Sunday, 10 February 2013

I need to stop and cough, I really do...

Hey man, I am in no way Randy Quaid, no matter what the begrudgers or the praiseful persons say. This is important...Randy needs to maintain his independence in this.

There are in essence the occurrence of the ideas of the Id but these are then tempered by the overall balm of the Super-Ego. And anyway they gotta compete with the Ego and that ain't happening. Never mind the hot girl you think of, you then remember that you have nothing in common on any plane and anyway she hurting your sense of pride just ain't fucking happening.

Not that we don't all believe in love and peace and being balanced in this neck of the woods.

Shit happens, then the papers report it which means you become aware of it when you'd never have checked it in the first place, 'cos it's shit. For example some current shite is stuff to do with Perrie Edwards? Man, there's some minutes of your life you want back!

Ok this is going to take time and energy but bear with it, this shit is everywhere. Worse than manure to hide buildings from bombers. So you may as well, if you don't read this crap, it'll be something else. Perrie Edwards, who sounds like a fucking chef, of the gurl band Little Mix, which sounds like some arsehole sweet shop somewhere with gob on the boiled toffees. Anyway its something like she got fucked over by her boyfriend Zayn Malik and...I'm losing the will to write about this gunk, fuck it.
Ein last is, what the fuck is it with these names?! You're in Tyne and Wear and you've had some spunk pennies spent in your lady purse and 9 months later yew spew out yet another of the worlds most expensive watermelons from your grape-hole. Then you go straight to a funky vicar and say her name is 'Perrie'. Being a funky vicar he just does some jive turkey around the church hall and never questions it like any sane, rational person would. Still Jesy Nelson would get it. She dumps that bargain-basement chinless wonder she's been paired with by Simon Cowell and I'll show her a great game called 'A million ways to have fun in a bed over a weekend.'

Oh to be like that guy in the natwest advert, dressed like a kangaroo in the rain. That better be a fucking good party. Like they hand out clean hookers with the party treats. Dress up like a kangaroo then, under any other circumstances you'd tell people to go fuck themselves.

Another kind of conundrum is when the IRA used to rob banks. They needed the money to buy bombs. Bombs to blow up a bank. To rob the bank. To get money for...where'd they get the first bomb from. No bank money, they'd need to rob a bank so they'd need a bomb for that but they needed bank money for the bomb but they had no bomb. Sheeit, no wonder they went on to try and kill Thatcher. That's the kind of vicious circle that leads you to blow up prime ministers for a living.

Remember children, peace is the answer. Put flowers in guns and they don't know what to do. You start getting violent they have no worries, they have plans A to Z to deal with violent people. So it ever be thus with organ grinders. Laters!


The Zayn-bot interfaces with the Per-bot, causing a boot-up. This is here due to the fleeting aspect of modern fame as it'll get irrelevant in five minutes. The trick is to look like you give a shit.


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