I'm the Oh - Oh man
My suicide is already planned
If I'm dead tomorrow,
I'm sure you'll understand
As all I am is just the Oh - Oh man
Who cares about me?
Friday, 27 May 2011
Monday, 23 May 2011
You know the sunlight's coming, but...
He felt spend, confined to the chair. It was still something of a night-time, so he had more to think of and say before the dawn. Oh Junax, more to go eh?
What if she came crying back to him?
What if she regretted it?
He would slam the door in her fucking face, but some might not.
He thought of that film, Sleeping With The Enemy. Julia Roberts was better looking but she was definitely banging Patrick Bergin. She'd come home one night to find David Dodds had broken in just to arrange her towels correctly.
But was this bad karma, dealing like this. He didn't know.
The more he thought about it so...
'He looks like fuckin' Kurgan from Highlander!' He spat.
Certainly in the picture of them in his mind, Dodds looked liked the type of sick deception that would win the Prize and bring 40 centuries of darkness to the Earth.
More bitter dispatches from the front eh? They said in Canada.
What if she came crying back to him?
What if she regretted it?
He would slam the door in her fucking face, but some might not.
He thought of that film, Sleeping With The Enemy. Julia Roberts was better looking but she was definitely banging Patrick Bergin. She'd come home one night to find David Dodds had broken in just to arrange her towels correctly.
But was this bad karma, dealing like this. He didn't know.
The more he thought about it so...
'He looks like fuckin' Kurgan from Highlander!' He spat.
Certainly in the picture of them in his mind, Dodds looked liked the type of sick deception that would win the Prize and bring 40 centuries of darkness to the Earth.
More bitter dispatches from the front eh? They said in Canada.
Perhaps, Possibly, Perchance...
The way it forces
Such as things to be,
Vocalising horses for courses
And turns the wayward
Out to sea.
How can I keep myself
From feeling like I'm falling?
Calling out but none hearing
They know not or want
To know where I go
Is it bad karma?
Then your emotions fall
Need some surety
A pain is not certainty
However much it feels.
Hold the vine to climb
Feeling people turn away
Recent behaviour causing doubt
To whom and unsure who will help
Me climb out.
Just can't feel like falling anyway.
Such as things to be,
Vocalising horses for courses
And turns the wayward
Out to sea.
How can I keep myself
From feeling like I'm falling?
Calling out but none hearing
They know not or want
To know where I go
Is it bad karma?
Then your emotions fall
Need some surety
A pain is not certainty
However much it feels.
Hold the vine to climb
Feeling people turn away
Recent behaviour causing doubt
To whom and unsure who will help
Me climb out.
Just can't feel like falling anyway.
Shafted by a Sash Wanker!
We all have our David Dodds to contend with. They are those dark little happenings in our lives that provide obstacles to be overcome. The thing about David Dodds is you often can't overcome it, you gotta go around or find a new route. Even people called David Dodds have their David Dodds to contend with. Except one that is.
Junax certainly had his David Dodds to contend with. Except in this case it was some cunt actually called David Dodds and he was the ruiner of all things good and destroyer of beauty and happiness. That's why he was a cunt. Speaking of which, Junax had recently been getting himself a nice bit of action from some hair stylist who had seemed the real deal. That was until she met David Dodds at a house party and elected to become his official cock-warmer.
Junax was sitting in his chair burning up about it. How do you go to a house party and decide to become a girlfriend? How on earth does that happen?! He made a mental note never to go to mid-Ulster house parties where nothing but bad, bad shit clearly happened. That burnt him. Then there was getting dumped for some fuckwit with a head shaped like a tomato and the facial features of a kiddy-snatcher. He was only a year younger than Junax for crying out loud, thought Junax.
'Fuck the iniquity of all this!' He howled.
Junax like to fuck on the beach as the moon waxed to it's fullest extent. David Dodds liked to shop for beige pyjamas that he could sew his name on along with Royal Irish Rifles insignia. How could Junax hope to compete with that? A D.I.Y lobotomy possibly, but no other way no how. That was the kind of shit that made hair stylists crazy. Apparently.
Dodds was a supporter of the Traditional Unionist Voice party. Unionism was all fine and well to Junax but he'd sort of given it up when he stopped buying Thundercats toys around 1988, though Unionist protests often meant the schools were closed, which was sweet. Actually Dodds had been barred from TUV meetings because he'd been caught using his Orange sash for masturbation purposes. As far as he was concerned it showed his utter devotion to the ethos. But he'd been already caught using rosaries as anal beads so his card was already marked. Actually as David himself often remarked, that was nothing, anally penetrating yourself using a Royal Irish Rifles 1915 officers revolver was far more pleasurable. He could feel the baked sweat of his favourite officer class still on the nozzle.
'Still this leaves me without pussy!!' Howled Junax again.
That was true, to an extent. Given how socially hopeless Junax was it did leave him in something of a bind. Plus, Dodds wasn't just in it for the pussy. He had a family breeding program to be seen to. Continuing the Dodds line from now until the Day of Judgement.
'Welcome to the "fun" side of life in Northern Ireland.' Said Junax, again only to himself.
Now, David would tell you that all animals had been put on the earth to serve man and women where here to breed for man. In fact most blokes in mid-Ulster would tell you that. So he had this wee hair stylist lined up to be the breeding vessel of his children.
He instructed his lawyer in a letter to secure full compensation from Dodds for services lost and time wasted. He signed it and then sat back and closed his eyes. All he could see was Dodds gloating like a hungry sex pervert with the stylist.
His eyes snapped open.
'Get outta my brain ya bastard!!'
He couldn't think now. He put on the radio and just then Zappa came to wash his mind clean.
Junax certainly had his David Dodds to contend with. Except in this case it was some cunt actually called David Dodds and he was the ruiner of all things good and destroyer of beauty and happiness. That's why he was a cunt. Speaking of which, Junax had recently been getting himself a nice bit of action from some hair stylist who had seemed the real deal. That was until she met David Dodds at a house party and elected to become his official cock-warmer.
Junax was sitting in his chair burning up about it. How do you go to a house party and decide to become a girlfriend? How on earth does that happen?! He made a mental note never to go to mid-Ulster house parties where nothing but bad, bad shit clearly happened. That burnt him. Then there was getting dumped for some fuckwit with a head shaped like a tomato and the facial features of a kiddy-snatcher. He was only a year younger than Junax for crying out loud, thought Junax.
'Fuck the iniquity of all this!' He howled.
Junax like to fuck on the beach as the moon waxed to it's fullest extent. David Dodds liked to shop for beige pyjamas that he could sew his name on along with Royal Irish Rifles insignia. How could Junax hope to compete with that? A D.I.Y lobotomy possibly, but no other way no how. That was the kind of shit that made hair stylists crazy. Apparently.
Dodds was a supporter of the Traditional Unionist Voice party. Unionism was all fine and well to Junax but he'd sort of given it up when he stopped buying Thundercats toys around 1988, though Unionist protests often meant the schools were closed, which was sweet. Actually Dodds had been barred from TUV meetings because he'd been caught using his Orange sash for masturbation purposes. As far as he was concerned it showed his utter devotion to the ethos. But he'd been already caught using rosaries as anal beads so his card was already marked. Actually as David himself often remarked, that was nothing, anally penetrating yourself using a Royal Irish Rifles 1915 officers revolver was far more pleasurable. He could feel the baked sweat of his favourite officer class still on the nozzle.
'Still this leaves me without pussy!!' Howled Junax again.
That was true, to an extent. Given how socially hopeless Junax was it did leave him in something of a bind. Plus, Dodds wasn't just in it for the pussy. He had a family breeding program to be seen to. Continuing the Dodds line from now until the Day of Judgement.
'Welcome to the "fun" side of life in Northern Ireland.' Said Junax, again only to himself.
Now, David would tell you that all animals had been put on the earth to serve man and women where here to breed for man. In fact most blokes in mid-Ulster would tell you that. So he had this wee hair stylist lined up to be the breeding vessel of his children.
He instructed his lawyer in a letter to secure full compensation from Dodds for services lost and time wasted. He signed it and then sat back and closed his eyes. All he could see was Dodds gloating like a hungry sex pervert with the stylist.
His eyes snapped open.
'Get outta my brain ya bastard!!'
He couldn't think now. He put on the radio and just then Zappa came to wash his mind clean.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Fwhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarr?!
Well, never had a well. Never had a need for lotion. Never had a need for a coat made of female skin. To make me look like a woman nevertheless.
It was at that point that she signed offline. Bugger. Consumptive deliverance of a goodly attitude I thought. But I was wrong. So I began to write the screenplay to my first film instead. That took all of five minutes. I looked at what I had. Five pages. Fuck. So I got up and stared deliberately at the green concrete boundaries of my room. It was a Wednesday. Possibly. I decided that this would be an excellent juncture to renew my efforts at my guitar playing. As a right-handed 30-year old obese man I picked up the black, left-handed obese guitar and It sunk my belly back to where it had been seven years earlier. Or so I thought.
My hands nestled upon the strings and I began to find the delicate outlines of the four chords I knew. At no point did I play any of them correctly.
There was a nearby disturbance outside the window. Music critics. I knew they by their burning torches and farmyard implements and red kerchiefs knotted about their barley-scarred skin and the torn charcoal black waistcoats overlaying the yellow-stained faded blue-striped shirts. They brought their own mud with them. Diaphanous women pirouetted before them laying it like bounteous gifts from agricultural horns of plenty. Or in this case old bags of Mac Alpines cement. They were already at the front door.
My housemate enquired on the Face-boke as to whether perchance I had been playing my guitar as we were all now to be murdered in our beds. I chose to defer my answer until the point when I would be speared against my own bed by a rusted pitchfork.
I went on another dating site to drown out the background howl of shattering glass and sounds of dying animals to declare that I, myself, was sexually attracted to rolling pins and had been for some years. She said she would report me to the police. I said I would be sweet as a lamb to her, with mint sauce dripping down me balls. Ah such is life. How was your day?
Bisson
It was at that point that she signed offline. Bugger. Consumptive deliverance of a goodly attitude I thought. But I was wrong. So I began to write the screenplay to my first film instead. That took all of five minutes. I looked at what I had. Five pages. Fuck. So I got up and stared deliberately at the green concrete boundaries of my room. It was a Wednesday. Possibly. I decided that this would be an excellent juncture to renew my efforts at my guitar playing. As a right-handed 30-year old obese man I picked up the black, left-handed obese guitar and It sunk my belly back to where it had been seven years earlier. Or so I thought.
My hands nestled upon the strings and I began to find the delicate outlines of the four chords I knew. At no point did I play any of them correctly.
There was a nearby disturbance outside the window. Music critics. I knew they by their burning torches and farmyard implements and red kerchiefs knotted about their barley-scarred skin and the torn charcoal black waistcoats overlaying the yellow-stained faded blue-striped shirts. They brought their own mud with them. Diaphanous women pirouetted before them laying it like bounteous gifts from agricultural horns of plenty. Or in this case old bags of Mac Alpines cement. They were already at the front door.
My housemate enquired on the Face-boke as to whether perchance I had been playing my guitar as we were all now to be murdered in our beds. I chose to defer my answer until the point when I would be speared against my own bed by a rusted pitchfork.
I went on another dating site to drown out the background howl of shattering glass and sounds of dying animals to declare that I, myself, was sexually attracted to rolling pins and had been for some years. She said she would report me to the police. I said I would be sweet as a lamb to her, with mint sauce dripping down me balls. Ah such is life. How was your day?
Bisson
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Well That's Fucked That Wan Then!!
Junax sat with a lazy eye and a lithe latex suspender draped upon his sofa area. They were knee-capping each guest that came on This Morning that day and leaving them to stumble around the foam map of Britain re-erected in the Thames just for the occasion.
Junax felt his arm glued to his torso with sweat. He'd just been up to the coast where he had been rewarded with a heavy cold and as he came back on the train, there were a bunch of 14-year old spides singing about lovely, fluffy sheep to the tune of 'When the Saints...' Junax had a stinking head and was fantasising about having an uzi and slowly gunning down each of the little cunts with more graphic and deliberate imagery. He was in a strange sense of deja vu where he'd been on a train before with spides singing about fluffy sheep.
He got to Belfast and found the wee hallon had done it again.
In recent times he had developed a taste for girls ten years younger than himself, which wasn't so bad as he was 35, but it was an unwise attraction nevertheless.
This one had told him she had found a legal accountant called Simon. They'd spent all night going through figures of last year's income rate bracket.
This was the last time he would buck a culchie!
Well, it was certainly the last time he would buck that culchie anyway. She was bucking Simon now which worked out good for him as it was his first time and he would be able to declare sex as an income-free tax return. That was what got Simon the most wet.
'Fucking tractor pulling wee tart...' Growled Junax to his empty room.
It wasn't the sudden stop that killed yer, it was the fall. The rejection. He couldn't believe it. This was new, he'd been rejected for a younger model!
'Some dickless wee know-nuffin cunt, a right vapid fucker and as immediate and exciting as a pot of beige emulsion.'
Again, to no-one.
Now Junax was needy sure, but Simon took the biscuit. Years later a girl would know he was stalking her as he broke into her house and tidied her towels for her. He'd insisted Junax's bit of stuff draw up an affidavit swearing he was her boyfriend. If she didn't he would probably murder her. Suffocate her with invoices or something or just brain her to death with a brick in a stocking.
But hey, psychopaths are the new sexy and Junax wasn't
'Fucking hate women'.
He just lump it and join the club. There was a long waiting list.
Junax felt his arm glued to his torso with sweat. He'd just been up to the coast where he had been rewarded with a heavy cold and as he came back on the train, there were a bunch of 14-year old spides singing about lovely, fluffy sheep to the tune of 'When the Saints...' Junax had a stinking head and was fantasising about having an uzi and slowly gunning down each of the little cunts with more graphic and deliberate imagery. He was in a strange sense of deja vu where he'd been on a train before with spides singing about fluffy sheep.
He got to Belfast and found the wee hallon had done it again.
In recent times he had developed a taste for girls ten years younger than himself, which wasn't so bad as he was 35, but it was an unwise attraction nevertheless.
This one had told him she had found a legal accountant called Simon. They'd spent all night going through figures of last year's income rate bracket.
This was the last time he would buck a culchie!
Well, it was certainly the last time he would buck that culchie anyway. She was bucking Simon now which worked out good for him as it was his first time and he would be able to declare sex as an income-free tax return. That was what got Simon the most wet.
'Fucking tractor pulling wee tart...' Growled Junax to his empty room.
It wasn't the sudden stop that killed yer, it was the fall. The rejection. He couldn't believe it. This was new, he'd been rejected for a younger model!
'Some dickless wee know-nuffin cunt, a right vapid fucker and as immediate and exciting as a pot of beige emulsion.'
Again, to no-one.
Now Junax was needy sure, but Simon took the biscuit. Years later a girl would know he was stalking her as he broke into her house and tidied her towels for her. He'd insisted Junax's bit of stuff draw up an affidavit swearing he was her boyfriend. If she didn't he would probably murder her. Suffocate her with invoices or something or just brain her to death with a brick in a stocking.
But hey, psychopaths are the new sexy and Junax wasn't
'Fucking hate women'.
He just lump it and join the club. There was a long waiting list.
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Sheer Wasted
Another story about Junax is, in his younger days, he was invited to a party. He'd run out of money for drink so he decided to have some mushies and go tripping instead, reasoning that to be a bit wasted was better than none at all.Bad move.
He was tripping his arse off by the time he got up there. Envisionings of entire kingdoms swum past him in the haze. He was two hours late and when he got there, there was some girls hanging about outside on a wall. One of the girls looked like the brunette hooker out of Crocodile Dundee. This made him really paranoid. She knew he was a scum, she could read his mind.
But then she was dressed like Nicola Roberts out of Girls Aloud so she morphed into her but with brown hair. But they still hated him he knew it. He went up to the door. It was locked. Fuck.
There was nobody around...to knock would make him look like a tool but to hang around then the girls would know he was a freak.
Then a tall guy came by, looked like Justin Bieber after having been put on a rack for the Gunpowder Plot, which he would be, because he was that sort of cunt.
The Bieber Bigfoot as he had now morphed into in Junax's mind, took out a mobile phone and spoke to the girls.
He just said
'Bout ye?'
instead of
'Hi! I'm Justin Bieber Bigfoot. I have a plastic cock I put cause I have no genitals but I like to stuff my fleas up cocks.'
His not saying this confused Junax greatly.
Bieber Bigfoot asked the girls if they were going to the party.
'Yeah, I live up there.' one of the non-hooker ones said.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That made it worse, how the fuck would he get in now?
Bieber Bigfoot was offering Junax the chance to massage his fur while he taught his fleas how to teach the world to sing and other Coca-Cola jingles. The worst was this was not a hallucination. This was actually happening.
Just then a smoker popped out to get some fresh air and Junax took the opportunity to go in. He knew the girls were chanting 'Stranger, danger!' through mental telepathy.
When he got up to the party he was acclaimed;
'Trevor!'
'Trevor'
'What?' Said Junax
'Trevor!'
'No Junax'
'Trevor!'
He fell down at was thought to be a table and drank a yellow liquid put in front of him.
'Trevor get that down ye!'
It tasted like fairy liquid. He could feel fleas marching up towards him, singing Pepsi jingles.
When he awoke the next morning there was no girl beside him, so he'd failed to get laid. But good grief was his arse sore.
He was tripping his arse off by the time he got up there. Envisionings of entire kingdoms swum past him in the haze. He was two hours late and when he got there, there was some girls hanging about outside on a wall. One of the girls looked like the brunette hooker out of Crocodile Dundee. This made him really paranoid. She knew he was a scum, she could read his mind.
But then she was dressed like Nicola Roberts out of Girls Aloud so she morphed into her but with brown hair. But they still hated him he knew it. He went up to the door. It was locked. Fuck.
There was nobody around...to knock would make him look like a tool but to hang around then the girls would know he was a freak.
Then a tall guy came by, looked like Justin Bieber after having been put on a rack for the Gunpowder Plot, which he would be, because he was that sort of cunt.
The Bieber Bigfoot as he had now morphed into in Junax's mind, took out a mobile phone and spoke to the girls.
He just said
'Bout ye?'
instead of
'Hi! I'm Justin Bieber Bigfoot. I have a plastic cock I put cause I have no genitals but I like to stuff my fleas up cocks.'
His not saying this confused Junax greatly.
Bieber Bigfoot asked the girls if they were going to the party.
'Yeah, I live up there.' one of the non-hooker ones said.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That made it worse, how the fuck would he get in now?
Bieber Bigfoot was offering Junax the chance to massage his fur while he taught his fleas how to teach the world to sing and other Coca-Cola jingles. The worst was this was not a hallucination. This was actually happening.
Just then a smoker popped out to get some fresh air and Junax took the opportunity to go in. He knew the girls were chanting 'Stranger, danger!' through mental telepathy.
When he got up to the party he was acclaimed;
'Trevor!'
'Trevor'
'What?' Said Junax
'Trevor!'
'No Junax'
'Trevor!'
He fell down at was thought to be a table and drank a yellow liquid put in front of him.
'Trevor get that down ye!'
It tasted like fairy liquid. He could feel fleas marching up towards him, singing Pepsi jingles.
When he awoke the next morning there was no girl beside him, so he'd failed to get laid. But good grief was his arse sore.
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