Mr Lebowski is no longer secluded in the west wing.
Therefore, I'm mulling over my thoughts like some unknown vintage to speak pompously and I reckon where I want to head to be is Hawaii
Home of the ukulele, women in bikini's playing vollyball, cocktails of choice and ever forging land to invoke the senses and enrich the eye.
Then again...I could very well end up the bail jumper of some born again iron pusher who comes to my house with a reality tv crew and says prayers outside my door and then drags me off with pepper spray to pay for some bail I jumped posted by someone for some crime I committed and have no fucking intention committing! Aw and then there's the heart to heart in the hummer. Fuck! That'll take fucking hours, they only use two minutes in the show, but to get that they have to film for seven hours or something. That is all a concern I have to say.
Ah but to sit by recently formed beaches, composing, thinking ideas that are quare and groovy, who knows? Abiding in bliss is a vision. Nol more snow, cold, aching dejection a portion of the year. Perpetual summer is what I want. Even if Hawaii ain't got that it inspires me to find newer comforts to live in.
Appealing. But mebbe should check the murder rate there. Seems to get quite high in hot countries. Mebbe it's the heat, you wake up about 4am, can't sleep with the humidity; it pisses you off day by day, with mercury rising and you just snap, grab your gun and head out to the nearest spouse/potential spouse boyfriend/parent/invisible enemy who takes the form of some poor bugger you happen to meet in the street/person of a ethnic grouping who, against all intelligence and reason and humanity, has earned your misguided, mindless ire/female person who you desire as a potential spouse but in your deluded state you have already fast-tracked through introduction, friendship, platonic kiss revealing previously unknown feelings,eventual first date through various farcial circumstances, relationship, break-up due to male instransigence, confusion internally about her best male and gay friend as potential rival in love.
There is a lot to consider in making this move.
Then what is the murder rate in cold countries? Folks may just look out their windy at the 24-hour darkness and the icy snow and just think:
'Fuck it. Ain't going out in that shit. Ain't happening, not even to kill my former wife. And possibly her reindeer as a further act of spite and male childishness...not to mention displaying hitherto unrevealed signs of psychosis like they do in them very hot places.'
Again consideration is the key here. Got to think long and hard about this as they say in certain circles. My thinking though well, it comes back to female volleyball on the beach. I don't know why, enlightenment is probably required....heh-heh!
Stop that, and preserve your eyesight! Anyways I say....
Bisson
Saturday, 9 February 2013
Regrets of a cad and a bounder...
But seriously now folks...
This is kind of Year Zero; though more of a try at a clean slate rather than taking intellectuals from the cities and making them starve to death out in the countryside, which is a sage choice on my part for once.
What has been written previously by Junax, me and Pinkeye is, at the time of writing, in the majority and comes over as the crabbed, unhinged rantings of a complete shit at times. And that is because at times it was the rantings of a crabbed, unhinged shit.
But nay more! There are new ideas and happenings fermenting, new ways of doing things and new ways of them being expressed. More of an abiding vibe, y'hear?
Not that the old posts will get deleted. They are what they are, and a part of history, but they're the castle that sank into the swamp to nick a metaphor from a noted comedy troupe.
No and nope, what I'm gonna build on them is a new castle, something a bit more inclusive, open, fluid and probably stupid but hey that's life, that's what the feeble say.
I wanna keep it brave, free, good vibrating and keep the vague notion of love in mind rather than the attribution of hurt. That's what poetry in notebooks are for.
This instead is a world completely unknown that demands exploring. Who is Bisson? Dunno, but gonna find out warts and all.
Join me, I can be bona-fide, I feel it in my non-carpark bones :)
Bisson
This is kind of Year Zero; though more of a try at a clean slate rather than taking intellectuals from the cities and making them starve to death out in the countryside, which is a sage choice on my part for once.
What has been written previously by Junax, me and Pinkeye is, at the time of writing, in the majority and comes over as the crabbed, unhinged rantings of a complete shit at times. And that is because at times it was the rantings of a crabbed, unhinged shit.
But nay more! There are new ideas and happenings fermenting, new ways of doing things and new ways of them being expressed. More of an abiding vibe, y'hear?
Not that the old posts will get deleted. They are what they are, and a part of history, but they're the castle that sank into the swamp to nick a metaphor from a noted comedy troupe.
No and nope, what I'm gonna build on them is a new castle, something a bit more inclusive, open, fluid and probably stupid but hey that's life, that's what the feeble say.
I wanna keep it brave, free, good vibrating and keep the vague notion of love in mind rather than the attribution of hurt. That's what poetry in notebooks are for.
This instead is a world completely unknown that demands exploring. Who is Bisson? Dunno, but gonna find out warts and all.
Join me, I can be bona-fide, I feel it in my non-carpark bones :)
Bisson
I'm Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack!!!!
Well this is some kind of friendly and we have ourselves a fresh new year garnished with new ideas and ways of trying them.
What I want to riff with you this time is responses to a night out in Belfast...
Ya know if you haven't been out for a while in Belfast you think, shit I haven't been out in ages and you go out and find it's just as shit as it was when you were 22 and why you got sick of going out in the first fucking place.
But there's also what you should notice besides what you know; there are two ways to deal with not scoring at the end of Saturday night in Belfast...which is inevitable more than it happens...
Either like a small, over-thoughtful minority you wind your slow, weepy way home and hit whatever you have left in the carryout until exhaustion or sheer boredom get you to sleep. Or to stop you puking. Then the next day is spend nursing an aching head, half-remembered regrets and playing sad songs of loneliness by obscure artists.
Or...the more popular one is to try and kick the shit out of anything that moves. Take that sexual frustration out on the weaker, the disadvantaged or depending on how much of a 'roid monkey you are, the bouncers. They're cunts anyway so no-one is sorry if you slap them one. Though being major league 'roid monkeys they will definitely kick the shit out of you no matter how hard you are because they rove in groups and don't have ten pints and countless shots in them.
Weirdly this is the one state where women don't get punched by men in Belfast, though it is fleeting. After 2am, the mood darkens so even women aren't safe anymore. But men will pick fights to satisfy sexual lust. How does this actually work biologically and rationally? Who knows, but then again it's Belfast, so ignorance is bliss.
As a final aside, there is standing with your arms open, a beer bottle in one hand and the words to the effect 'what about you love' to a group of disinterested women walking quickly past you and completely ignoring that you are there and that you even exist as they talk amongst themselves in the usual inane babble that passes for lady talk. This has yet to make it as a successful chat-up line as is the subsequent add-ons to it concerning your junk and how you'd like to rip that apart with your junk. The insults as they fade away up the road will probably never work. Women only like being called fucking bitches in some cases of S&M and even then there's a prior form of relationship.
Anyway, dat's how this shit can go down. See ya soon!
Bisson.
What I want to riff with you this time is responses to a night out in Belfast...
Ya know if you haven't been out for a while in Belfast you think, shit I haven't been out in ages and you go out and find it's just as shit as it was when you were 22 and why you got sick of going out in the first fucking place.
But there's also what you should notice besides what you know; there are two ways to deal with not scoring at the end of Saturday night in Belfast...which is inevitable more than it happens...
Either like a small, over-thoughtful minority you wind your slow, weepy way home and hit whatever you have left in the carryout until exhaustion or sheer boredom get you to sleep. Or to stop you puking. Then the next day is spend nursing an aching head, half-remembered regrets and playing sad songs of loneliness by obscure artists.
Or...the more popular one is to try and kick the shit out of anything that moves. Take that sexual frustration out on the weaker, the disadvantaged or depending on how much of a 'roid monkey you are, the bouncers. They're cunts anyway so no-one is sorry if you slap them one. Though being major league 'roid monkeys they will definitely kick the shit out of you no matter how hard you are because they rove in groups and don't have ten pints and countless shots in them.
Weirdly this is the one state where women don't get punched by men in Belfast, though it is fleeting. After 2am, the mood darkens so even women aren't safe anymore. But men will pick fights to satisfy sexual lust. How does this actually work biologically and rationally? Who knows, but then again it's Belfast, so ignorance is bliss.
As a final aside, there is standing with your arms open, a beer bottle in one hand and the words to the effect 'what about you love' to a group of disinterested women walking quickly past you and completely ignoring that you are there and that you even exist as they talk amongst themselves in the usual inane babble that passes for lady talk. This has yet to make it as a successful chat-up line as is the subsequent add-ons to it concerning your junk and how you'd like to rip that apart with your junk. The insults as they fade away up the road will probably never work. Women only like being called fucking bitches in some cases of S&M and even then there's a prior form of relationship.
Anyway, dat's how this shit can go down. See ya soon!
Bisson.
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
Monday, 9 January 2012
No Worries
With the New Year, Junax was no longer troubled by the hairdresser. She'd got herpes or gonorrhoea or got pregnant or summat, either way her precious diet was fucked. If she wanted to bang someone who looked like a flabby, child-molester version of Eoin McLove then best of British to her. Anyway she looked like Liza Minnelli circa now. Junax deserved better. So he was under contentment and Pinkeye was under surveillance.
Which left me to not much except what was. But I was thinking; herpes infected fat hairdressers would not be the remembrance of the human race, but then it would just be our luck they would be. However, there were the Voyager and Mariner probes with their gold discs of human civilisation on them, the music of Beethoven and Chuck Berry; they might just make it.
I spat that Justin Bieber's music would never be sent into space in the same manner. But then what if it was? You know the whole earth purged of it and it just fired off in some rocket-propelled interstellar trash can. Or there's even better!
Justin Bieber wakes up in his stagnant Canadian family home where the shoes are perpetually taken off to protect Canada's main resource, carpets, and his anus was red raw from all the ritualised family abuse he received. The doorbell goes and he is entranced towards it that there are people outside who just want to devote themselves to him which is why the little cunt keeps going; slavish devotion to him and all his pomps for no good reason whatsoever.
He exits calling faintly to the imagined devotees and is instantly chloroformed. He wakes up to find himself strapped to a Ukrainian space-rocket, which is about to blast off. Experts say that if he is still alive when the rocket reaches outer space then the little cunt had SOME talent after all!!
Actually fuck these little Canadian wastes of flesh, fuck all chubbster hairdressers and their emotional instability and fuck all perfidious 27-year olds. A pox on all their houses!
I have better things to do.
Bisson
Which left me to not much except what was. But I was thinking; herpes infected fat hairdressers would not be the remembrance of the human race, but then it would just be our luck they would be. However, there were the Voyager and Mariner probes with their gold discs of human civilisation on them, the music of Beethoven and Chuck Berry; they might just make it.
I spat that Justin Bieber's music would never be sent into space in the same manner. But then what if it was? You know the whole earth purged of it and it just fired off in some rocket-propelled interstellar trash can. Or there's even better!
Justin Bieber wakes up in his stagnant Canadian family home where the shoes are perpetually taken off to protect Canada's main resource, carpets, and his anus was red raw from all the ritualised family abuse he received. The doorbell goes and he is entranced towards it that there are people outside who just want to devote themselves to him which is why the little cunt keeps going; slavish devotion to him and all his pomps for no good reason whatsoever.
He exits calling faintly to the imagined devotees and is instantly chloroformed. He wakes up to find himself strapped to a Ukrainian space-rocket, which is about to blast off. Experts say that if he is still alive when the rocket reaches outer space then the little cunt had SOME talent after all!!
Actually fuck these little Canadian wastes of flesh, fuck all chubbster hairdressers and their emotional instability and fuck all perfidious 27-year olds. A pox on all their houses!
I have better things to do.
Bisson
Monday, 20 June 2011
Pinkeye Speaks!
Hitherto, therefore?
That is a query.
Actually my recent remarks about sex didn't go down too well. Weird. Considering going down was an integral part of sex.
I should like to say that my recent exploits in the mid-Lurgan elections have been green-lighted for use on celluloid so one day you will see the film just keep watching this space.
I would also like to state that recent allegorical depositions regarding my character are distorted and taken entirely out of character. I did not necessarily go to the hairdressers, they came to me. In any event Pinkeye likes the glamour models and they like me. This is not a boast or cause for ruction, this is a statement of fact. My admiration for their dispersal of clothes is paramount and in any case I imagine myself as better looking than I actually am so, that works too.
I've been given this rare blurb due to the absence of stories about my good pal, Junax, as he is still asleep. When he wakes up he hopes to see a clear horizon and new day. I always see them, usually about 4 in the morning and 6 in the evening.
I sympathise deeply with his predicament over the stylist, truly I do, where no one else would. It was foolishness above and beyond the call of duty to get sucked into that and he has fallen asleep as a result. The warning signs were all there...with basic gumption he could have extricated himself in March without further to-do. But Junax doesn't get laid as much as he thinks he should. That always happens with the next boyfriend. This is why the next boyfriend is universally loathed across the planet. What South American republic in its right mind would offer them sanctuary? None. We're not talking about the natural order of things, just them that move in on the relationship while it is still in progress. What assholes, eh? Incredible. That's my Canadian affectation by the way.
What was I talking about? The film! Fuck, right. Yep, my entire campaign in detail. I electioneered on the principle 'That I look pretty fly for a guy with the Pinkeye'. It won me votes, somewhere. We're still counting. Unfortunately the winning count was Serbo-Croat, a recent addendum to the ballot. But I accepted defeat with grace and favour, certainly better than the TUV candidate who threatened to kill everybody when he didn't win and had to be sedated. I fear the TUV will return with their murderous promises in five years. But so will I! Ha! Just will not be offering to off everyone. Might have sex with some of the bustier females. Y'see, what Mr Serbo-Croat MP fails to understand is I will be there in five years and he won't. I've sewn the seeds of my foundations of my future success. The electorate have heard from Pinkeye, they have heard Pinkeye's promises and they will hear them again. Just as you will hear from me again. Unless Junax wakes up or I can think of fuck all else to say.
Remember! That which you do not forget is that which you have remembered. And that's a campaign promise from me to you.
Avante!!
Pinkeye
That is a query.
Actually my recent remarks about sex didn't go down too well. Weird. Considering going down was an integral part of sex.
I should like to say that my recent exploits in the mid-Lurgan elections have been green-lighted for use on celluloid so one day you will see the film just keep watching this space.
I would also like to state that recent allegorical depositions regarding my character are distorted and taken entirely out of character. I did not necessarily go to the hairdressers, they came to me. In any event Pinkeye likes the glamour models and they like me. This is not a boast or cause for ruction, this is a statement of fact. My admiration for their dispersal of clothes is paramount and in any case I imagine myself as better looking than I actually am so, that works too.
I've been given this rare blurb due to the absence of stories about my good pal, Junax, as he is still asleep. When he wakes up he hopes to see a clear horizon and new day. I always see them, usually about 4 in the morning and 6 in the evening.
I sympathise deeply with his predicament over the stylist, truly I do, where no one else would. It was foolishness above and beyond the call of duty to get sucked into that and he has fallen asleep as a result. The warning signs were all there...with basic gumption he could have extricated himself in March without further to-do. But Junax doesn't get laid as much as he thinks he should. That always happens with the next boyfriend. This is why the next boyfriend is universally loathed across the planet. What South American republic in its right mind would offer them sanctuary? None. We're not talking about the natural order of things, just them that move in on the relationship while it is still in progress. What assholes, eh? Incredible. That's my Canadian affectation by the way.
What was I talking about? The film! Fuck, right. Yep, my entire campaign in detail. I electioneered on the principle 'That I look pretty fly for a guy with the Pinkeye'. It won me votes, somewhere. We're still counting. Unfortunately the winning count was Serbo-Croat, a recent addendum to the ballot. But I accepted defeat with grace and favour, certainly better than the TUV candidate who threatened to kill everybody when he didn't win and had to be sedated. I fear the TUV will return with their murderous promises in five years. But so will I! Ha! Just will not be offering to off everyone. Might have sex with some of the bustier females. Y'see, what Mr Serbo-Croat MP fails to understand is I will be there in five years and he won't. I've sewn the seeds of my foundations of my future success. The electorate have heard from Pinkeye, they have heard Pinkeye's promises and they will hear them again. Just as you will hear from me again. Unless Junax wakes up or I can think of fuck all else to say.
Remember! That which you do not forget is that which you have remembered. And that's a campaign promise from me to you.
Avante!!
Pinkeye
Friday, 3 June 2011
Fuck it an' save it for the next time!
It had been two weeks.
Junax was still in his chair but this time he was musing...
He was musing about the stylist and her wee porridgey bit o' pussy fungus, known to his parents (for they knew not better or, sadly, they knew not Durex) as David Dodds.
Perchance... thought Junax, imagined he...what he should have done was to say to her that he wanted to sever all contact with her while she was knocking around with this numb-nuts. Then if, by some chance, Dumb Dodds had not impregnated her and she'd come to her senses and realised that there were tins of Dulux emulsion with more personality and interest about them than this pile of dried Dodds diarrhoea she'd settled for (and boy had she just SETTLED for it) Junax would consider resuming some form of contact. On a trial basis, a kind of probation, so she could be trusted again.
He rubbed his chin a moment or so at this consideration. Ah fuck it! That was what he realised after. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Best to not observe the pregnancy announcements in the breeding section of the Mid Ulster News, (a paper whose editions were ritually burnt before they could get past Lisburn) and instead draw a line on the sand and say farewell to the whole sick affair. Yes that was better Junax reckoned. Then again Junax was a complete arsehole so it perhaps was not in her interest.
And with that situation successfully reviewed, he went to sleep :)
Junax was still in his chair but this time he was musing...
He was musing about the stylist and her wee porridgey bit o' pussy fungus, known to his parents (for they knew not better or, sadly, they knew not Durex) as David Dodds.
Perchance... thought Junax, imagined he...what he should have done was to say to her that he wanted to sever all contact with her while she was knocking around with this numb-nuts. Then if, by some chance, Dumb Dodds had not impregnated her and she'd come to her senses and realised that there were tins of Dulux emulsion with more personality and interest about them than this pile of dried Dodds diarrhoea she'd settled for (and boy had she just SETTLED for it) Junax would consider resuming some form of contact. On a trial basis, a kind of probation, so she could be trusted again.
He rubbed his chin a moment or so at this consideration. Ah fuck it! That was what he realised after. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Best to not observe the pregnancy announcements in the breeding section of the Mid Ulster News, (a paper whose editions were ritually burnt before they could get past Lisburn) and instead draw a line on the sand and say farewell to the whole sick affair. Yes that was better Junax reckoned. Then again Junax was a complete arsehole so it perhaps was not in her interest.
And with that situation successfully reviewed, he went to sleep :)
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