Tales of nonsense and items of little interest, sometimes true, always poorly thought through. Less sophisticated than most newspapers and magazines.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

Chipmunk Fever

First of all, Merry Christmas to you too, especially MJ, Ellie and Bock who despite my extended absence took the time to wish me well. Knudsen too, who even though his traditional celtic upbringing forbids even the mention of the C word, I know was quietly thinking it as he toasted the winter solstice with his glass of goat blood.

Where have I been you may ask? What have I been up to? Who was I doing it to? Is it true that I recently made out with Florence Henderson and Neil Patrick Harris on the same night?
To answer those questions in reverse order..... No. Innocent bystanders. Messing with folks heads. Work, home, bed, weekend in the Bay Area, back home, back to bed, back to work.

I have found that it's mentally harder on me not to blog than to actually sit down and blog. I'm not a quitter. Sometime over the last month this blog quietly turned 1 (Happy Blogday FH!). I celebrated by getting drunk on Jameson, poking a hole in a picture of Nigella Lawson and making love to it while Mrs. Waring slept soundly next to me (note to self: get more rohypnol).

Me Love You Long Time

So yesterday, in a blinding moment of insanity, I decide to take the child to the movies. Now several months ago, when the evil film studio started to put out trailers and advertising for the movie, the child, being 6 years old fell for it hook, line and sinker and has been waiting for it to come out ever since. I had told her several times that her mum had promised to take her to see it. That was never going to happen though as Mrs. W knows a turd when she sees one and steadfastly refused. So I took one for the team and wearily coughed up the $16 the bastards had the cheek to charge. I like Jason Lee and I love David Cross but this film was SHITE. I have always hated the fuckin' chipmunks with a passion thanks to the ultra shite cartoon that was on telly when I was a kid. Turns out that they had been around since the late 50's when the creator inhaled bug spray by mistake, wandered into the forest and was lost for three days. I can understand the initial appeal of the chipmunks to the people of the time, they could sing, dance and were not at all black. I can understand people saying "Ya gotta hear this! Singing chipmunks!! How cuuuute!!!" I cannot understand how anyone would not want to smash the record to tiny pieces after just two or three listens. It's the kind of evil that MUST be destroyed before it takes over your entire existence, as it is trying to do to me now. I have had the stupid fuckin' chipmunk Christmas song in my head since I left the movie theater yesterday. Even the usual "I Dream of Jeannie" trick isn't working. I am going to try and get drunk today, fall and hit my head hoping that will cure me.

I love my daughter and will do anything I can to make her happy but she owes me big time for this. A stupid, stupid, stupid fuckin' film that should never have been made. How these people sleep at night is beyond me....


Sunday, November 11, 2007

Goodbye Old Friend

This week has been a rough week for me and probably not much fun for our dog either. The week started badly for both of us. We have both suffered, although me more than him. He got sick at the weekend, apparently after eating something that did not agree, and spent the next couple of days in what you can assume was a fair amount of discomfort. It can't have been very nice for the poor animal. There was one slightly amusing moment when one morning I woke at 3:00am to the sound of running water. It seems that Mrs.W, upon smelling dog shit in the house had gone to investigate, apparently in the dark and barefoot, and having inadvertently stepped in said shit was now attempting to wash it off. She only had herself to blame, it was foolish and shortsighted to embark upon such a treacherous mission in darkness. In fact, a largely overlooked and little known paragraph from the private, personal diary of Thomas Edison confirms that one of the motivating factors in his research and subsequent invention of the electric light bulb was a similar experience involving his beloved Great Dane "Morris" and the non too coincidental disappearance of a three week old leg of mutton that Mrs. Edison had been nagging him to throw away for several days.
Anyway, to cut to the chase, our dog has been shitting like a goose. Normally this amuses me as I am not the one who cleans it up since I had a line or two added and notarized as an amendment to our marriage vows, but this time it was not quite so amusing. My blue leatherette beanbag, after which this blog is named, is a total loss. Quite what it was doing out in the living room anyway, I don't know. I didn't put it there. We had some friends staying with us recently and I assume that it was removed from it's usual home in the record/spare room to make way for them and just did not get put back. Whatever the reason, it's irrelevant, it's gone, history, the bin men took it on Tuesday.
To be fair, I hadn't used it in quite some time. It may surprise many of you to learn that I have at various points in my life used, but rarely abused any number or combination of illegal (or at the very least illegitimately obtained) substances. Not that I condone or advocate this behaviour, especially if you are a teenager or a minor, but me and the beanbag had some good times. Many an enjoyable evening was spent with the beanbag (not counting that night I found out that we had rats - that wasn't pleasant at all). But, like that old worn out pair of undies that serve no purpose other than comfort, or the sweat and curry stained t-shirt that you sleep in (removed only for sleep naked night), it's hard to say good-bye.
The shit, if it can be called shit for it had no texture, it was really just foul smelling water with a fine sand like grit in it, had penetrated the seams of the leatherette and undoubtedly tainted the small polystyrene balls contained within. The purpose for which it was intended, relaxation, was no longer attainable. Any future use would be ill advised. All I have is memories. The first time I listened to The Verve's Urban Hymns, Radiohead's Kid A, that fuckin' killer Droog mp3 that I downloaded. Good times.

I may buy a new one, one with real beans inside it, the kind that do not absorb the odour of dog cack, or one with a washable cover. It's not the leatherette that was the problem. Normally you can't go wrong with leatherette, you can wipe off most spills and accidents. It's the seams and the stitching that you have to worry about, or whatever is underneath. I don't know, the time may not be right, maybe give it a month or two, try and find the right one for me. I shouldn't just rush out and get a new one just to help me cope with my loss, wouldn't be prudent, might be under filled or not as durable. No, I shall wait for the right one to come to me. I'm not interested in someone else's cast off either, I want my own, one that I can mould and shape, make it my own. A beanbag is for life not just for xmash. I'll probably go with leatherette again. There is something about it, looks like the real thing, feels like the real thing and from a distance or in a photograph could easily be confused for the real thing.

The wife suggested that I change the name of the blog. I don't think I want to do that but am open to suggestions. I know that readership has dropped lately due to lack of posts, but the ones that are left are the ones that matter. Anybody?

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Waring a Bit Thin

Getting back into blogging after taking a bit of a break is like squeezing yourself into a new pair of latex undies, one would think. You have to ease yourself in bit by bit, take it slow, easy does it. On the other hand, a liberal sprinkling of talcum powder doesn't seem to help much and once in, it's hard to get back out.

Three poor quality posts this week equals my output for the past three months, a barren spell by anyone's standards. I was suffering a period of creative dullness, barely bothered to even notice what was going on in the mad, mad world around me let alone sit down and think about it. One thing that I have noticed is that the historic Pantages Theater in Hollywood seems to be having electrical problems, specifically with their neon sign. Over the past few weeks it has spelled all of the following:


Funny how nobody noticed.

Okay, I made the last one up but the others are true. It's interesting to note that the only letter that seems to work consistently is the letter 'T'. I have made a mental note to document any further problems with the sign with pictures which I will submit to Museum of Neon Art for an exhibition of poorly maintained signs.
I have also observed that the smell of piss in the rear doorway of the old KFWB studio on Yucca has become so bad that even the homeless have abandoned it. The smell is due to a floor mat that was left there when the building was vacated and has subsequently been urinated on by the entire homeless population and full contingent of passing clubbers in Hollywood. If asked, most nomads would say that any port in a storm will do, but on a recent stormy Friday night the dry yet stinky doorway was noticeably free of unwashed vagrants. I've pissed in many a doorway whilst staggering home from the pub, usually Horace's Shoe Shop as it was recessed way back from the street and away from passing police cars, many other people did too and it smelled fuckin' terrible but this is far, far worse than the worst piss smell you could imagine. It is noticeable even across the street and with the right breeze, the other side of Vine St. So come on Johnny G Rant, Honorary Mayor of Hollywood ( I know you read this) get your act together and clean the fucker up, the cold nights are coming and the homeless need a home.

KFWPEE more like.....(childish giggles)

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


A restless night last night, scared that the Shrek dream would return to haunt me, I spent the night tossing (yes, very funny) and turning. It's strange though that only the bad dreams are really memorable. I can't remember the last good dream that I had beyond the Olympic shitting dream of a week or so ago (still no reply from the IOC by the way).

Somebody should invent some kind of dream capture device, possibly a hard hat lined with tin foil wired to an old Polaroid camera. On second thoughts, a Polaroid may not be practical due to the cost of the films, although you could probably pick up the camera from a charity shop for next to nowt. If anyone is interested in working on such an invention, I am willing to split the proceeds. We could perhaps apply for some kind of grant from Richard Branson or Prince Charles. Free money is the best kind of money and ideal for gambling with as you don't incur any personal losses. The hookers don't seem to mind either, money is money to their sort. We could use our winnings from the gambling to buy the hat and the tin foil. Email me if you are up for it.

Speaking of twats (Branson, Charlie), I'm extremely annoyed at my dentist for failing to do a filling when I first told him about it over a year ago. I told him again six months ago and he told me not to worry, then on my last check up a couple of weeks ago he decided that it finally needed doing. So I go in yesterday and after the normal pre-dentalwork routine (cough and drop etc.) he starts to drill away. After a minute or two of poking around (ha-ha!) he informs me that I now need a fuckin' root canal, the sadistic bastard. This will be the 2nd one this year and comes at a time when I can ill afford the expense.

I have always had my suspicions about dentists. They can tell you practically anything, and just like plumbers and car mechanics, they more or less have a license to print their own money. Up until a couple of years ago, I didn't go to a dentist for about 7 years and when I finally got over the fear and went in for a check up, all I needed apart from a good cleaning was one filling to replace an old one that had fallen out. So why then, in the two years since I started going again have I needed more work done than in the 7 previous years of not fucking going? Call me a cynic but I think he's taking the piss. I will be removing him from the xmas card list if he's not careful.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Never Going To Sleep Again....Ever

I really don't feel all that comfortable talking about it but need to get it off my chest. It's quite disturbing. I've been thinking about it all day and not in a good way.

I mentioned it to Mrs.W when I got home from work. She laughed at first but it seemed like a rather nervous "you scare the shit out me sometimes" type laugh. She has good reason.

Another odd dream last night. I've been having a few lately. I have not been taking my medication as prescribed because it was making it hard to wake up in the morning. I was taking it right before bed so I wouldn't forget but decided to try taking it in the morning instead. I'm always rushing in the morning though and sometimes don't take it. I am blaming the dreams on this change as the alternatives are not acceptable.

Last night, or rather this morning right before I woke up in a cold sweat, feeling very very ashamed indeed, I dreamed that I was giving Shrek a blow job........ There I said it. Laugh all you want to, you callous bastards. Just put yourself in my shoes.....It's a very uncomfortable feeling waking up knowing that you just fantasized, albeit unwillingly, about blowing a cartoon ogre. I'm not gay, I'm not gay, I'm not fuckin' gay!!!!! I don't have a thing for green ogre's with Scotch accents either.

Shrek wielding his weapon....the brute.

This is bad. How the fuck do I ever sit with my daughter and watch Shrek 1, 2 or 3 ever again???? What do I tell her when she asks to watch the fucker? I will have to lie to her. I can't tell her the fuckin' truth can I? Why couldn't it have been Princess Fiona? Or even the donkey for fucks sake? At least then I could laugh about it.

I was going to blog about my weekend in San Diego. Took a couple of nights off from the club as the day job had thoughtfully organized a meeting in SD and was paying for the weekend in a hotel for the family. Nothing much happened though outside of me getting rat arsed on Friday night and feeling extremely poorly on Saturday. Besides, the Shrek dream this morning took the shine off things.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Dream A Little Dream

The other night I dreamed that I was an Olympic gold medal winner......in shitting.

It was a new competition that was causing quite a stir. Competitors were strapped, pant-less into some kind of bondage harness on the end of a rope swing. On the ground below the swing was a bullseye like target with 3 rings, the outer being worth 50 points, the next worth 100 points, the inner ring was worth 200 points and in the center was a bucket worth 500 points. The object of the competition was for the "athletes" to swing from one platform to another and to poop whilst in mid-swing. Needless to say, your score was determined by where the turd landed. I won by nailing three straight buckets for a perfect score, a world record.

In the cold light of morning, it seems fairly unlikely that this kind of thing would ever be accepted into the Summer Olympics as it is way too exciting for them. There may be a chance in the Winter Olympics but it might be too cold for it.

The more I think about it, the more it intrigues me. It would require a great deal of skill, muscle control and mental preparation. Timing would be paramount, meals would have to be carefully planned and the use of performance enhancing drugs such as stool softeners and laxatives would have to be stopped....... I'm obviously going to have to put some serious thought into this before presenting it to the IOC.

Okay, so you waited for over a month and all you get is another post about shite. You have a right to be disappointed but admit it....you missed me.

I have lost about 23lbs, missed a dental appointment, read zero books and have so far failed to find an acceptable alternative to bacon. Enough of me, what have YOU been up to?

Saturday, September 8, 2007

Israeli's, Tennis Balls and Fake Cripples

I'm a bit annoyed this morning, mostly with myself.

Last night someone, an Israeli, wanted to make a bet with me that Israel would beat England today. Hesitantly, because England have been a bit shit lately, I agreed and as is the Israeli way we began to talk money. He started off at $1000 and I told him to fuck right off because a) I don't have $1000 and b) even if I did I would not be putting it in the hands of Steve McLaren. I suggested something a little more reasonable like $50. He would not do it!!!

What the fuck is wrong with these lads? If I had agreed to the grand he probably would have taken it and I would have theoretically been $1000 richer this morning. I say theoretically because there is no way the fucker would have paid up without, shall we say, a little pressure. I just don't get them. Their perceived value of things is way off. I see them all the time at the club, they will happily drop $500 on a bottle of vodka but will go to extraordinary lengths to get a $5 discount on admission. They will show up dressed in expensive designer threads and stand around outside for a hour or even two, waiting for someone they know who works there to get them in for free. It's all fuckin' flash and talk with fuckers from that region of the world, big fuckin' talkers. They want to argue, get in your face, push buttons but then play the race/religion card quicker than anyone when things go south. Like I said though, I'm more annoyed with myself that I didn't grab his hand and shake it as soon as he said "put your money where your mouth is."

Tennis Balls
I've been working hard on a creating a new image for tennis balls, or at least finding a new use for them. After doing some research I have concluded that there are only three main purchasers of tennis balls. Tennis players, dogs (or dog owners) and people who use zimmer frames. You don't ever see a tennis player using a walking frame and you never see a walking frame user playing tennis. Similarly, it is extremely rare to see a dog doing either and the thought of a dog doing both at the same time is just silly as they are really only interested in chasing the tennis ball. You could argue that a dog owner might be either a tennis player or the user of a walking frame who gets extended use out of their old tennis balls by throwing them for their dog but I would say the you were stretching things a bit.
Apparently you can also use tennis balls for breaking into some older model cars but I'm not sure the industry would want that particular activity to be the focus of an advertising campaign. So I'm struggling with this. If anyone has any ideas please share them.

Mister Waring! Can We Have Our Balls Back?

Absolutely No Use For Tennis Balls

Fake Cripples
One of the few things that annoys me more than a fake cripple is getting stuck behind a real cripple in a narrow aisle at the supermarket. This isn't about real ones though, it's about fake ones, people who do it for either financial gain or because they are just lazy twats and in some cases, both.
I see this lad last night in a wheelchair, he's obviously not right as he is having a loud argument with himself about religion. Anyway, this lad is wheeling himself along in the wheelchair using his legs and feet. If he can use his legs and feet to such a degree why does he need a wheelchair? Is it his back? Can he just not stand up straight? Am I judging him too harshly?
I once saw some bloke on crutches standing at the bottom of the freeway exit holding bit of cardboard which said "Cripled(sic) Please help". Later that day I swear I saw him running for a bus.

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

A Very Sweaty Arse Crack


It's been two fuckin' weeks since my last post. What the fuck has happened to me? I was turning out regular posts 3 or 4 months ago. Okay, they weren't much cop but at least I was making the effort. I need to sort my shit out and get back to the matters at hand. The stuff that nobody else seems to concern themselves with, that few are interested in and that make absolutely no fuckin' difference to the lives of the majority of the population. The stuff that (my) dreams are made of.

I took last week off from the day job, time to relax, to sleep in until at least 7am or just to lie around spread eagled across the sofa pumping my fist to the morning weather girls on telly.
Actually, I took time off to try being a Dad for a week seeing as it was the younger Waring's last week off from school and to hopefully get some shit done that I never seem to have time for, like blogging. Turns out that it was the hottest week of the fuckin' year here in LA and to be honest, it was fuckin' miserable round at the noticeably non-air conditioned Waring house. We got out and did a couple of things like see a film or two and went down to the Aquarium of The Pacific in Long Beach but other than that, it was a week spent sparring with the missus and just trying to stay cool. It was too fuckin' warm to blog and my mood did not suit anyway, so I purposely left it alone. Enough said.

Speaking of the heat, it's cooled off considerably and could be described as "quite a nice evening" in these parts. A cool breeze and a celebratory bottle of wine (my first for some time) conspire to make life tolerable again.

Speaking of the heat, last Saturday lunchtime I took the sprog to the pictures to see "Underdog", a festering turd of a movie - avoid at all costs, it has Jim Fucking Belushi in it for Bogs sake. Anyway, we go over to Alhambra, where at noon on the corner of Atlantic & Main it is 104 fuckin' degrees hot and some poor cunt is out dressed in a Spongebob costume holding a sign that says "HONK IF YOU WANT TO SAY HELLO"......

Don't Do Drugs......

I don't know why, maybe it was a bet, a dare or maybe someone was desperate to lose weight or something but I can think of no good reason to do this to myself. They were not advertising anything but were stood outside a car dealership so maybe they were just trying to attract attention to it. I got there at noon, entered the cinema at 12:15 and came out at 2:00 and they were still there. There was also someone in a Garfield costume (although they were gone at 2:00pm) a Genie (from Aladdin) and someone in a neon green dinosaur costume all holding the same sign. As usual, I was left with only questions....no answers.

Speaking of losing weight, I am on a diet stroke healthy eating stroke exercise binge once again. I need to lose a pound or fifty and get myself into some kind of shape if I am to ditch the wife and attract a quality replacement. That said, I did not need the added, unexpected bonus workout that I got last night. It was the first night back at school after taking the summer off, I enrolled in a Human Relations class which should be a fuckin' breeze and keep my 4.0 GPA intact, thank you very much.
I may have mentioned before that parking at Glendale College is a fuckin' nightmare, traumatising to say the least. You buy a parking permit but yet there is nowhere to park, fucking racketeers is what they are. Anyway, they sorted it out by building a shiny new multi-storey and advertised the benefits to no end. So I show up and fuck yeah! No problem, I pull into a space on the sparsely populated 5th floor of the garage....very nice! I follow the signs for the lift and notice with little surprise that the lift shaft seems to be lacking doors and indeed, a lift. The bastards have rushed to complete the parking structure in time for term so that they can sell more fucking parking permits but have not yet added the necessary accessories that would actually make it conveniently accessible.

Normally, 5 flights of stairs are no big deal but the location of the parking structure, atop a very steep grade indeed, adds a good 100 (steep) steps from the college itself up to first floor of the garage. The journey down is a treat but the return is a right bugger. I had to stop half way up to almost throw up and my legs were like jelly. Imagine my delight as I practically crawled, wheezing and spluttering to the top just a the free shuttle bus pulled up......bastards!

Also, as a result of the diet/excercise/arse sweat lifestyle change, I have made a radical choice to change my underwear of preference. More later....

Monday, August 20, 2007

Random Acts of Revenge

I have stated before that I find humour in the oddest places. I have to amuse myself occasionally and if this is at the expense of another's misfortune or through some childish, petty act then so be it. I'm not proud of my behaviour, on the contrary I am often ashamed of it. Every now and again though I make sure that someone gets what is coming to them.
No matter how insignificant it may seem, I do get pleasure from knowing that in some small way I have spoiled some arsehole's day. Maybe I just caused them an irritation, a minor bother or small annoyance that they did not bargain for. Hopefully I cause them a major inconvenience, severe earache from the missus or considerable grief at work, but to be honest, I am happy with the former.

I'm not a cunt. I think I'm a fairly nice guy. I don't pick on the innocent or the inoffensive, just the people who wrong me or who I witness wronging others or those that I consider twats, wankers, arseholes or shitbags. Those that are just plain rude, ungrateful or who treat others poorly. I don't see myself as a vigilante or a do-gooder or a social steward, I just believe that what comes around goes around, and if you are big enough to give it then you had better be prepared to take it when it's your turn. I think I am. Does any of this make sense?

Today, I was at Blockbuster, a place that I rarely go to. Blockbuster is shite, they hardly have any movies that I want to watch and besides, it's a total fuckin rip off. Sure they have the online service now but they can fuck off, I am lucky enough to have Netflix and I'm staying with them. Blockbuster could have done what Netflix do all along, they just didn't until they lost a shitload of customers and reacted by doing the same thing Netflix do.....
Anyway, I'm digressing as my beef is not with them, or not entirely, though it is their fault that I spent so fuckin long there this afternoon because they didn't have a copy of either James & The Giant Peach or Muppet Treasure Island and thus, because of their shite selection and an indecisive 6 year old, I was forced to endure an argument between some fuckin twat of a wannabe cholo gangster and his fuckin pig of a wife/girlfriend arguing over their choice of movie.

It was painful. They were loud and cursing at each other with little regard for the other people and kids in the store. Normally in situations like this, if alone, I would be tempted to intervene but not with my daughter in tow. It doesn't set a good example and I would not want to traumatize her by having her watch her Daddy get the shit kicked out him should things go wrong. So it was all "This movie's the fuckin bomb!" and "Fuck no! I don't like Samuel L fuckin Jackson" and "Fuck you bitch! I ain't watchin' no Jennifer fuckin Lopez" and " You fuckin' asshole! We watched 2 of YOUR fuckin' movies last week!" and "Fuck you bitch!" etc. etc.

It became tiresome and I was trying desperately to hurry up the younger Waring with suggestions, none of which she fancied much. Finally the child settled for Muppets Take Manhattan and as I plucked it from the shelf I heard the idiots agree on Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. I turned around and noticed with glee that I was standing right next to the "F's" while they were in the next aisle. There was only one copy of Fear and Loathing, quickly, happily and with no regret whatsoever, I hid it in the neighbouring "G's" and went to pay my $4.49 rental fee, a small minded yet happy man.

As I made for the door I heard "Awww fuck bitch! It's out!". My work was done.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Hot, Hot, Heat

Fuck, it's warm. Toasty. Ball sweatingly, arse drippingly, uncomfortably warm. I would go as far to say that it's rather hot at the moment here in Southern Californ-i-a.
Normally, coming from the dark and nasty regions of England, I am appreciative of a nice bit of sunshine but, as always at this time of year, I pine for a nice bit of sleet or the finger numbing cold of an English January morning. It hasn't rained proper for a couple of months and won't for a couple more, maybe longer. It is dry. I have developed quite a thirst.

The worst thing about this time of year is that my intake of cold alcoholic beverages exceeds normal levels. Given that my normal intake of cold alcoholic beverages is rather high, this is a bad thing. Money-wise, it gets expensive. Normally, I will pay the extra couple of dollars for decent, imported beer. I don't poison my body with the crap they turn out here except under either extreme financial hardship or if I have (American) guests coming round because there is no good reason as to why I should waste good beer on them and they wouldn't like it anyway as it tastes too much like beer. So every now and again, I will put on dark sunglasses and a false "Groucho Marx" style mustache (in case anyone I know see's me) and I will buy "domestic".

Yank beer, on the whole is fuckin' cat piss. Yes, I know all about Sierra Nevada, Sam Adams and Bog knows how many "micro-brews" and they are okay. I'm talkin' about yer Bud's and yer MGD's and yer Coor's. The shite that generations of Yanks have grown up on and who will drink nothing else. I know lads that will only drink Bud Light period. I know lads who will only drink Coors Light, if you put a Bud Light in front of them they will not touch it. Don't even get me started on the Steel Reserves, and the Old Englishes and the Schlitz malt liquors. Yes, they get you cunted but they taste fuckin' horrid. They make the "auld purple tin", to quote Irvine Welsh, taste like Dom Perignon. It is inexplicable. As for MGD, my own piss tastes better and probably has a higher alcohol content to boot.

Anyway, two days ago I bought a 5 liter "Keg" of Coors Light. Years ago, party kegs were popular in the UK. Finally, the US has decided that they are the thing of the future. I wanted to try one to test the quality, and I was trying to be economical, so I bought handed Abdul $8.99 of hard earned and rushed home to "tap" the fucker.

The Holy Grail of the Dumpster Diving Community

I have to say that it was beyond bad. I drank 5 fuckin' pints and probably pissed 15 times, all I got was a headache. I tried to finish the rest last night but couldn't and when I got home from work tonight, the last couple of pints were flat as fuckin' pancakes. I'm sorry I wasted my money on this shite. The only thing that made it even worthwhile was the look of amazement on my daughters face when she saw it and said "WOW!!! Daddy, that's the biggest can of beer I have ever seen. Are you going to drink it all?" "Well," I replied smugly. "The fucker isn't going to drink itself now, is it?" "I bet you can't" she said. She was fuckin' right.

Kids, eh?

Monday, August 13, 2007

No Sense Of Humour

Knudsen beat me to it, of course, but as there's no sense in going to bed right now (Mrs.W is still awake) I may as well do what I set out to do and give my take on the story of the Irish lad who is currently in a Senegalese jail for showing his arse.

What the fuck is wrong with these people? Do they have no sense of humour?

There was a time, a number of years ago, when I was a prolific mooner. I favoured mooning from coach windows while on the way to or from rugby games, either as a spectator or as a player. I wasn't shy when it came to mooning people on the street either. My specialty was to wait at a bus stop until a bus came to a complete stop and the driver opened the doors, then I would drop my pants and show my arse to the driver and the passengers. It amused the fuck out of me. It was better when you were on the bus though cause you could get your arse up against the window and spread your cheeks against the glass, the warmth causing the window to steam up if it was a cold day.

Of course, now that I am a grown up, responsible husband, father and productive member of society, I have learned to control my impulses and have not shown my arse in public since setting foot on American soil (except for on the internet). Here, it is the kind of thing that frat boys do but only as a dare or as part of some hazing ritual. You just don't see buses driving on the 5 Freeway with a bare arse in every window like you might if you were on the M62. I think that the majority of society would find it offensive as opposed to hilariously entertaining. But it's like that with most things. In addition, my arse is a much hairier and considerably less welcome sight now than it was 20 years ago.

I never did it to offend. I did it to entertain, to amuse, mostly myself admittedly but also others, if they were so inclined. Although I have to confess to a certain feeling of satisfaction whenever a Datsun would pass by, loaded to the gills with people of Pakistani or Indian origin, all turning away and covering the eyes of the younger passengers at the sight of my ringpiece winking at them from the window of a British Leyland bus. Magic.

So what the fuck is wrong with these African lads? You would think that in a continent where, if you believe everything you see in National Geographic, most folks sit around the dirt or chase chickens naked, a bare white arse would be a welcome and refreshing sight. Now granted, he did moon the home of a Senegalese Governor and there may well be some law against that. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with it, I'm just saying that it would not surprise me. You would think though that they could have taken it a little more light heartedly. Like I say, the object of mooning is to amuse not offend. Take it in the spirit in which it was offered.

Hopefully, the Irish Department of Foreign Affairs can sort it all out and get the lad out of the hole (geddit?......fuck off then) but I would like to suggest that if and when they do secure his release, the whole fuckin' embassy should drop their kecks in support. Yes, it may cause an International incident and war may well be declared but at least we are safe in the comfort of knowing that the Yanks have our backs. Right America?

Thursday, August 9, 2007

An Army Of One

Call them what you will Tramps, Bums, Hobo’s, The Homeless, they intrigue me. If I see one of them exhibiting particularly strange behaviour I am fascinated and usually can’t put them out of my mind for at least a day or two until something else catches my eye and my attention. They always leave me with more questions than answers…

There used to be this bloke who lived on the corner or Broadway and 1st St for at least 5 years that I know of, who each morning would perform his exercises (jumping jacks) in his terrible arseless pants. It was truly a sight to amaze and horrify passers by. Every now and again they would cart him off (presumably to a mission) while they hosed down the pavement and got rid of all his rubbish. Next day he would be back, clean shaven and obviously washed yet still wearing the pants with no arse in them. Why the fuck did they not give him new pants? Or did they offer him new ones only for him to refuse? I suppose that wearing pants with no arse in them has its advantages, especially if you never get up to go and shit. One day he was gone for good. Dead? Relocated? Eaten by wild dogs? Who the fuck knows?

Then there was the lad who stood at the corner of Broadway & Temple every afternoon reading aloud from a three ring binder into a microphone, the wire of which led into his back pocket. I was determined to stop and listen to what the hell he had to say that was so important to him but parking was never possible and I would just drive right by. On the day that I said to myself “Okay, this is it. I’m going to risk a ticket and hear him out,” he was gone, never to be seen again. I will never know what was in the binder. Could have been blank pages, could have been the ranting of a mad man, could have been the secret to life, the universe and everything.

There was the bloke in the gas mask who would dance like a fuckin’ maniac outside the various discoteca stores that pump out loud banda, norteƱa, and salsa music down on Broadway, south of 4th St. What the fuck happened to that guy? Did he like the music that much? Did the store owners employ him to draw attention? I suspect he was just crazy as every now and again I would see him dancing outside Clifton’s to the sound of traffic and police sirens.

Since someone realized that they could convert all the old buildings downtown into high rent lofts and make millions, the LAPD have been cleaning up the area and getting rid of all the loonies, shadow fighters, screamers and urine reeking prophets. Causing dismay to dedicated people watchers like me. Luckily I will always have Hollywood. Santa Monica is fertile ground for jakeys too, but I don’t get out there that often. Hollywood is closer and to be honest, is home to a different breed of nutcase. There was this one lad who seemed to keep crossing the same street, backwards and forwards. Over his shoulder, he carried a black hold-all which held probably all he owned, a blanket and a stereo from which he was blasting what sounded like Smokey Robinson, but was, I was reliably informed, The Temptations. Every now and then he would stop, do a bit of a shuffle and mess with the volume, then cross the street again. The hold-all bore the legend “US ARMY – An Army Of One”, this was no doubt his free gift for his application to enlist (rejected). As interesting as this behaviour was, even more intriguing to me was what he carried in his right hand….a blue cellulose sponge. The kind that you wash dishes with, well the kind that the wife washes dishes with, I don’t do dishes. It didn’t appear to be wet, it was dried out. What the fuck was he doing with it? Did he like the texture? Was it his comfort sponge? Was it his favourite thing in the entire world? Could “the man” have taken his home, his pride, his dignity but not his sponge? I should have fuckin’ well asked him when I had the chance…..

This shit has my mind in a spin. I may not sleep tonight.

By the way, I commented on the lad with the furry yellow bike’s blog. It was moderated but he put up my comment anyway, he just didn’t answer my questions. He did not offer an explanation for the protest and did not offer his favourite remedy for saddle rash. So I still do not have closure on that bizarre event.

Monday, August 6, 2007

High School What?

When I was a lad, back in the wild North West of England, High School or Secondary School or Comprehensive School was a place where men were fashioned out of mere boys and girls were set up for a lifetime of abuse and disappointment. It was here that you learned how to make a bog roll holder in woodwork class, a keyring in metalwork and under protest, a swiss roll in home economics class. It was in these hallowed halls that you either kicked the shite out of someone or got the shite kicked out of you.
We didn't have a "senior prom", we didn't even have a "leaver's do" thanks to the previous year's celebration breaking out into a mass brawl and several thousand pounds worth of damage to the local British Legion. On my last day at High School, I brazenly walked into an off license and bought 12 cans of Swan Light ( a non-alcoholic beverage of Australian origin) for myself and my mates. I didn't know at the time of purchase that it was non-alcoholic..... As embarrassing as it was for me, it was nothing compared to the embarrassment of a couple of my mates who were pretending to be drunk until the discovery was made that there was in fact no alcohol in said beverage. My last day in High School was, to say the least, something of a let down. Luckily, I had more than made up for it with my last year in High School which was a non-stop riot of debauchery and teenage delinquency of which I may tell you someday.

Because of all this, the concept of High School Yearbooks, Proms, Rings and all the other bullshit that accompanies graduation in the USA is completely alien and therefore of great interest to me. I just do not understand all the fuss. What many people describe as the best years of their life were really the worst years of their life. Why the fuck would you want a constant reminder of teen angst and confusion, anger and self loathing? Or is that just me?
I actually consider myself well grounded but I didn't have to deal with the pressure from peers and family to over achieve during these all important years. Mediocrity was/is considered a success in my part of the world. A job is a fuckin' job and any old slapper will do as long as she can reproduce.

When I tell people here that "I graduated High School" at 16, I am greeted with gasps of amazement and bewilderment. I must, in their eyes. be some kind of genius. Here in the USA, you graduate High School at 18 (with the equivalent of a 10th grade UK education). I am more than willing to let them believe what they want to believe. Coupled with the fact that to their uneducated ears I speak "proper English", I am nothing short of Royalty. This is, in part one of the reasons why I stay here.

So, High School Yearbooks in particular intrigue me and I have started to collect them, old ones I mean. I love the smell of them more than anything. The musty old smell that you can only associate with old book shops. So far, I only have two and they amuse me to no end. The pictures and captions are fuckin' great. Here, I present to you, some of my favourite pictures from "Little Giant 1963" of Highland Park High School, Illinois...... Names may have been changed to protect the guilty.

Voted Most Likely Transevites
Ronald Rathsam & Helen Rizzo

Voted Most Likely Wife Beater
Albert Panther

Voted Most Likely Crackhead
Herbert Katz

Voted Most Likely Bunny Boiler
Marilyn Crocetti

Voted Most Likely Wanker
Randy Bletsch

Voted Least Favourite Member of Staff
Girls Locker Room Attendant - Mrs. Arnold Pfister

There are, of course, many more pictures that I would like to share with you, and maybe I will but instead I invite you to share with me your favourite High School story. Where did it happen? Who did it to you and how long did it last? Come on.......you know you want to.....

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Bad Planning

There was some kind of poorly thought through protest in Hollywood last night. At about 11:30pm, a couple of hundred nutcases on push irons (that's a bicycle to most of you) blocked the entrance to one of the car parks on Vine St. Their leader then climbed onto the fence (not really a good spot for a 'so called' leader) and began to whip up the mass of spandex into some kind of muted frenzy.

It was hard to hear what he or she was ranting about over the laughter from the crowd of people waiting to get into the club, the organizers had obviously not considered bringing a megaphone. It sounded something like "....try to keep us down.....won't stop pedaling.....free puncture repair kits.....happy meals....." After 5 minutes they left, some of them yelling "The power is between your legs!" as they rode away into the night or at least to the stop light at Hollywood Blvd. A fairly deep statement, true in many ways, however I'm thinking they were referring to their bikes and not their dicks or vajayjays. Their Choppers not their choppers. Hopefully I won't have to explain that last line to TOO many people.....

Who they thought they were going to convert to their cause at that time of night I don't know. They did succeed in irritating a few people who were trying to enter/exit the parking lot, probably not gaining much sympathy from them in the process. They certainly raised a few eyebrows. It's not often you see such a sight on a Friday night in this neck of the woods.

What made their protest even less effective was the lack of signs or placards. If you are going to have good protest you need some snappy placards like 'No More Protests!', 'Votes for Vegetables!!', 'Impeach Dumbledore!!!' or '¡Viva Salchichas!'. Certainly it is hard to carry a sign on a stick whilst riding a bike at the same time (not very aerodynamic unless turned sideways). Likewise, duct taping one to the bike is probably not practical and may even be a safety hazard, obstructing the view of the cyclist and distracting other road users, so T-shirts or even a song would have been the way to go in this case.

So I have to know. What the fuck were all these people doing last night? Suggestions are welcome but hopefully someone who was present, maybe the guy who had wrapped his bike in yellow faux fur, will do a Google search to try and find press coverage of the event (there is none), find this instead and be compelled to tell the tale.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Bad News

So I get home from work at about 8.45pm tonight, warm up my tea in the microwave and wash it down with a large can of beer. Then I decide to finish off the half bottle of vodka that is in the freezer along the cran-raspberry juice in the fridge. There's fuck all on telly so I decide to watch my favourite evening newscast on Channel 9, KCAL-9 to those of you here in SoCal.

I try not to watch TV news, except for BBC World news on PBS and even then in limited amounts. The news is depressing, mostly negative and just downright shit, especially local news because they have such a limited understanding of topics of international importance and general relevance. Also, their audience is so limited in their comprehension and interest in anything of interest and relevance to me that there really is no need for me to watch such drivel. Yes, I'm so fucking superior it hurts.

All that said, given a choice of local newscasts, I choose Channel 9 primarily because they have the hottest weather girl on local TV in the LA market, Jackie Johnson. Given the competition, tennis ball headed negroes and bespectacled Jewish twats, it is not necessarily a hard task to accomplish, but, nevertheless, the folks at KCAL know the score and so hired Jackie's tits to do the weather. She dresses like trash but who gives a fuck about that?

Anyway, first off, the news started badly when they announced that JJ was off on holiday or with womens problems or summat and that Josh Rubenstein was replacing her.
I don't need a balding overweight Jewish man to tell me that we are up for a a rather mild evening. I need a big titted blonde to tell me that. Okay, so she dresses like she bought her outfit at a jumble sale but who gives a fuck as long as she accentuates the positive? (If you know what I mean......and I think you do.) If she needs time off, fine, play a fucking taped recording, nobody is actually paying attention to a fucking thing she says, they are staring at her tats. Last weeks weather is the same as this weeks weather in this part of the world. I already know that it's going to be hot and rather unpleasant tomorrow. This is the edge of the fucking desert for bogs sake.....

Jackie, for the record also has a modicum of decency about her, worse luck. She recently turned down an offer to do a spread in Playboy, thereby leaving everything to the imagination the big fuckin tease....

Jackie, Jackie Show Us Yer Tits....

So, it was all downhill from there.....

They have decided to put birth control in bird food and to feed it to the pigeons in Hollywood in an attempt to curb the pests. I say what is good for the goose is good for the blacks and hispanics and why stop there? Add it to Spaghetti-O's and slow down the growth of white trash as well. Put it in Ding-Dongs, Twinkies and Kool-Aid and we could save millions in Medicare.

Actor Lane Garrison has appeared in a Public Service Announcement urging people to think twice about drinking and driving. This after he got shitfaced and crushed a teenager between the bonnet of his Land Rover and a tree. It's no coincidence that this PSA is released 2 days before he is due to be sentenced. Fucking attorneys have no morals.

Britney and K-Fed officially split. Why the fuck is this news? I thought they split months ago and had forgotten they were even married. Does anybody actually care?

A 48 year old Dairy Queen is being closed down in Riverside to make way for a new strip mall. They interviewed a 300+lb woman who was in tears saying that she and her husband, high school sweethearts had their first date there (and every fuckin date since then judging by her size*. Seems to me they are doing you a favour.) There will be a new DQ in the strip mall, it just will not be the same. I feel for these people, I like old architecture and like the "feel" of old places but you cannot stand in the way of progress. Be thankful, at least they are not turning it into a Starbucks' or a church.....

A Black Bear was euthanized after raiding cabins for food in the Mammoth Lakes area. Why the fuck did they have to kill it? Sedate the fucker and drop it off somewhere in the vast wilderness of the Sierra Nevada. It is a fuckin' bear. It will either survive by the law of nature or it will die by the law of nature. You didn't have to kill it you fucks!

I also had to laugh at a commercial for Anna's Linens..... "These luxurious bath towels cost up to $30 in a department store. At Anna's Linens they are only $5.99. How do they do it? Well, first of all they find some fucking sweatshop in Malaysia that employs 9 year olds to make the towels for 1 cent each........

Lastly, some fuckin pedo is suing the Santa Monica Police Department for publicizing his picture in a poster warning parents to keep their kids away from him. This after he voluntarily surrendered himself to a police mug shot so that he could easily be eliminated in any investigation involving sexual acts against minors. His website, on which he rates certain venues such as the Orange County Fair for fellow pedo's was recently taken down, is about to be relaunched this time hosted by a Dutch ISP, allegedly does not break any laws.

Like I said, fucking depressing. Where is my big titted weather girl?

* Like I can talk. Thank fuck there isn't a Dairy Queen in driving distance of my house.

Friday, July 27, 2007

Danish Pigeons Beware.....

Amidst the media frenzy surrounding David Beckhams debut for the LA Galaxy and the intense scrutiny of the transfer window, one of the major events of the football year seems to have been overlooked. Today, teams from 48 nations will be arriving in Denmark to participate in the 2007 Homeless World Cup.

Held annually for the last 5 years, this year’s tournament promises to be the biggest and most exciting yet with the World’s finest crackheads, alcoholics and mental folks battling it out to try to take the title away from last years winners, Russia. Unfortunately, TV coverage here in the USA is limited to none at all and I will not be able to watch. Maybe it’s because the USA are ranked a very poor 46th in the world and they tend not to be very interested in things at which they are not the best. Amazingly, Kazakhstan are ranked 2nd behind Russia with Poland, Mexico and Liberia rounding out the top five. Perhaps the biggest surprise is Scotland who are a disappointing 33rd in the World. Given the standard and sheer quantity of homeless persons on the streets of Glasgow and Edinburgh, you would think they would be at least in the top 10.

The Scots Get In A Quick Training Session

For anybody thinking of making the trip to Copenhagen for the tournament, it’s not too late and you could probably make it in time for the opening ceremony tomorrow afternoon. Just in case, here is the schedule:

1315 – 1400 hours

Players pick their playing shoes from boxes of odd shoes and returns donated by BHS.

1415 – 1500 hours

Traditional pre-tournament fight over the shoes begins.

1500 – 1530 hours

Police break up the fight with rubber bullets and tear gas.

1530 – 1700 hours

Wounds are dressed and food and drink rations are handed out to the players.

1700 – 1745 hours

Traditional pre-tournament fight over the food and drink rations begins

1745 – 1800 hours

Police break up the fight with real bullets. The six teams with the least amount of players left are eliminated.

1800 – 1930 hours

Inspirational talk by Paul Gascoigne, refreshments provided by Buckfast.

Supplies Leave The UK For Copenhagen

1930 – 2345 hours

Traditional pre-tournament celebration of spoon playing, singing, dancing, urinating and fighting begins.

2345 hours

Players retire to their cardboard boxes for a good nights screaming and thrashing around. Tomorrow the tournament begins!!

GOOD LUCK ENGLAND!!!! I will be shouting for ya lads!!

Monday, July 16, 2007

"Our Next Song Is Called.....


It is hard for me to take any band that looks like this seriously....

Swedens Finest

Just like Gangsta Rappers, I find both their looks and lyrics, when I can fuckin' understand them, hilarious. It intrigues me, is it just an act? Characters that they play for their public? Or do they really live their lives like this? I know what they want their fans to think and I know that their fans really believe, but what is reality with lads like this? I'm fucking laughing my arse off just thinking about it. I'm drunk and I crack myself up. What can I say?

Anyway, last night I had both the pleasure and misfortune to witness the above band (and their loyal fans) in person. The band, Immortal, even though I'm not keen on the genre, could play like a fuckin' riot and were alright even though the two support bands,whose names are not even worthy of me googling, were utter shite. Immortal were funny as fuck and I had to laugh as they hammed it up big time. Their idiot, shitfaced fans lapped it up.

I got caught up in the middle of two fights, one because somebody accidentally spilled somebody else's beer and another because a supposed hard man with 3 inch nails pierced through his cheeks didn't like having water thrown at him. The disputes were quickly and easily dealt with, proving once again that over-sized rings in the nose and ears are a distinct disadvantage when it comes to defending yourself. If you are going to act like a twat, take the piercings out. I also dispatched 3 drunken arseholes, one of which had pissed all over himself and forgotten to put his dick away, and another who had almost certainly shat himself, into the street. It was a fuckin' ideal way to spend a Sunday evening.

I have never encountered a smellier, sweatier, more repulsive set of human beings than I did last night. It smelled like they had each arrived with pockets full of old pimento loaf to offer up as sacrifice to the gods of metal on stage. There were some very ugly people in attendance. The usual Satanic Hispanics and acne ridden teenagers were there and hordes of big titted rock chicks who looked like they could knock seven colours of shite out of me. There were also a number of very worried looking parents who kept hanging around me, several of which asked me if we allowed moshing (concerned about the safety of their kids), to which I would reply " yes, but if I see you hitting any kids I will kick the fuck out of you." Not many of them got the joke.

It's always the 16-25 age group that amuse me the most. Testosterone, Budweiser and Meth fuelled little boys dressed to piss off mummy and daddy and strutting round the mosh pit until they get their nose broken or some teeth knocked out.

Mosh pits.......another enigma. What the fuck are these people trying to prove? First off, none of these people look like they have a job, let alone health insurance. Second, strutting around in a circle knocking over spawnier, scrawnier little twats than you does not make you hard and thirdly, losing one shoe really sucks because you have to buy TWO new ones you stupid fucks.

Anyway, I get my kicks. One idiot standing near me yelled out in a break between songs, "MOSES WILL BURN IN A COFFIN FULL OF ICE." This amused the hell out of me. I had to ask him if he had considered that the heat of the fire might melt the ice, turn it to water and thus put out the fire. He gave me a blank look before turning to the stage and yelling "I AM IMMORTAL." Once the band started playing again and the crowd started moving I taught him a lesson by putting the gum I had been chewing into his waist length hair. Hopefully the dirty fucker will wash it now. He was the first of three victims. Putting gum in peoples hair, a small victory, but then again in many ways I am a small man.......

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Back To Business

As you know, part my mission statement here at Leatherette Beanbag is to keep you, my peeps, informed and abreast of the hot issues of the day. I don't always do that, very rarely in fact but now and again news items catch my eye and I think to myself "I just have to do a post on that". Invariably, I forget and due to my international jet set playboy lifestyle don't post anything at all.

It's been a week, again. My output has slowed considerably. The days of 4, 5 even 6 posts a week are long gone and due to my current schedule, won't be back anytime soon. Every now and again I think about jacking it in but then how would I amuse myself? Besides, I have never been a quitter (unless you count the time I said "fuck it" and left England for the US) and will carry on posting when I can. To those of you whose blogs I don't comment on as regularly as I would like please bear with me.

All that said, the wacky wookie impersonator of Hollywood Blvd is at it again! Some of you may recall that back in February a Chewbacca impersonator on Hollywood Blvd was arrested for harassing Japanese tourists outside Mann's Chinese Theater. The Chinese is the haunt of numerous horrible celebrity impersonators all jostling, sometimes aggressively, for the tourists' dollar. You pay them to have your picture taken with them in their ratty foul smelling costumes. I just don't get it myself but who am I to judge?

Anyway, this time a Marilyn Monroe impersonator called the cops and accused Chewie of placing her hand over his crotch in a dispute over tips. This time Chewie was not arrested as not report was filed. Police claim not to know if this is the same impersonator (how many can there be?) as was arrested back in February. The two impersonators have a history of not getting along.

Marilyn (Manson not Monroe) Look-a-Like

If you are going to impersonate someone you really have to do it well to avoid ridicule. You have to both look the part and sound the part, one out of two won't cut it unless you are on the radio. I have never quite got the impersonator thing. They are rarely ever amusing unless they are unbelievably bad and I'm pretty sure that isn't what they are aiming for. They have to believe that they have their target so spot on that they could actually be mistaken for their idol. But they don't, do they? I mean it's not like I'm walking down the street and over the other side is a Michael Jackson impersonator who, from a distance, bears a decent resemblance, and I'm going to think "Fuck me! There's Michael Jackson!" because the real Michael Jackson doesn't walk down busy streets, alone, in the daytime does he?

Just Can't Wait To Be King

I think if someone is impersonating a dead celebrity, it's different because it's like they are re-creating something that we can no longer experience except on telly or on radio, cd, dvd, record, the internet etc. I personally would not pay to go and watch an Elvis or a Biggie Smalls impersonator perform but there are obviously many that would. Probably people who never saw the real thing, but at least they can tell their kids that they saw the next best thing one time at the LA County Fair.

"Can I Get a Whoop - Whoop?"

Will The Real Old Knudsen Please Stand Up?

"Like What You See or See What You Like?"

Saturday, July 7, 2007

Fuck Me! It's a Fucking Meme

I swore I would never do this but since Foot Eater and Fat Sparrow both tagged me, and me being a polite, accommodating sort, I feel that to ignore them would be rude.

So, against all I stand for, here are eight items of biographical half truths about yours truly:

  1. I have a lifetime ban from all Tesco stores worldwide. In an embarrassing case of mistaken identity I stand accused of fondling fruit and of committing simulated sexual acts with vegetables during store hours.
  2. I am currently suing the National Hockey League for the patent on the modern day hockey puck which I designed on the back of a beer mat in 1998. The beer mat was subsequently stolen from the bar while I was in the bogs.
  3. As far as US immigration knows, I am also known as Sancho Robles de Oaxaca, a poor cobbler from Mexico.
  4. I once got kicked off "Stars in Their Eyes". My impression of Prince Charles was described by Matthew Kelly as "repulsive and sickening".
  5. I have never been to Barnsley.
  6. My application to join the Cheshire Constabulary was rejected when I answered "I do not recall" to the question "Have you ever taken illegal substances?"
  7. My own line of designer men's underwear "Eddie's", was withdrawn from sale after unfounded allegations of the use of child labour and further bad press regarding what "Which?" magazine called 'excessive gusset shredding'.
  8. I carry a forged 50m breast stroke swimming certificate with which to impress the ladies.
There you have it. Just because it seems I have to, I shall tag Ellie, Fresh Hell and Lord Milky and MJ who should be back from her lesbo holidays by now. Please accept my apologies...

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

Feedback Welcome

So as I alluded to in the previous post, I was subjected to some training at work this week. Two whole days to be exact, 8 - 5 both days. What made this worse was that I didn't need the training. I already knew how to use the fuckin' web based tool for analyzing sales and revenues. In fact, I am one of probably about 5 people in the entire company who did know how to use it. I suspect that everybody else is happy to keep it that way and so I was one of the lucky ones who was instructed to attend.

The training was conducted by two lads, one of them, Mike was the owner of a ridiculously sticky out belly button. To ice the cake, his choice of shirt on both days was a polyester polo shirt that seemed about a size too small, exaggerating his disgusting belly button even more than was necessary. I swear that this thing stuck out like an inch and a half from his belly and was about an inch in diameter as well. So what the fuck is this guy thinking? Is he proud of it and wants to show it off? Is he deliberately fucking with us to see who pays more attention to his belly button? Does he just not give a fuck? What's the deal?

Desperate to get a second opinion, I say to the woman sitting next to me " You could hang yer jacket on that". She looks at me blankly and says "What?" I say "the belly button", she says "I hadn't noticed......ugh! You're right, thats nasty."

Hadn't noticed???? This thing was more noticeable than a deformed limb. You couldn't take your eyes off it if you tried. He may as well have been walking round the room with his dick out.

The feedback forms they passed out at the end of the second day were anonymous so I made sure to note that he should consider wearing looser fitting shirts if he was to command full attention from the trainees. I also rated the course way too long and gave him a poor for his knowledge of the course materials.

His assistant, an Indian( 7-11, not Native American) lad who claimed to be from Chicago but had far too thick an accent was equally useless. He said his name was Jonathan but there is no fuckin' way. It's like when you call your internet company for help and somebody who sounds like they rode into work on an ox or on a bus full of chickens answers the phone and says their name is Robbie or Nicole when it obviously is nothing of the sort. Yes they speak English but they don't UNDERSTAND English and say things like "You can be very welcome to be a loyal customer" and "I can be helping you with that" after every other sentence. 'Jonathan' was a vegetarian but had failed to mention it (probably on purpose) and so didn't get any of the lasagna that the company had provided for lunch. On the second day they provided cold cuts which included sliced cheese but he couldn't even have any of that because the caterer had alternated a slice of cheese then a slice of roast beef around the platter so that every piece of cheese touched a piece of roast beef.

On Jonathan's feedback form I put "Bring a packed lunch" and checked the box for zero when asked how many new skills I had learned as a result of the course. I had to amuse myself somehow...

Sunday, July 1, 2007

Weak Excuse

It's been a bugger of a week and I'm fuckin' tired. In addition to all the usual, everyday drama of life, love, work and the general nitty gritty of my incredibly spicy lifestyle the computer caught a virus on Friday night while I was at work and I although I managed to recover all the files, nudey pictures and secret surveillance dossiers I keep on the neighbours, I am still in the process of reinstalling everything and getting it working right again. I won't point fingers or assign blame here other than to say that Mrs. Waring is now well aware that we did not need that update to Windows Media Player that she was offered by that very official looking pop up.

I have stories from the week such as the IT trainer at the day job with the outrageous and very noticeable "outy" belly button and his Indian sidekick with the fake name, I also have a couple of very poor "Do you know who I am?" examples from the club but they will have to wait. I just don't have the time or energy to tell right now. I have a bottle of vodka in the freezer and have set the evening aside for it's consumption.

The 1976 FA Cup Final between Man Utd and Southampton is being shown on TV right now, it's funny how times have changed, not a foreigner on the pitch don't you know?

Sunday, June 24, 2007

A Toast to.....Toast

Where the fuck would we be without toast?

Toast is fuckin' ace and no, I'm not toasted and suffering from the munchies. I just thought that I should take a moment to celebrate toast and all it's toasty goodness.

It's one of the most reliable and pleasing foods around if you ask me. Who doesn't like it? What can't you do with it? Cheese on toast, beans on toast, toast with jam on it, bacon on toast, the list is endless. There is no shortage of things that you can do with toast, and like the potato, it's pretty much universal.

Toast is always a welcome treat. Just hearing the word toast makes me feel all warm and funny inside. So does the word "pie". There is never a time when I can't handle a piece of toast. Even in the midst of the worst hangover imaginable you can still manage some toast if nothing else. If you have depressed or suicidal tendencies, just have some toast and it will cheer you right up.

If I wasn't already married, I would marry a piece of toast. For our honeymoon we would go to Barbados where I would eat the toast and report it missing to the the authorities. After a couple of years we could assume the toast is gone for ever and I would remarry, this time to a muffin, although I would be thinking about toast when we did it and would probably cheat on the muffin with all kinds of toast. Wheat, white, sourdough I love them all.

What the fuck am I doing......

Thursday, June 21, 2007

100 Not Out

Local man Elbert Dickyleg turns 100 on June 25th. His family in the hope of cashing in on the old geezer, is planning a secret celebration in his honour at the nursing home where he has lived for the past 40 years. Well, it was a secret. Hopefully he won’t be reading this until after the event. His eyesight isn’t so good so maybe if they just hide his glasses until the 26th he will be none the wiser. They have ordered a Dora The Explorer bouncy castle and an up and coming young mc/rapper/comedian by the name of F. YoMomma from the local art collective to be the compere. The day promises to full of surprises for Elbert and his friends in the Chateau Requiem Home for Unwanted Relatives and the day will end with a mud wrestling competition between the male care nurses who work there.

I first met Elbert on Monday when I stopped by the home with a donation of old Hustler magazines that I no longer needed. I had torn out many of the better pictures and at some point, probably while very drunk, had drawn crude images of genitalia and written disjointed sentences like "Cunt fuck ice cream...." in felt tip pen over many of the pages that remained. As I’m always thinking of those less fortunate than myself, I had decided to give them to people who needed them more than I.

As I passed a high backed wing chair in the TV lounge (which strangely did not appear to have a TV in it) my arm was grabbed by gnarled bony fingers and I was pulled down into the chair opposite. It was Elbert and he immediately began to regale me with tales of his youth. I didn't want to appear rude and the old lad seemed like he needed someone to talk to so I listened. I was amazed by the story he told and I feel it only deserving of a man of his years that someone should document his story for posterity, after all, if I don’t do it, who will?

Here it is, to the best of my recollection. I may have added some bits here and there to spice it up a bit because he was quite hard to understand at times and would whisper softly to himself now and again. Hopefully it is an accurate account of days gone by.

“We used to ride the box cars on the trains into Dodge City, me and my brother Sarah. He would be in one box car with the cows and I would be in the next with the horses and the elephants, big buggers they were, shat turds like big, giant round things. It used to get real lonely on those box cars and I used to watch my brother Emily having his way with the dairy cows through the cracks in the side of the car. The hours used to fly by and before we knew it we would be in Alasky digging for clams in the frozen dirt. People said we were crazy to be digging for clams in Alasky as everybody and their three legged mule knew that all the best clam digging was to be had in South Dakota but we had been there and never saw a clam not never. Sometimes we would get off the train in the outskirts of a big city like Chicagy and find us a hobo jungle where we could have a good time and my brother Sissy would sell his mouth for a few cents so’s we could by us some vittles. I never did it cause I didn’t care for the taste of other men’s manfat, just my own or my brother Hannah’s if I was hungry enough. Sometimes we couldn’t afford any food so we would have to steal a turnip from the onion vendor outside the moving picture house. A rare treat was a raw parsnip and if we made it back to the hobo jungle without eating it we would throw it into the big pot of hobo soup that the other hobo’s would be cooking up. If we didn’t have a cabbage we would throw in a boot for flavour or one of the elephant turds we had been saving for a rainy day, the worst thing about them was the bits of grass that would get stuck ‘twixt my wooden teeth. I had to have wooden teeth cause all my real ‘uns were stolen by Injuns when the box car was hijacked one time by the suckacoq tribe outside of Dreadlock City. Anyways I took good care of my wooden teeth I did, I would polish them twice a day, sometimes three or four times if I got tired of watching my brother Zsa Zsa having coyeetus with them darn dairy cows. I can still hear his screams of pleasure, mostly at night when the lights go out, he has the room next door to me see y’see. I bang on the wall to tell him to stop but he’s deafer than a deaf matchstick salesman so he is. I’m going to outlive him, we joke about it sometimes. We laugh and laugh until the big nurse comes and punches us and then we stop, or I do, my brother Agnes just keeps laughing. He’s madder than a toasted banana he is. Anyways after the war, we joined the navy as a ships female impersonators cause women weren’t allowed on ships in them days. Bad luck y’see. So they would take hobo’s off the street, men of little morals they called us and would use for the cooking and all the womanly duties like cleaning and sexual acts. We were sailing round the Cape of Halibut one time when we passed the wreckage of a ship and in the wreckage was a young lad with a violin that had no strings. We rescued him and learned from his sign language that he had been raised by sea otters and couldn’t talk although he could play air violin like a riot. When we got back to shore we sold him to a circus man for $20 which was a kings ransom back then. Soon after we deserted and went back to a life of riding the box cars and having our way with animals. It was a different time back then sonny, but we were…….”

Elbert had drifted off and I spied my chance to escape, leaving the box of Hustlers at his feet. I can think of no one more deserving. Happy 100th Birthday Elbert, you old roisterdoister you. Keep on rockin’ my man!

Elbert "Weather Ear" Dickyleg
Man of The World

Monday, June 18, 2007

Fashion Victims

Fashion is a funny thing. What seems super cool and trendy to one person or group is fuckin' maddening to another. I don't really have a problem with most of today's fashions. I'm quite tolerant and respectful of people's right to dress how the hell they want to as I know what it is like to be laughed at in public, pointed at by small children as they tug at their mothers sleeve and say things like "Mummy, that man scares me."

I don't think that my personal choice of attire is particularly offensive. Day-glo orange lycra cycling shorts go just fine with a chiffon shirt and sheepskin waistcoat, knee length argyle socks and rubber wellies. It's a statement that I am making that says "I am my own man so fuck off or I will hurt you." It seems to work as most people cross the street to avoid me and rarely make eye contact.

One of today's fashions that mystifies me is the saggy pants worn around the thighs exposing the boxer shorts underneath. Mostly worn by, lets call them African Americans, and people who wish they were African Americans, talk like they are African Americans but are definitely too pale to be African Americans, the fashion is to say the least, irritating. Just like me, they would probably argue that they are just making a statement and I would agree. I hear it loud and clear and it is telling me that they are twats.

I have questions. Burning questions that I need answers to and would be happy to ask one of the subscribers to said fashion if they would not keep crossing the street to avoid me:

  1. How do you keep the pants half way down your thighs without them constantly falling down? I tried to recreate the experience in my bedroom while the wife was out yesterday but they wouldn't stay there. Are you using braces or is that considered cheating and if so doesn't that make you unfashionable?
  2. Given that you can mysteriously make your pants stay put half way down your thighs, how do you manage to walk more than 3 steps without falling over. It is like running a three legged race with a one legged man as your partner, impossible.
  3. I say you are a twat. What are you going to do about it, twat?

"Oi......Pull yer pants up you twat!"

In Jamaica, there is a movement afoot to outlaw the wearing of saggy pants in public. Similar attempts in the Worlds 2nd greatest country, the USA, fell flat last year when officials in Dallas proposed a $50 on the spot fine for wearers of low riding pants. The American people were once again defeated by their own constitution amid concerns about civil rights and personal freedom.
Luckily, in Jamaica, these things are less of a concern and the movement is gathering steam.

Public opinion seems to be swayed against saggy pants, many people believe it to be a sign of homosexuality and they may have a point. 43 year old street vendor Robert Stuart told The Jamaica Observer "That is a sodomite principle, because your pants supposed to be up at your waist."

Shaneek Sewell, a 19 year old student doesn't find it attractive and said "I think the persons who do these things are mostly like the uneducated people in society."

"It's not appropriate, it doesn't look right, it's not gentleman-like. It's definitely unacceptable for most of the population," said Deanroy Edwards, a 23 year old technician.

Fining people may be a little extreme and difficult to enforce, especially when it comes to collecting the fines as most of these fuckers do not appear to have jobs and any spare cash they do have seems to be spent on clothing that is too big for them (a pet peeve of mine.) I would like to suggest Brazilian style government sponsored death squads cruising the streets in a Ford Transit van with blacked out windows and loaded to the gills with M-16 wielding federal agents. This would create jobs while at the same time alleviating some of the pressure on the welfare system. Although frowned upon by liberals and do-gooders, this is actually the answer to many of today's social ills and I think that pretty soon, these namby pamby, limp handshaking types would be benefiting from the very thing they seek to prevent. Besides, surely it would only take the discovery of a handful of saggy pant clad corpses before the rest of them got the message and pulled their fuckin pants up. I also contend that if you were to ask enough of them you would definitely find more than a handful who would claim to be willing to die for their right to wear their pants any way they choose so all you would have to do is find them and everyone would be happy. Well, mostly everyone. I'd be happy, that is all that matters.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Mark Your Calendars

You could be forgiven for missing it. It is easily overlooked, sandwiched as it is between the heady celebrations of Flag Day and the frenzy of excitement that is Fathers Day here in the World's 2nd greatest country. I almost missed it and if it were not for my boss having to cancel a speaking engagement at some wanky entrepreneurship seminar today because of it, I definitely would not have known until it was too late.

Next year, I will be ready for it. What the fuck is it, I hear you scream. Did we miss some major annual event? Are we in trouble with a family member for failing to send a card and token good wishes?

Not exactly, not unless you belong to a family of janitorial technicians, cleaning ladies, scrubbers, moppers or lavatory attendants. Today is Justice For Janitors Day. Yes.

Now I'm not about to belittle janitors or demean them or the work they do in any way. I will leave that for Knudsen. I agree that the work they do is super important and vital to the fabric of society and essential to the productivity of business and industry. Without them we are fucked. Every morning I go into my office and after a quick check to make sure they haven't stolen anything, I make sure that I take a moment to be grateful that they have emptied my bin and vacuumed the carpet. For if it were not for them, nameless and faceless to me though they are, I would have to do it myself. Being whiter than they, that just would not do and if my employees were to see me emptying my own bin it would not lend me much credibility in their eyes. So yes, I am thankful for the janitors.

Do I think they deserve their own day of justice? I'm not so sure. Where will all this end? Who gets a day of justice next? Who decides? Will Hallmark attempt to cash in on these "Justice Days"?

Don't Fuck With No Mild
Mannered Janitors

All I know is this. Stopping traffic on Wilshire Boulevard in the middle of the day is hardly likely to endear their cause to any non-janitors who happen to get stuck in the resulting traffic nightmare. Surely there is a better way to bring attention to the cause like maybe only emptying half a bin while leaving the rotting banana skins, apple cores and sour yogurt containers in the office for days on end. Wouldn't that raise just as many eyebrows? How about not replacing tired urinal cakes? The smell, especially during summer might cause questions to be asked.

I don't know. I'm not going to pretend to have all the answers. That is your job. What I do know is that anyone who is prepared to work, especially doing the jobs that many of us do not want or are lucky enough not to need badly enough to do them ourselves, should receive a decent livable wage and health benefits for doing it. I know it's a capitalist society but I also know how much the agencies charge companies for their services and that the percentage that is actually paid to the janitors is a pittance. It's a very competitive field, cut throat in fact but the owners still manage to do very well.

In my personal opinion, anyone who is able, let alone willing to scrub the skidmarks off the porcelain after I have been in the disabled stall deserves at least $10 for the hour it will most likely take them to get it clean.