About My Mentor

For the past three months I have been under the tutelage of a remarkable human being. I have made many a recent reference to how my life has changed over these past 90 days and I have decided that it is time to give credit where credit is due. My transformation from work shy ne’er-do-well to the hardworking, industrious model of mediocrity that you know and lust after is down to the wisdom and teachings of this man.

Dr. Professor Sherman Schmuelly Phb, ASDA, BP, ELO, SFA

We met completely by chance, we happened to be standing next to one another in the mall food court, both pretending not to watch the Hot Dog on a Stick girl mashing lemons in a bucket. After what seemed to be only a short while, the police were called and being quick witted, the Dr. Professor flashed a filthy freemason’s apron and told them that I was his patient and that we were simply doing an experiment in social integration. The policemen let us leave with some strongly worded advice and a caution to stay well clear of the Hot Dog on a Stick concession for the rest of the day.

In gratitude, I offered to buy the Dr. Professor lunch. He eagerly accepted and we talked at length over our Happy Meals. I was impressed with his outlook on life and his claims that most weaknesses can be overcome by hypnosis and the use of certain hallucinogenic plants imported from South America. He claimed that one of the lads who picked up the shit after the donkeys in Griffith Park was a part time shaman and had the hook up for the plants, which were fairly cheap compared to the price of oranges these days. As for the hypnosis, he was an expert and would be glad to treat me for what he called ‘commonly noticed abnormalities and retardation’ three times a week for the next 90 days.

I know, some of you are skeptical about hypnosis, I was too. Many of you think that hypnotist’s just make you act like a chicken or pretend you farted by embedding in your subconscious certain “trigger words”. Some of you may also think that hypnotists perform inappropriate acts on their subjects while they are under. I can assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. I have no desire whatsoever to behave like a chicken and apart from that time I woke up with my undies on back to front, I have no reason to believe anything untoward happened. “You have to remember,” the Dr. Professor told me, “the hallucinations can be so strong they almost seem real, so anything that you think may have happened actually didn’t.” In fact, I seem to remember signing something to that effect.....or did I? Now I'm getting confused again. Did any of this happen or is it all just one big hallucination? No, stop it! It did happen, I distinctly remember the Hot Dog on a Stick girl working up a sweat, jiggling about all over the place, talk about being hypnotised, fuckin' obsessed more like. The things I would do if she hadn't gotten that restraining order.....

Where was I? Oh yeah, every day in every way I'm getting better and better.

So, after an intensive course of positive thinking and, some may say, brainwashing, I have emerged a better person. I have learned many things about myself. I have discovered the real me. I can be something if I avoid making poor choices. I can be all that I can be just by avoiding jail time. If I want something I can reach out and grab it with both hands, pick up the ball and run with it. I have learned that avocados are a great source of fear for me and I have almost conquered that fear. The colour green makes my balls itch uncontrollably. The song ‘Babalu’ when sung by Desi Arnaz seems to arouse some strange kind of animal instinct in me. I cannot put my finger on it but the urge to frolic naked in the yard is irresistible. Now that I know these things about myself, I can use them to live a better life. It’s simple, avoid avocados, avoid green things and at all costs, avoid Desi Arnaz.

The Dr. Professor is available for private consultation but he asks me to inform you that due to a misunderstanding between his Swiss bank and the IRS, he can only accept cash at this time. You can contact him at:

THE HOLLYWOOD SOUP KITCHEN & MISSION
178282 HOLLYWOOD BLVD
HOLLYWOOD
AMERICA

Who Ate All The Pies?

Whilst thumbing (yes, thumbing) through one of the wife's ladies magazines looking for slightly erotic underwear advertisements. I found an article on these fine specimens:

"Look wot we 'ave 'ere ladies! Let's pull his pants down an' see wot 'e's got fer us"

I give you 'The Chubsters'. A gang of London 'girls' who are " a bunch of fat freaks who don't do as we're told." Or so claims "The Beefer", she is the leader, the one in the middle in the rainbow jumper and 12 inch turn ups. She formed The Chubsters back in 2004 when she was used as "a headless fatty"on telly. The Beefburger went on to explain, "A headless fatty is when a fat person is used, without their consent, to illustrate the horrors of obesity. No one cuts off my head so they can spread some stupid lie about fat people, so I decided to form a gang and tear the house down."

The Beef Wellington is seen in the picture throwing the gang's sign "donut hands".

This is all a bit silly. I do not doubt that it is real, after all it was printed in a magazine. It has to be true. But really ladies. Do come on won't you?

You really are not doing much for the image of fat people, and I speak as a fat person and afficionado of the larger female. I don't dig skinny waif like birds. I like 'em with a bit of meat on them and if they fart at least as much as I do then all the better. However, if I walked into an alley and saw this bunch undressing me with their eyes and licking their lips like I was some deep fried pork chop, I would be running in the opposite direction faster than a French person. Most men, if they are true to themselves, would admit the same thing. I know of no one, no matter how low their standards, who would take their chances with these ladies. In particular the first 3 left to right on the front row. Let's face it, you would chew your arm off rather than wake them after a drunken night of doing whatever the hell they told you to do. Personally, I would rather be kicked to death.

They have a website, ChubsterGang.com, which I have yet to visit and they claim to have over 40 (!) members worldwide. They may soon have a new member in Southern California by the name of Edwina Waring (single, more to love, looking for my Mayor McCheese), as I intend to infiltrate their gang and, to borrow the words of The Beefer, "tear the house down".

All this talk of beef is making me quite peckish. I shall have to insist that Mrs. Waring make an Arby's run.

Weather Pussies

I got home from work and put on the news. I am trying to avoid the news. Too much negativity and sensationalism for my liking these days. I prefer to read about it on my own schedule instead. That way I can pick and choose what I read, like things about Jamaicans who live in household appliances, electric wheelchair fires and dangerous toy recall's. I try to avoid the grim reality of the bullshit in Iraq, or the suffering in Darfur. It depresses me. I know it's the easy way out and it's selfish but I don't need to be constantly reminded of it day in day out.
Today though, was different. I needn't worry about seeing any disturbing images of the days suicide bombings in Baghdad or having to fight back tears while watching starving African kids dying.

Why?

Because it was quite windy here in Los Angeles. There was a bit of a breeze and it was causing havoc. Some people were temporarily without power and there were some lightweight trees that had been blown over. Also, to make matters worse, it had rained for about 10 minutes earlier in the afternoon and the roads were a mess.
For those of you unfamiliar with the media overkill that is LA (I'm talking to you, cave dwelling Taliban members) the slightest variation in the weather sets the local TV news crews on red alert. 'Stormwatch', 'Stormtrack', 'Stormwank', all the graphics get trotted out as if OJ Simpson had committed another murder or as if some big titted blonde airhead had just died. Each station has 'Team Coverage' and posts their entire crew on freeway overpasses, beaches and intersections with notoriously bad drainage, to get footage of groups of youths doing bunny ears behind the reporters head.

So, the wind was pretty bad, they said. A roof had blown off a fish wholesalers in Culver City and Montebello was without power.
Tonight was a school night for me and I had no choice but to be brave and go out and face the elements. Me against nature. One man versus 62 degrees and sunny with occasional wind gusts. I put on my string vest to keep me warm and my best pair of wellies just in case it rained again, and set out for the college.

The news people were right, fire trucks, police cars and paramedics streamed by me, sirens blaring, lights flashing. A side street was cordoned off with yellow LAPD tape, I could see several people holiding up a small wooden fence that was threatening to fall over onto the pavement as I crawled by in the 5 mph traffic while everybody slowed down to take a look. Traffic lights were out and street signs were swinging violently. I even had to put on my sunglasses as the glare from the sun on the car in front was making things difficult for me. I got to the college and cruised around looking for a parking space for 20 minutes, it seemed everybody had turned out early, fearing the worst. I finally decided to park, perhaps illegally, against a wall in the parking lot as there was no sign saying I couldn't and then walked the 1/2 mile to the college, enjoying the fresh air and the evening sunshine while woolly hat wearing others scurried by me, their collars turned up and their hands thrust deep in pockets.

I climbed the steps, crossed the footbridge, climbed some more steps, stopped for a breather and admired the clouds over the mountain tops, then made my way to the classroom. From some distance, I could see a pink notice flapping in the wind on the door. This wasn't good. It had better not be.....it was.....the fucker.....the utter bastard.....the old cunt of a professor had cancelled the class, due, no doubt, to the FUCKIN' BEAUTIFUL WEATHER we have been having!!!!

Okay you cunts. It's a bit fuckin' windy. Nothin' to write home about. No cause for alarm. Not a fuckin' problem. Things could be much, much worse. Snowed in for days, a fuckin' hurricane bearing down on us, a fuckin' earthquake for christs sake. Godfrey fuckin Daniels!!! It's not that bad. Bad is 600 being killed in Civil War, like in the Congo last week or another 75 people getting blown up by trucks loaded with explosives in Iraq and as angry as news like that makes me, as depressing as it is to see that shit day after day it is infinately more newsworthy than the fuckin' weather. You pussies.

Lottery Dreams

One of these Wednesdays I will remember to buy a ticket and when I do, it will without doubt be a winner.
The first thing I am going to do is buy an antique Louis XV chaise lounge which I may consider having reupholstered in blue leatherette to match my beanbag. I don't think I ever told you it was blue did I?
Second, I will hire a dozen large breasted beauties who I will pay to feed me chips topless while I lie, spreadeagled over said chaise lounge. Thats real fuckin' chips I'm talkin about, not fuckin crisps and I don't mean fuckin french fries either you cunts. Proper chips. I like 'em like I like my women, big, fat and greasy with loads of salt and vinegar on 'em.

A man can dream......

Then, I am going to pay to bring Max Bygraves back from the dead. If he isn't dead yet, I will pay to have him killed then pay someone else to bring him back to life and I will buy the rights to Family Fortunes. I will relaunch it on late night cable as Filthy Family Fortunes and double my money.

Our survey said........wah,wah....

Like I said... A man can dream

Sunday Night Reflections

Finally, a chance to relax with a good bottle of wine (by good, I mean $3.15 good) and a frozen pizza - "It's not delivery! It's disgusting!" A chance to contemplate my life, to weigh up the pro's and con's of it all. An opportunity to think. Quality time, "me" time. Time to ponder the kind of things best not pondered. You get the picture.....

I have come to the conclusion that Iranians are twats. This may not be news to many of you, given the events of recent days (weeks, months, years) and this may be why many of them do not like to be called Iranian, they prefer to be known as Persian instead. Generally, I don't like to make generalizations. I like to take people as I find them, giving them at least a minute to prove themselves worthy before I decide if they are a twat or not. In the case of these "people" I am prepared to make an exception.

Friday night, I had the misfortune to have to be present at a Norouz party. It was not for pleasure, more for preparation and to take notes in order that I better know my enemy should the call come from the Foreign Office in London. My dinghy has been inflated for two days now, just in case I am needed to rescue the captured British lads.

Norouz, for those of you from civilized countries who do not know, celebrates the beginning of spring and the Iranian (okay, Persian) New Year. I knew nothing of this before Friday, but went to the trouble of reading up on it so that I could appear worldly and smart if challenged on the subject. The entire experience was rather unpleasant.

I have never seen so many beautiful women in one room at the same time. Do not worry though, I am not fooled. I know that before long, each and every one of them will begin to look like Bert from Sesame Street. I have also never seen so many beautiful women accompanied by so many fugly men in my life. These lads set the bar for ugliness. They look like inhabitants of Middle Earth. The lad who directed Lord of The Rings could have saved a few bob by using them for extras instead of all that CGI and special effects. It would have been just as impressive.

Some more observations:

• They do not like to smile, at least not at white males who are bigger than they are. Most people when smiled at smile back, it is a natural reaction, an impulse, you cannot help it. These people appear not to have evolved to that point yet. A smile is almost an invitation to fight, if there is more than one of them that is. They do not like to fight alone. It's all "my friend, my friend" when they are solo. Get them in a group and they become major affronters.
• Many of them have trouble reading English. They have particular trouble reading the word "no", as in "NO Smoking". They enjoy a tab or twenty, usually some foul smelling turkish blend ciggies. Smoking appears to be, along with knocking the piss out of women, a cultural pastime. Also explains why their breath smells like cack.
• They have poor coordination. If they fight as well as they dance, we should have no problem. The paramedic was kept on his toes with many false alarms when called to the aid of someone who, to concerned onlookers, appeared to having an epileptic fit but was, in fact, just "getting on down with the groovy musics." Many males do not dance at all having repressed their latent homosexuality to such a degree that they are physically unable to even set foot on the dance floor, instead standing right on the edge trying to look hard. This may also be the reason why they seem not to bathe or use deodorant. They see it as being a bit gay.
• Low tolerance for alcohol. The two drink minimum should have been changed to two drink maximum. Those deisgner Armani threads may as well have been knock off's from a market stall now that you puked all over them you feeble cunt.

You can actually apply these same observations to people from many Baltic and Eastern European countries, most notably Armenia. I have lots of tales of encounters with those tracksuit wearing fuckers.