A Shot In The Arse

Oh yes, it's 'horse-pickle' time again. Once again I have to venture back to the place where weirdos patrol the corridors armed with grapes.

Today, Doctor Who-gives-a-fuck will be changing my bandages, cleaning my wounds and generally causing me pain, again. I know it is a requirement, and I know it is her job but, that doesn't make it hurt less.

At some point, I will have to point out that my other hand is slightly fucked too. Previously, I have skillfully been hiding it behind my back hoping they wouldn't notice - shit worked so far.

I know I shouldn't complain but it's my blog and I can write what I fucking want to.

I am grateful to my friends - the ones that took time out of their busy schedules to see me and bring Jelly Babies etc. As for the others, I will be thinking of you when Dr Frank'n'furter jabs me in the arse with a needle.

In other news, I made a few phone calls. I was bored, I was doped up and feeling shit.

Mrs ex-Goth declared that I should not phone her again unless I had won the lottery. OK. I can do that.

"Hi, I'm in Jamaica now and you get fuck all - I've given it all away to 3-legged cats"

*falls off chair laughing*

OUCH

Two Gay Blokes And

The night before my latest accident, I was enjoying a cerveca in my usual hostelry when my two favourite gay people came to talk to me.

For indecencies sake, I will call them George and Michael.

Michael came over first to ask how my recent golfing escapade had transpired. I explained how I was attempting to teach Mariposa to play golf without my predeliction to twat the fuck out of the chinless cunts that proliferate that environment.

"I still can't believe that Goths play golf he said
"Oh we do" I replied "But only at night"
"That is so funny" he responded honestly "But I have to go to this cocktail party tonight, and I don't want to go
"So don't" I opined "If I don't want to do something, I don't"
"I wish I could be that strong but I have to go"

I bade him farewell and gave him a piece of Gothic darkness to take with him, as a bullshit shield.

Awhile later, George beckoned me over and insisted that I meet his 'crew' of American de-constructors. They seemed a harmless, if dim-witted bunch of renegades. The men were scary, the women scarier but I assume they were a 'tag-team'.

One in particular, caught my imagination - I'll call him Cleetus for now.

Cleetus spoke in a rapid-fire southern 'drawl' that made me think of Deliverance. The only way I can describe it is ..... well, if you imagine Forrest Gump on Acid, you might be close.

I can understand English, Welsh, German, French, Dutch, Portuguese, Italian, Greek and obviously Spanish. Cleetus was speaking none of these.

I will attempt to recreate part of the conversation, after which it will be somewhat self explanatory.

"So, you're from America I assume?"
"Dang right I am Sir, Ize from the united states of ....
*interruption as someone says 'Hola Goth, que tal?' - 'Muy bien amigo, a luego'*
"Holy cow - you understood what he was ....
"Sorry dude - you were saying?"
"No-one here seems to hear what I'm saying
"Well, if you slowed down your speech and enuciated more"
"My teacher said that but she was just plain stoopid"
"She was if she thought that she could make a difference"
"My grandaddy grew up on a farm and he said there wasn't one damn animal he hadn't tried it with at least once"

*alarm bells*

"Oh gosh, is that the time? I must go and do something"

George then asked if I really had to leave. Funnily enough, I was quite certain that I did.

One Finger Is Enough

Said the actress to the bishop - as opposed to the nuns who prefer Kit Kats.

Thankfully, though, one finger is quite enough at the moment. Granted it has crippled my typing ability and I now sit at a keyboard like ET, tapping away with one finger but I can still type stuff which is nice, as otherwise I would be bored.

One finger is enough to crack the ring pull on a can of beer - although I then have to sit there with a straw like some alcholic Stephen Hawking creating my new book, a Brief History Of Beer.

The mobile phone is also not an issue due to the funky little speaker phone on it which means I can leave the phone on the coffee table and still talk bollocks to anyone I want.

BUT, the most important use for that one finger, is for The Doofer (some call it the remote control).

When I eventually shuffle from the bedroom to the front room, taking care not to glance my still injured limbs on any passing, stationery objects, I can switch on TV. Daytime TV though - and what a crock of shit that is.

First, it's programs about turning your useless crap into money via car boot sales, or auctions or some other inane fashion.

After a soothing bout of shouting "Well don't buy the fucking shit in the first place" the finger does it's work - OFF.

Then I get bored and have to switch TV back on - now it's some morons who want to buy a bigger better house so the lazy twats get some presenters to find them 3 houses. Every one is better than the bloody hovel they live in but, they say

"ooo, the kitchens not very big"
"It's bigger than your whole house you fucking dickweed" - 'finger-time' - OFF.

Roll on this afternoon - then it's MacGyver. Easy watching. He will defeat the entire Russian Army armed only with a penknife. Fucker should join the Swiss Army - he could show them a thing or two.

Are there any good programs on daytime TV???

Spastic Goth

I was busy doing nothing, isn't it just a crime when - oops vicar, I created a small problem.

I say 'small' but apparently, severing an artery is actually quite a big problem. I know this because spurting blood everywhere completely fucks up the decor.

Mariposa sprinted to the bathroom to get a bandage and called an ambulance. When she returned, several seconds later, the floor was already covered in Gothic blood.

I tried to remain calm whilst applyiing a tourniquet but no sooner had I done that when - I hit the floor with a resounding THWACK. I presume that's what the sound of a human skull meeting tiles at reasonable velocity sounds like.

I sort of remember travelling in the ambulance to hospital - but it's all a little fuzzy really. What I do remember is being taken into surgery immediately - which is not a good sign - there were people there already in a queue for fucks sake.

Many injections later, and with some skilled sewing by Dr Bob, I looked like half a Gothic Mummy. At this point, I had lost 2 pints of blood - and a little bit more means you are empty and apparently that's not very good.

For several hours, I sat/lay there like a spastic monkey whilst they ran various tests. Finally I said:-

"Can I go home now?"
"Why?" - was the response
"Because it's so fucking boring and I have to clean the kitchen"
"You won't be doing anything for at least 2 weeks" came the reply
"But I need to go for a poo" I said
"You can go here" said the angel pretending to be a nurse
"I still want to go home afterwards" I said, wobbling toward the toilet.

It's somewhat amazing how difficult the simplest things become when you only have one arm. Ten minutes later, I emerged from the toilet.

"Wow - you really did need to go" said the nurse
"Yes" I replied "But I spent 9 minutes trying to do my bastard pants up"

So, home I eventually went. I didn't manage to clean the kitchen - boo hiss. I had to sit on the sofa like a fucking retard.

Looking on the bright side, if I did have a desire to masturbate, by the time I got my fucking pants off, the desire would have receded.

So, things to with one hand?????

What A Fucking Week

Every time I think I have turned a corner in my life, some sadistic bastard has coated the corner with olive oil or another somewhat slippery substance.

Then people question why I don't believe in a god ?!

I'm guessing that is the assinine percentage of the population - or, perhaps they assume the fat twat is as sarcastic as I can be.

The difference being I would not be such a cunt all the time.

So, my week consisted of:-

• Dealing with morons
• No fucker delivering what they had promised
• People making crap excuses for their behaviour
• Shit weather - i.e. that rain type stuff
• Wanting to rip the throat out of ....
• Shitheads having convienient 'sick days'

Apart from that, it was fucking toss (in a generally wanky way, but I did resist the temptation to kick the crap out of everyone).

It's Karma - Do good things and .......

And no, I haven't forgotten the challenge from my buddy John B Goodshite (and if you haven't read his site - you should).

JG -> I will create a post after I have purchased a Samurai sword - or 3

And, I almost lost my virginity - HOOZAH

I Demand

Never a particularly good starting point for a conversation with a Goth. With me in particular, an opening gambit of "I demand...." is invariably followed by a response of "I demand that you fuck off".

It's a bit like that stupid film Kramer vs Kramer - which I've never seen but I believe involves a couple fighting over their sprog.

Apparently, she says "I demand custody" and so he says "So, I demand custody", thus she kicks him in the bollocks, so she kicks her in the twat, and it continues until everyone is crying and some fucker walks off with poor Oscar - metaphorically of course.

At the moment, I'm feeling particularly vulnerable, which means I am very wary of being truly 'arse-invaded' by americans at any time. They are a particularly good species at that - the 'arse-invading' bit (which they call ass-invading - ASS being actually a form of donkey, ergo bestiality) not the vulnerability.

Por ejemplo - They like to give a small country weapons and then go and kick the shit out of them for having weapons - especially if there is some oil lurking about somewhere (see the Bill Hicks speech for that).

Anyway, currently, I have the power to delete the fuck out of their fat arses. I didn't choose it - they chose to endow me with that power, in their infinite lack of wisdom.

Hoo-fucking-rah !

Well, the thing is, I am NOT going to abuse the power. I don't need to see a therapist - I just have more important things to do.

However, any "I demand"s are shortly followed by a somewhat inexplicable total loss of power for said arsey individual.

Of course, I dare say that if you were in Goths position, you might demand something else.

Assuming you had the ability to demand anything, what would it be?? (and the first fucker to say world peace will get deleted immediately) but, fire away....

Twatting Posh People

I so enjoyed my litle Gothic adventure into the land of 'weirdos with more money than sense' that I intend to go back for some more.

Last time, I tried to be somewhat polite which was a mistake - I think - in retrospect.

I was reprimanded for wearing jeans. It was somewhat negligent of me as I didn't know you had to dress like a cunt.

I was aware that dressing like 'Huggy Bear from Starsky and Hutch' was cool but, I didn't realise they were inter-bred retards with the intelligence of prawns.

I wanted to comment but, being 'nice' and in the company of a beautiful lady, I tastefully swallowed their bullshit and followed the ethos.

HA HA

Today, will be a testament to damage limitation. I will return to 'in-bred fest' wearing jeans, and my somewhat prophetic Marilyn Manson shirt which proclaims

WHEN I'M GOD, EVERYONE DIES

Headline - "Mad Goth with bats - twats lots of stupid people"

Don't you just love golf?

Bye By,Gothy

Giving up

Goth World will be be more

Thanks to everyone

Toodle Bat

Goth Opera

As you may or may not have gathered, I'm not a huge fan of lard-arse twats in stupid outfits singing complete bollocks - i.e. Opera.

My taste in music is erratic, eclectic even, but invariably involves bands that can actually play what they are supposed to.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that one of my favourite bands were playing right here in the 'Costa Miserable'. Not only that but they were intending to play their seminal album (no, I'm not linking to the word - go look it up you lazy bastards).

So having secured two tickets, I eventually arrived at the venue with my bodyguard - he's not a black belt but he has a very good tan - which is always helpful in a 'line-up' for the usual immigrants.

It was rather a good concert - in an understated way. To put it more bluntly - it fucking rocked. It was like opera but better, and after the first song we debated whether the lead singer could keep the quality and intensity of his vocals for 30 minutes. He managed over 3 hours including 3 encores.

It has to rate as one of the best concerts I have seen - visually stunning, musically tremendous and in a venue that did not require twatty little binoculars.

Thankyou very much Queensryche for a most enjoyable evening.

AND - yes, I did buy the fucking T-Shirt

Golf - My Fucking Arse

I should do this post in the style of my buddy Jonny Gihad, but I'm feeling far too sarcastic for that. Incidentally, you should read his response to the challenge I threw in his face (like a damp floorcloth) ) it's really quite good apart from the fascination about ONE particular actor.

Anyway - back to golf. A stupid game, played by perverts in costumes !!

Apparently, the theory is that you twat a ball with a stick and then talk bollocks whilst attempting to find the ball that you twatted.

Meanwhile, you have the oppprtunity to dress like a cunt. (Huggy from Starsky and Hutch is a role model).

I have the sticks (bag full of the bastard things), but I am not going on Pubic Transport with them - that would be far too hairy.

However, in theory, my Punjabi soul-mate is taking me to a big lawn, puntuated by holes, today.

This however has 3 pre-requisites:

1 - Hindi-boy remembers anything - (which I believe to be unlikely)
2 - His new car has not been stolen by 'scousers' - (I think the Germans are front of the queue)
3 - We have the cojones - (balls I have - they're not 'special' but at least I know where they're going)

I did play golf once before with my little brother (he's not little, he always carries a gun, and he has serious issues with anger management)

Oh we laughed - well I did. It was funny - to see grown men pissing their pants.

She Sucked - Well, No More

Stupid bloody idea anyway. Who in their right mind would want to have anything sucked? That's just plain silly.

However, I got a call today informing me that she was not sucking anymore. Now, in itself that isn't really an issue but, if you are a vacuum cleaner - that's pretty shit as it's the only thing you have to do.

Just buy a new one - I thought, and apparently vocalised said thoughts, but then... It reminded me of a true story several years ago, in the UK.

'Kirby' cleaners were incredibly expensive - i.e. over a thousand squids. The sales-bastards were tenacious little rascals, cultivated from the most desperate areas of society.

Their sales 'pitch' involved sprinkling a small amount of water onto a bed sheet and explaining that everyone perspired whilst they slept. They would then apply the industrial strength suction unit to the sheet, sucking up dirt through the mattress to create a dirty ring on the sheet.

"This is what you sleep in every night" - the salesman would announce to his horrified prospective client.

On one particular occassion, the sales patter didn't work and the salesman announced he would return the following day at 11am to secure the sale/deal.

The following day, walking up the path, he saw the curtains twitch but whilst ringing the doorbell for 5 minutes, he got no response.

He pretended to walk away but, went around the back of the house and seeing a window open, climbed in.

As he carefully padded into the front room, he observed the terrified couple hiding behind the sofa occassionally trying to see if the salesman from hell had departed (not knowing he was behind them).

In a thunderous voice, he announced "Enough with the fucking 'hide and seek' - I found you. Now sign the contract."

The now, nervous wrecks duly did.

*Moral to the story? - Fucked if I know, but the muppet did try his pressure techniques on me and apparently a swift kick in the bollocks appears to work*

(oh, and apparently 'we' have a new vacuum cleaner - but, you won't find my fingerprints on it - I've seen CSI)"

Porn Movies

What's the fucking point? Granted, that is maybe not the best phrased question but somewhat ironic perchance.

I don't understand the appeal of watching two (or more) lubricated bimbos, shagging each other senseless. Why watch what you could be doing? DUH

It's feasible that these films may hold an appeal for those people who fell out of the ugly tree, hitting every branch on the way down but nature generally compensates. Even the utterly stupid must find the plot lines thin, if not anorexic.

*Large blonde/black/Asian - (some fucking idiot) walks into a scene*
"Whoops - there goes my underwear!"
*Cue some other weirdo(s) to start fucking with a relentless inevitability*
*Fade out / fuck off*
This film was sponsored by Kleenex - the tissue you can trust.

Whilst it is admirable that these films aid the masturbation purposes of travelling business people in their remote hotel bedrooms - do the wankers have no imagination?

Personally, I have always found them about as appealing as being slapped around the head with a large haddock. The films are pretty shit too.

Obviously, I'm not really a 'fannie' of this puerile media but feel free to justify yourself - unless you're Pippa Gore.

(I am not advocating banning porn films - anything that keeps the tossers away from me is a good thing)