical nature of Christian doctrine extends to all organised religion.
As a quick example, take a look at Islam (to draw a random faith out of the burka). This is entirely based on the concept that the Koran is, literally, 'the word of God'. God took time out of his busy lifestyle to write what is essentially a self-repeating, error-ridden, self-repeating novel that even Dan Brown would think twice about publishing? I doubt it. I would have thought that if God/Allah/Zeus/Baphomet/Snap/Crackle/Pop ever did sit down to write a book, He'd at least make it a good read, and probably throw in quite a few anachronisms, just to prove He really knew His shit from His shinola.
'Mohammed threw himself off the mule, just as the missile exploded the animal into donkey-nuggets. He knew he had no time to mourn or even say a few words for the poor beast, only roll to his feet and keep moving before those bastards loaded another rocket into the hand-held launcher. "No way you're taking me, guys, no way!" he yelled as he ran for cover, his ears still ringing, his fingers desperately trying to ram the fresh magazine into his trusty AK-47, while his detonated mount's fleshy parts rained down around him. He skidded to safety behind a blind beggar. "Now it's my turn, bitches," he muttered, before unleashing a volley of lethal lead in the general direction of the pill-box. And yea, My hand was in there, guiding those bullets straight into their heathen heads and splattering their brains upon the wall.'
All I'm saying is, if God (in all Its forms) is so good, why is It incapable of winning the Booker?
Am I gonna get my hands cut off for this?
As a quick example, take a look at Islam (to draw a random faith out of the burka). This is entirely based on the concept that the Koran is, literally, 'the word of God'. God took time out of his busy lifestyle to write what is essentially a self-repeating, error-ridden, self-repeating novel that even Dan Brown would think twice about publishing? I doubt it. I would have thought that if God/Allah/Zeus/Baphomet/Snap/Crackle/Pop ever did sit down to write a book, He'd at least make it a good read, and probably throw in quite a few anachronisms, just to prove He really knew His shit from His shinola.
'Mohammed threw himself off the mule, just as the missile exploded the animal into donkey-nuggets. He knew he had no time to mourn or even say a few words for the poor beast, only roll to his feet and keep moving before those bastards loaded another rocket into the hand-held launcher. "No way you're taking me, guys, no way!" he yelled as he ran for cover, his ears still ringing, his fingers desperately trying to ram the fresh magazine into his trusty AK-47, while his detonated mount's fleshy parts rained down around him. He skidded to safety behind a blind beggar. "Now it's my turn, bitches," he muttered, before unleashing a volley of lethal lead in the general direction of the pill-box. And yea, My hand was in there, guiding those bullets straight into their heathen heads and splattering their brains upon the wall.'
All I'm saying is, if God (in all Its forms) is so good, why is It incapable of winning the Booker?
Am I gonna get my hands cut off for this?
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Sex Education Phase 2 Part I
To recap: My kebab from a couple of nights ago has sparked an analogy that I may not be able to tie up. It might turn out to be the renegade niece in my Austrian sex cellar. But I shall continue, by moving on from the pitta bread of wanton lawlessness, to the suspicious but tasty meat of civilization. Or
Phase 2) Somewhere along the lines we learnt something. We learnt it really wasn't the done thing to kill our neighbour or shag our sister.
There are those who believe that we discovered this through trial and error, that reasoning took hold and said "Wait; everytime I have a child with my sibling, it has two heads. Meanwhile I just stabbed Simon from up the road for laying down a really shit roof, when he was such an excellent pig herder. Maybe I should stop creating kids with sis, and refrain from murdering people who have tried to do me a favour."
The concept that we learnt from reasoning is laughable. A much more plausible explanation follows:
Obviously the reason why rape, incest and murder became forbidden is that some loving Deity sent us all a ten-point memo, passed on by some git who proudly claimed he had just massacred thousands of innocents because his girlfriend had thrush or something (oh, come on, 'burning bush'?) and who had also led thousands of people across the continent, without ever having to worry that they might be copulating or murdering one anothers' faces off.
Moses: Oh, now you give me the Commandments. That might have helped earlier, you know. They were fucking and killing like mad when I parted the Red Sea. And I saw one who was really eyeing up his neighbour's ox.
God: Stop bothering me, I'm making a dinosaur fossil ... Don't ask.
Far more plausible isn't it? The idea that morality came about because of a selfish desire to see the human race survive versus the notion that morality was forced upon us by a despot deity who probably also made sure that ALIENS BUILT THE FUCKING PYRAMIDS.
Anyway, I'm in danger of going off-topic.
With the outlaw and criminalisation of rape (quite rightly) came prostitution. The world's oldest profession, as some may say. There are those who can not get laid, and there are those who are adept at the art of lying to their sexual partner. Why shouldn't they come together? If I can't fix my plumbing, I call a plumber. Plumbing should be illegal!
Police: Sorry sir, I'm arresting you on suspicion of soliciting a plumber.
Me: He told me he had a licence!
Plumber: Me show licence! Me clean plumber!
Police: Filthy scum!
Plumber: Argh ... oog ...
Me: Stop hitting him!
Police: Oh, a plumber-lover is it?
Me: No, I just had a backed up drain but - Argh .. oog ..
Plumber: Me surrender!
Police: Right, which one of you wants to make yourself look Asian so I reach my targets?
To those offended by the idea that I may be defending prostitution, who grumble that it reduces sex to a an animal, selfish act, then may I point out that Shakespeare may well have written his best sonnets about a rent boy. That's fucking art, people.
And yes, I had a prostitute once. I say "had". I was drunk in Amsterdam, and decided that one of the girls in the windows was quite hot. I went in, she offered "suck, fuck or touch" in that curiously arousing accent, and I promptly passed out on the bed. When I woke, ten minutes later, she was massaging my member as though it was Morph and she were Tony Hart. Anyway, I drunkenly decided that the best use of my eighty pounds would be to engage her in conversation.
Yes, she didn't mind what she did, except when the men were particularly offensive to eyes or nose, she earnt a lot of money, the other girls kept an eye on her, and her boyfriend was pacified by the heaps of cash she made. At the end of the day, it was her body, to do with as she pleased and her job was no worse than changing an engine or selling a corporate ideal. When I had gone into a brief description of my life and explained the exact reasons why I'd like to suck her tits, she pushed me back and said "No, that's something you should do to your girlfriend." Which is a very humane thing to do.
Bitch.
Anyway, next up so I can get back onto the topic of sex education : Temple Prostitution. Or possibly not, it really depends on how I feel next time I sit in front of this compter.
Phase 2) Somewhere along the lines we learnt something. We learnt it really wasn't the done thing to kill our neighbour or shag our sister.
There are those who believe that we discovered this through trial and error, that reasoning took hold and said "Wait; everytime I have a child with my sibling, it has two heads. Meanwhile I just stabbed Simon from up the road for laying down a really shit roof, when he was such an excellent pig herder. Maybe I should stop creating kids with sis, and refrain from murdering people who have tried to do me a favour."
The concept that we learnt from reasoning is laughable. A much more plausible explanation follows:
Obviously the reason why rape, incest and murder became forbidden is that some loving Deity sent us all a ten-point memo, passed on by some git who proudly claimed he had just massacred thousands of innocents because his girlfriend had thrush or something (oh, come on, 'burning bush'?) and who had also led thousands of people across the continent, without ever having to worry that they might be copulating or murdering one anothers' faces off.
Moses: Oh, now you give me the Commandments. That might have helped earlier, you know. They were fucking and killing like mad when I parted the Red Sea. And I saw one who was really eyeing up his neighbour's ox.
God: Stop bothering me, I'm making a dinosaur fossil ... Don't ask.
Far more plausible isn't it? The idea that morality came about because of a selfish desire to see the human race survive versus the notion that morality was forced upon us by a despot deity who probably also made sure that ALIENS BUILT THE FUCKING PYRAMIDS.
Anyway, I'm in danger of going off-topic.
With the outlaw and criminalisation of rape (quite rightly) came prostitution. The world's oldest profession, as some may say. There are those who can not get laid, and there are those who are adept at the art of lying to their sexual partner. Why shouldn't they come together? If I can't fix my plumbing, I call a plumber. Plumbing should be illegal!
Police: Sorry sir, I'm arresting you on suspicion of soliciting a plumber.
Me: He told me he had a licence!
Plumber: Me show licence! Me clean plumber!
Police: Filthy scum!
Plumber: Argh ... oog ...
Me: Stop hitting him!
Police: Oh, a plumber-lover is it?
Me: No, I just had a backed up drain but - Argh .. oog ..
Plumber: Me surrender!
Police: Right, which one of you wants to make yourself look Asian so I reach my targets?
To those offended by the idea that I may be defending prostitution, who grumble that it reduces sex to a an animal, selfish act, then may I point out that Shakespeare may well have written his best sonnets about a rent boy. That's fucking art, people.
And yes, I had a prostitute once. I say "had". I was drunk in Amsterdam, and decided that one of the girls in the windows was quite hot. I went in, she offered "suck, fuck or touch" in that curiously arousing accent, and I promptly passed out on the bed. When I woke, ten minutes later, she was massaging my member as though it was Morph and she were Tony Hart. Anyway, I drunkenly decided that the best use of my eighty pounds would be to engage her in conversation.
Yes, she didn't mind what she did, except when the men were particularly offensive to eyes or nose, she earnt a lot of money, the other girls kept an eye on her, and her boyfriend was pacified by the heaps of cash she made. At the end of the day, it was her body, to do with as she pleased and her job was no worse than changing an engine or selling a corporate ideal. When I had gone into a brief description of my life and explained the exact reasons why I'd like to suck her tits, she pushed me back and said "No, that's something you should do to your girlfriend." Which is a very humane thing to do.
Bitch.
Anyway, next up so I can get back onto the topic of sex education : Temple Prostitution. Or possibly not, it really depends on how I feel next time I sit in front of this compter.
Monday, 2 August 2010
Sex Education Phase 1
As the stench of last night's kebab slowly seeps into the humble four walls of what I call 'my cell', it reminds me of a topic that has been troubling my mind; the increase in sex education in Britain over the last two decades and the seemingly correspondent rise in teenage pregnancies and STDs.
On the surface, this may not seem linked to last night's kebab, but trust me, it is.
'Sex education', as a global phenomenon, has gone through several phases over the millenia. I wish to look at these over the course of a few posts, which sadly may take the best part of a year to write as I'm bound to get distracted by insignif -
Ooo, look at that weird beetle scuttling across the skirting. Wonder if it crunches when you step on it.
Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, well, let us begin with the dawn of mankind, our neanderthal, pre-history days ...
Phase 1) A sexually active male would force themselves upon whatever young and fertile thing happened to be standing around, no matter how interested, willing or related they were. The gathered crowd would look on, applaud, hoot, and wonder how they were going to take notes as writing was yet to be invented. Perhaps somebody sneezed and it sounded like 'bukkaki', and so the first word was uttered. We'll never know. Suffice to say, family members would copulate with each other in what we would now term "rampant incestuous orgies" and the resultant off-spring would be vomited upon the Earth.
This type of behaviour still happens, of course, but now we call it "being from Biggleswade". Which is possibly unfair on the people of Biggleswade, but actually it's not.
In their defence, they have an excellent swimming team and can easily use Base Fourteen.
Of course, the phase 1 described is entirely based on the discoveries of science, archeology, anthropology and people who think. If you happen to take the Biblical Old Testament view, then the first sex education went like this:
Eve: "Wait, I've got to suffer the pain of childbirth and you .. you do what exactly?"
Adam: "I have to learn agriculture. Oh, come one, God gave us a fair deal."
Eve: "But giving birth really hurts, and look, I really don't think our first kids are getting on so well."
Adam: "It's probably just sibling rivalry."
Eve: "How would you know?! You were made out of dust! I tell you this, Seth is the last, you're not having sex with me again."
Adam: "Fine by me. Have you seen Cain's daughter? Fucking hot ... Actually, come to think of it, where did she come from?"
Eve: " ... Haven't you some gardening to do?"
This is the pitta.
On the surface, this may not seem linked to last night's kebab, but trust me, it is.
'Sex education', as a global phenomenon, has gone through several phases over the millenia. I wish to look at these over the course of a few posts, which sadly may take the best part of a year to write as I'm bound to get distracted by insignif -
Ooo, look at that weird beetle scuttling across the skirting. Wonder if it crunches when you step on it.
Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, well, let us begin with the dawn of mankind, our neanderthal, pre-history days ...
Phase 1) A sexually active male would force themselves upon whatever young and fertile thing happened to be standing around, no matter how interested, willing or related they were. The gathered crowd would look on, applaud, hoot, and wonder how they were going to take notes as writing was yet to be invented. Perhaps somebody sneezed and it sounded like 'bukkaki', and so the first word was uttered. We'll never know. Suffice to say, family members would copulate with each other in what we would now term "rampant incestuous orgies" and the resultant off-spring would be vomited upon the Earth.
This type of behaviour still happens, of course, but now we call it "being from Biggleswade". Which is possibly unfair on the people of Biggleswade, but actually it's not.
In their defence, they have an excellent swimming team and can easily use Base Fourteen.
Of course, the phase 1 described is entirely based on the discoveries of science, archeology, anthropology and people who think. If you happen to take the Biblical Old Testament view, then the first sex education went like this:
Eve: "Wait, I've got to suffer the pain of childbirth and you .. you do what exactly?"
Adam: "I have to learn agriculture. Oh, come one, God gave us a fair deal."
Eve: "But giving birth really hurts, and look, I really don't think our first kids are getting on so well."
Adam: "It's probably just sibling rivalry."
Eve: "How would you know?! You were made out of dust! I tell you this, Seth is the last, you're not having sex with me again."
Adam: "Fine by me. Have you seen Cain's daughter? Fucking hot ... Actually, come to think of it, where did she come from?"
Eve: " ... Haven't you some gardening to do?"
This is the pitta.
Sunday, 1 August 2010
I just read some shit about fish, where's the porn?
If this post's heading was your thought but a moment ago, you fall into one of two categories.
1) You somehow stumbled upon this blog, saw the words 'damned site', and immediately believed your eyes would be beset by images of an orgy of naked nymphs, writhing in delicious agony while the flames of hell licked at their behinds and a PVC-garbed homunculous beat them with a whip made out of cats' tongues. As you have now realised this imagery is not available to your external organs, I predict you left this site seventy-six words ago.
Or
2) You have just read 'The River Cottage Fish Book' and become sexually aroused like never before. You somehow stumbled upon this blog, after several countless hours looking for any pornography involving fish. I applaud your dilligence. And also recommend you look up "mermaid/man shag-fest", even though it will only take you 50% of the way there. But, ah, imagine that salty tail slapping upon your buttocks ...
This is a blog which I fully intend to be intelligent, insightful, totally lacking in any crude fish-fucking puns whatsoever, and will avoid being deleted by blogger for being against their terms of practice. This intention is bound to fail, but - as the old saying goes - "I'd rather topple off my perch after giving a carp it's due, than get buggered up the arse by a backed-up sperm whale."
And this is why I shouldn't write a blog.
1) You somehow stumbled upon this blog, saw the words 'damned site', and immediately believed your eyes would be beset by images of an orgy of naked nymphs, writhing in delicious agony while the flames of hell licked at their behinds and a PVC-garbed homunculous beat them with a whip made out of cats' tongues. As you have now realised this imagery is not available to your external organs, I predict you left this site seventy-six words ago.
Or
2) You have just read 'The River Cottage Fish Book' and become sexually aroused like never before. You somehow stumbled upon this blog, after several countless hours looking for any pornography involving fish. I applaud your dilligence. And also recommend you look up "mermaid/man shag-fest", even though it will only take you 50% of the way there. But, ah, imagine that salty tail slapping upon your buttocks ...
This is a blog which I fully intend to be intelligent, insightful, totally lacking in any crude fish-fucking puns whatsoever, and will avoid being deleted by blogger for being against their terms of practice. This intention is bound to fail, but - as the old saying goes - "I'd rather topple off my perch after giving a carp it's due, than get buggered up the arse by a backed-up sperm whale."
And this is why I shouldn't write a blog.
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