Monday, 29 October 2012

Bed Heads

As we ascend the staircase, it’s remarkable just how ordinary this house appears.  The stairs are carpeted in a nondescript shade of mauve.  The walls are lined with the usual family photos and school pictures.  Sandra, the mother of this household, wears an inoffensive cream sweater and black leggings.  There’s absolutely nothing abnormal about her.

As we reach the bedroom, she opens the door for us whispering “he’s in here”.  We politely scoot around her and into the shaded bedroom.  The curtains are drawn, but a singular ray of light illuminates a figure laid between the sheets of their marital bed.  Roused by our cameraman taking snapshots, the figure pulls back the bedspread to reveal a perfectly ordinary middle aged man.  He’s only wearing navy blue pyjama bottoms, but his lack of squint and neatly combed hair suggest that he hasn’t been asleep.

This is Kevin.  Up until two months ago, Kevin was a perfectly average functioning member of society.  For all intents and purposes, he still is.  He pays his taxes, kisses his children goodbye when they leave for school, and gets angry at the government when they fail to cater to his individual needs.  However, Kevin is part of a subsection of society which many people are not even aware of.  Kevin is a Person Who Stays In Bed.

For you and me, we wake up when our alarms go off and, after much cursing, we get out bed and start the day.  We take this for granted.  The whole getting out of bed experience is a natural and normal part of our daily routine.  However, Kevin goes against the fundamental laws of nature by not getting out of bed.  As a Person Who Stays In Bed, he simply just stays in bed, not beholden to breakfast radio nor the call of the cockerel.

“It all started a couple of months ago” Explains Kevin.  “I felt dissatisfied with life.  I felt there had to be more to life than just getting up in the morning.  I looked it up on the Internet and found there were thousands of people just like me, who just didn’t get up.”

Sandra places a loving hand on her husband.  She is surprisingly accepting of Kevin’s subversion, and is keen to show that a Person Who Stays In Bed can be as regular as you or me.

“Many people wouldn’t be as understanding, but I know that Kevin was born this way.  This isn’t a lifestyle choice; this is who he is on the inside.  It’d be like asking him to change his sexual preferences or stop liking his favourite breakfast cereal.”

It’s a difficult point to argue against.  Whilst this may seem slobbish to the point of eeriness, how can you force this man to get out of bed, without squashing his freedom of expression?

“I don’t want to be discriminated against” States Kevin as Sandra tenderly strokes his arm. “Last week some children came by the house and started throwing stones at my window.  I could hear them chanting ‘We’re peeing in your fish pond, and there’s nothing you can do about it’.  That’s why I agreed to do the interview, to be understood.  To raise awareness.”

I ask him if other People Who Stay In Bed have suffered from similar prejudices.  Kevin informs me of a man in Toronto who has been burgled three times in a week.  This is because the robbers know that he won’t leave his bed to stop them.

At this point, Kevin begins to feel emotional as a solitary tear rolls down his cheek.  He feels that being a Person Who Stays In Bed might make his family an easy target.

We break for tea and biscuits.  Kevin and Sandra are very accommodating, inviting us to tuck into their custard creams.  As we enjoy the downtime, it’s remarkable to see this husband and wife laughing and joking together after all that has changed recently.  These two are a natural fit; two people who are so effortlessly still in love with each other.

Once finished, I ask Kevin about how his new routine has affected his children.  He is a father to two young girls, Jasmine and Keira, both of which are in junior school.  How do they feel that their father no longer walks them to school?

“It was tough at first, but they both know that I love them.  I still give them a kiss goodbye in the morning and we sometimes do homework on the bed.  I have an active social life with my kids”

And what about the effects it has on them?

“Keira once spent three days sat on the couch without moving.  I suspect she could also be a Person Who Stays In Bed, but she hasn’t found a way to articulate it yet.”

“And if she is, we couldn’t be more proud” chimes in Sandra.

It’s at this point we wrap up our interview with this charming family.  As we head out to leave, we notice Jasmine has firmly planted herself on a beanbag in the living room.  You can’t help but wonder if she will take after her father.  Who knows what the future may hold for the next generation of People Who Stay In Bed. 

Friday, 26 October 2012

How To Tackle Writer’s Block

If you are reading this, chances are that you are a writer and have your own Blog.  As people who write, we all struggle with that terrible affliction known as writer’s block.  Sometimes our creative colon gets bunged up with ideas that we have no idea how to express, or sometimes we find ourselves artistically douched.  How do you tackle this problem?

In fact, this is one of the questions I get asked most frequently.  That and “Do you deny the allegations against you?”  Since I stick to a strict schedule and always update twice weekly, this is an understandable question.  I thought it might be useful to share some of my writing tips with you in the hope that you too can moisten your creative dry spells.

Step 1:  Recycle.  Surely there’s a joke or two that you can pluck out again and repurpose.  Why not revisit an old article and put a new spin on it?  No one will notice if I do another agony uncle post, will they?  When that deadline’s approaching you should throw away that artistic integrity faster than Usain Bolt on laxatives.  Don’t be afraid to retread old ground, as trodden ground is often landmine-free.

Step 2:  Approach the page in new and different ways.  I occasionally like to crabwalk towards the keyboard in the hopes that inspiration will strike.  At other times, a backwards roll towards the PC has resulted in the epiphany I need to finally finish a top ten list of favourite farts.  Alternatively, I like to pretend I’m a prisoner with no access to a pen, so I write my posts in blood.  Sadly enough, my boss doesn’t like it when I smear blood all over my work monitor, but he’s just trying to stifle my creative vision!

Step 3:  Ignore the white space.  The white space on a page can be your most daunting critic.  It mercilessly mocks you for your inability to fill it properly, to satisfy it fully, and chastises you over your pathetic ineptitude.  This is why you should use coloured paper, or mess with the colour balance on your monitor to turn it to a nice shade of inspirational lilac.  Prolonged exposure may burn your retinas out, so be careful with this technique.

Step 4:  Two part posts!  If you can just stretch that word count a little further, you can almost justify a two-parter.  That’ll keep the punters at bay for another day.

Step 5:  Avoid insanity.  Whilst you sit in front of your screen watching the font cursor dutifully blink at you with alarming repetition, it is surprisingly simple to slip into lunacy.  This happened to me once.  I started to envy that blinking cursor.  He had a constant task; to blink on and off at regular intervals.  He is good at his job, whereas I can’t string two measly words together!  I spent the rest of the afternoon timing that cursor’s blinks with a stopwatch, checking that his sequence was completely and unrelentingly correct.  I swear that once it blinked twice in a beat rather than once, and I will still believe that no matter how many times Microsoft tell me to stop reporting the issue!  But, er, yeah don’t do that.

Step 6:  If all else fails, plagiarise!  P.S. thank you guys for being creative enough to keep me afloat for the past year.  If your ideas haven’t appeared here so far, rest assured that I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.

Feel free to use these tips to your advantage.  Once you’ve successfully penned your novel/film script/magnum opus and become instantly and gloriously rich, remember your old pal Addman and the advice he gave you.  Remember to raise a glass in his honour and think to yourself, things weren’t too bad when I had to slum it on Blogger with the likes of him.  Also, send him a cheque for 10% of your earnings.  Make it payable to “Agnes McHugeboobs”, just don’t ask questions.

Monday, 22 October 2012

Your Health Problems - Vaccinated

Did you know that there is a 87% chance that one day, at some undetermined point in the future, you're going to die?  It's true, it happens to most people.  Notable exceptions include Bruce Forsyth and anyone with the surname Attenborough.

With that in mind, it's important to do everything you can to avoid the reaper.  I'm talking in a metaphorical sense.  You can't just cross the street when Death comes for you, nor can you find his house on Google Earth and plan your commute around it.  You need to take care of yourself and stay healthy, fit and limber.  That's why I've decided to help some of you saggy, rotting Internet corpses out there to stay in shape.  Below are some exemplary cases of medical perplexity that I have single-handedly cracked.  I'm like House, only I got evicted from mine for the unexplained disappearance of debt collectors around my area.  Regardless, let's get on with the show:

Gemma Driveway – Fish Wrestler

Dear Addman

Last week I cracked my leg on a table and now I can't even put it to the floor.  Walking is absolute agony, and I can't walk down to the doctors surgery to get it checked out.  Do you think I've broken it?

Dear Gemma,

Ages ago, me and a few friends co-owned a racehorse called Gimpy Steve.  We used to train him in particularly extreme conditions. The theory behind this was that if Steve could race in torrential rain, on ice, and through fields of landmines, he could race through anything.  Sadly, Steve slipped over on the first day, broke his hind leg, and the stable owner had to shoot him while we all cried.  It was the saddest day of my life.

Anyway, that's basically the situation you're in.  Do you know any farmers who can come and do the deed?  I'm sorry, but you need to be put down for your own safety.

Alaister Drew – Puddle Maker

Dear Addman

I have a penchant for the rotund posteriors of ladies that I simply must confess to.  My siblings all deny that this is normal practice.  When a lady enters the room with an iddy-biddy waist and a round object in my field of vision, I get feelings.  Is this normal?

Dear Alaister,

I refer you to the case of Sir Mix-A-Lot vs The Feminist League of America.  By law, it is not appropriate to encourage this kind of behaviour, and under no circumstance must you encourage a female to "shake that healthy butt".  In short, you are a monster and should probably be put down.

Barry Shogun – Pepper Grinder

Dear Addman

My head has gone septic.  What should I do?

Dear Barry,

When something goes septic, the best thing to do is to lance it.  Do have any lances lying around at home?  If not, I know a guy (coincidentally named Lance) who is an exceptional lance wrangler.  He has taken part in many renaissance fayres, and I have it on good authority that he is an expert LARPer, whatever that means, and has regular cause to use his lance during that.  I'll give him a call and get him to come round and lance your face.  If it doesn't work, he can always put you down while he's there.

Stuart Pourer – Serial Rappist

Dear Addman,

My daughter has become infected with a severe case of lesbianism.  She hasn't had a boyfriend in like, ever, and I saw her hug one of her "girlfriends" the other day, who I suspect may be the carrier.  I've tried praying to every Pagan god I know of, but so far, none have come up with a viable solution.  Is there some sort of pill she can take to cure her?

Dear Stuart,

There is nothing wrong with your daughter.  Lesbians are an important branch of the evolutionary Porn tree, and I'll be damned if I see another father try and dissuade his daughter from fulfilling her erotic destiny.  Frankly, I think you need to be put down.

Nicole Papa – STD Researcher

Dear Addman,

Last week I kissed a whole bunch of men in a nightclub, and now I have these weird sores all over my top lip.  At first I thought it was just stubble rash, but I used my husband's toothbrush  yesterday and now he's got it.  I need to find a way to clear this up quickly.

Dear Nicole,

As far a I know, this is a disease that has never been discovered or catalogued by medical science.  I'm pretty sure there are no infections out there that can be caught through sexual contact with another human being.  As such, there is no cure so you're pretty screwed, although there's no change there!  Hahaha!  No seriously, you'll need to be put down right away.

Brian Herbie-White – Toast Toaster

Dear Addman

Last week I went to eat at a local sushi restaurant.  That evening I was hawking my guts up and thought I was going to die.  Then the day after, the vomiting completely stopped.  What do you suppose happened there?

Dear Brian,

Isn't it obvious?  You've been cursed.  When eating out, always ask the waiters if the food has been handled or prepared by a witch doctor or shaman.  Check the waiter's belt for shrunken heads.  Scan the menu and look out for foods which sound like black magic, such as Juju sauce or calamari.  If you ingest these items, your body will become host to a thousand lost souls.  The spirits of the damned will hang around in your colon like they have nothing better to do, and make you violently sick.  The only solution is to have yourself put down, then you'll feel right as rain.

Alison Packard – Exhaust Fume Huffer

Dear Addman

I’m a busy woman who juggles a high powered business career and two children.  Last week I started suffering from heavy "women's problems", if you know what I mean, and I can't afford to for it to slow me down.  Is there anything you can suggest to alleviate these symptoms? 

Dear Alison,

Heavy women problems?  I understand, say no more.  In fact, I suffer from heavy women problems all the time.  Once a month, I get this irritating feeling and my blood starts to run cold.  This is all caused by the heavy woman who sits next to me on the train sometimes.  I only see her about 12 times a year, but she always seems to sit next to me for some reason, and she smells faintly of cheese sauce.  It's nauseating.  The only cure I can suggest is to pull the emergency cord and have them evacuate the entire train.  Or just put yourself down.

Marissa Duracell – Sexual Predator

Dear Addman,

Last year I had a flu shot and felt utterly dreadful for the next two weeks.  This year, my surgery has called me up to invite me for another flu shot, but I'm not sure I want it.  I mean, I don't want to catch flu, but I'm afraid I might get it from the vaccination anyway.  What are your thoughts?

Dear Marissa,

Flu?  Hahaha!  Last year I caught smallpox twice, and it never did me any harm.  You must be a real wimp to get upset by a little bit of baby flu.  You should try playing beach volleyball while you have gout sometime.  How about space hopper racing with hemorrhoids?  You don't know you're born, do you?  Don't make me put you down.

Phew, I think I've given enough advice for today.  Join me next time when we meet a man who has caught rabies from some babies, and a woman who describes herself as a "Vagician".  Ciao for now!

Friday, 19 October 2012


You only live once.  Unless you happen to be James Bond, in which case you only live twice.  Or is that how many times the postman rings?  Now I've just confused myself.

What I am sure of is that I am sick and tired of seeing the acronym YOLO everywhere.  It stands for You Only Live Once, and is used mainly by morons to justify their reckless behaviour.

“I’ve just downed half a bottle of Jack, six tequila slammers and several shots of Domestos.  Now I’m going to drive on the opposite side of the road while Tweeting about it.  YOLO!”

I wish someone would throw a sandwich at me while screaming YOLO.  I missed lunch today.

I understand the sentiment.  You only have one shot at life so you should do the things which make you happy.  I don’t think anyone would deny you that right, unless you can only achieve true happiness through the molestation of mountain goats.  But what I don’t understand is why people use YOLO as a disclaimer for any monumentally stupid actions which may shorten their own lives, or the lives of others.  People seem to believe that simply saying YOLO gives you a get out of jail free card for when you inevitably set yourself on fire and run screaming into a fireworks factory.

In my opinion, the fact that you only live once is the perfect reason why you should try and protect yourself.  Don’t do things that will shorten your lifespan.  Once you’re dead, you’re dead and there’s no coming back from that. Well, not unless your name is Jesus or you have contracted the T virus.

This is why you should think twice before performing a death-jump into a chasm with only a "parachute"(AKA thin piece of material) stopping you from smashing into a thousand pieces on jagged rocks.  YOLO isn't a disclaimer for your irresponsible activity; it’s a reason for why you probably shouldn't do that stupid thing you fancy doing.

A more appropriate use of the acronym would be:

“ I'm staying inside today.  It’s windy and I'm scared that I’ll be blown into an open manhole.  YOLO!”

You Obviously Like Orgasms

As a result of the YOLO phenomenon, I’m seriously considering adopting this phrase as an excuse for my overly cautious lifestyle.  I plan to approach people in smoking shelters, snatch the cigarette from their hands and say “Smoking causes cancer.  YOLO!”.  If I see an obese person cramming their third burger patty into their inflated maw, I’m going to slap the cheesy death bomb from their bulbous fingers while screaming “YOLO!  YOLO!”  Jaywalkers will be tackled to the pavement in the name of YOLO.

Failing that, I’ll just come up with alternative meanings for the acronym and drop them into conversation.  “YOLO?  Oh, you mean Yetis Out Live Orang-utans!  Why yes, I do believe you are correct, although science has yet to announce anything official on the matter”.

This is where I open the doors to you, my dear readers.  Do you have any suggestions for what YOLO could alternatively stand for?

Monday, 15 October 2012

Embarrassing Nightclub Photos

In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth, and it was good.  Then he created Man.  Man was soon bored, so God created Woman.  Before long, both man and woman wanted a venue in which they could flail their limbs to repetitive dubstep music in a bid to cajole each other into awkward toilet cubicle sex.  This is why God created nightclubs.

Unfortunately for these men and women, God also created the website Embarrassing Nightclub Photos.  This glorious website gives us a chance to laugh at these people in unique and wondrous ways.  This is exactly what myself and Chiz over at ChizChat decided to do, and we've decided to post the results right here.  Please gaze below on the exotic specimens we have unearthed:

Chiz - Should I be more concerned by the amount of chemicals that guy has on his body or the fact that the girl on the right is trying to eat her own tongue?

Addman - I think the girl on the right is actually the star of this photo.  It's like she's daydreaming about a delicious cake.

Chiz - I feel like someone should've inserted a thought bubble above her head. She's clearly not functioning at the same wavelength as the other party-goers.

Addman – Her thought bubble would say “Thank god I’m not the girl in the middle”.  She is literally owned by the guy covered in varnish.

Addman - In fact, I think that guy is missing the top of his head.  His hair just seems to trail off into the night.

Chiz - I think his hair is leaking all over his girl's head, too.

Addman - I think it's leaking onto everyone's heads.  That might explain why the girl on the right is looking upwards.  She's gazing into the follicle abyss and seeing the end of days.

Chiz - Exactly, it's as if everything the hair touches is his kingdom.

Chiz - Except the creepy blonde guy in the back. He's like a rabbit walking amongst lions.

Addman - It's like a sleazy nightclub version of the Lion King "Everything you smear hairgrease on, will belong to you my son."

Addman - I can't tell if that's a fake tan, or if he fell face first into a bowl of alphabetti spaghetti.

Chiz - Looks to me like they pulled a dead guy from an incinerator and posed him in a bittersweet prom photo
Chiz - Do you watch Game of Thrones?

Chiz - Because they guy on the left looks like a character from the show named Hodor.

Addman - I don't think he's actually part of their group.  I think he just came to lick the spaghetti juice off the front guy's face.

Addman - That fella on the right looks like he's playing a giant, invisible harmonica.

Chiz - I can't tell if it's the make-up on his face or if he really is constipated.

Addman - Are the two middle guys sharing a pint glass?

Chiz - It kind of looks like the guy in the back was about to wrestle the pint out of the dead guy's hand, but before he could grab it with his other hand, the Chucky doll-looking fellow put his head underneath his armpit.

Addman - So we're basically seeing three guys fighting over a dead man's drink?

Chiz - It appears so. He's got that look that says, "Foiled again," while Chucky's got that passive, innocent look that says, "Whoops, am I in the way?"

Addman - You know the economy has hit rock bottom when people have to duel to the death for leftover liquor.

Chiz - Would you say the economy is "On the rocks"?

Addman - I reckon that guy has had dinner plates surgically implanted into his chest.

Chiz - It looks like he had his bum surgically implanted onto his chest to me.

Addman - Probably.  That would explain how he managed to shit out that moustache onto his top lip.

Chiz - I'm still undecided whether this pic is safe for work.

Chiz - If I was gay would it be considered unsafe for work?

Addman - I think it's considered unsafe for humans, let alone work.

Addman - Do you think he's trying to be Jack Sparrow by any chance?

Chiz - Perhaps, maybe he stores his booty in his moustache and between his chest ass.

Addman - I love it how the guy on the left seems to be having an out of body experience.  His purple spirit is trying to escape the photograph.

Chiz - He must be one of the Black Pearl's ghostly henchmen.

Chiz - He's got that thousand miles stare like he's standing atop a crow's nest.

Addman - That's exactly how I looked when I first saw this photo.

Chiz - The Inbetweeners?

Addman - They're too polite to be the Inbetweeners.  That dapper fellow on the left understands correct pinky etiquette whilst downing a shot.

Addman - What do you think they're drinking that tastes so revolting?

Chiz - Oh, definitely horse semen.

Chiz - Or water. No one would be expecting that.

Addman - "Mom?!  Is this water?  I only drink highly sweetened, carbonated drinks!"

Chiz - It seems the guy in the middle is having an allergic reaction to the water.

Addman - I think he's having an allergic reaction to being outside his house.  This is probably the first time he's ventured outside since his Warcraft guild disbanded.

Chiz - Very possible, it looks like the substance he just downed is bringing about frightening flashbacks of intense, harrowing Warcraft battles.

Chiz - He's weeping for the poor soul, Bonerfarts324, who died in the battle of Your-Mom.

Addman - I want to know the story behind that raised fist in the background.  It reminds me of the end of Terminator 2.

Addman - And thus, another clubber has laid down his life and drowned in a pool of other people's sweat.

Chiz - He probably just polished off a bag of wine or liberated an oppressed country. Endless possibilities, really.

Chiz - What's surprising is the fact that these gentlemen are able to lift the shots to their mouths with all those bracelets.

Addman – What’s surprising is that they dared to drink alcohol on a school night.

*All photos are strictly the property of Embarrassing Nightclub Photos.  I think.  They're not mine anyway.

Friday, 12 October 2012

Cluedo Championships

You join us at a very crucial point in the Cluedo championship final.  Our four competitors have gone through three intense rounds so far and yet, no one seems to be any closer to discovering whodunit.  Surely the game will be decided in this next vital round.

The players all take a sip of water, and the game is underway again.  First up is Julian, a Cluedo verteran from back when the 2nd editions were still being published.  Let’s take a look at his stats:

Name:  Julian Kenworthy
Age:  53

Games Won: 209
Games Lost:  14

Shoe Size:  10

Prostate:  Active

On paper, he is definitely the favourite in this competition.  That’s right.  The crowd are waiting with baited breath for Julian’s next move.  We’re all expecting great things from him.

Julian:  “It was Professor Plum with the knife in the kitchen.”

If he's a professor, where's his lab coat?

Oh and that’s a terrible mistake.  Julian has obviously forgotten that Professor Plum was already played in the first round, and as we can see, Kyle has raised his hand to claim the purple Prof as being in his hand.  The pressure must have gotten to Julian.  He doesn't look happy with that.  He’s thrown the towel from around his neck at the referee.  That’s unsporting.  He’s demanding another go; apparently he meant to say Reverend Green but got him confused with the famous rapper, Professor Green.

While we wait on the judge’s decision, let’s look over some the highlights so far.  Yes, here we see Julian kicking over his chair when a member of the audience coughed.  That spectator was promptly thrown out for distracting the players.  Let’s hope we don’t run into any more trouble causers like that.

Back to the action, and it appears that Julian’s appeal his been denied.  Rightly so in this commentator’s opinion.  These athletes get paid far too much to make such elementary mistakes.

Next up is this competition’s wild card, Brian Furniss.  Brian is relatively unknown in the Cluedo world, this being his first ever competitive Cluedo tournament.  He stormed the semi-finals without even breaking a sweat, and he looks quite the cool customer so far.  Let’s see what kind of move he’s going to play here.

Brian:  “I choose Mrs Bun the Baker’s Wife, on B9, with this double-six domino.”

...Well...that’s left everyone utterly speechless!  Someone get me a rulebook!  Such a move has never been played in the entire history of the sport.  This could bring the game into disrepute.  Everyone is looking towards the referee for an answer, but he’s just shrugging his shoulders.  The crowd are getting restless.  Several audience members appear to have passed out in shock.  Oh the humanity!

The referee seems to be getting some kind of communication through his earpiece.  This will be the official decision.  It stands!  The move stands!  And the crowd go wild!  Since there's nothing against it in the rulebook, the officials have had to validate the move.  Brian wins!

A vortex appears to be opening up beneath the player’s feet.  I can’t...I can’t describe what I’m seeing.  It’s almost as if this audacious move has broken the very fabric of reality.  My face has been sucked clean off!  Is this the end of days?  Let it be known that I regret nothing!

- And this, my friends, is why Cluedo is considered to be the most extreme sport there has ever been.

Monday, 8 October 2012

The Society Of Anonymous Serial Streakers

As a conscious, self aware individual, I find that I am in constant danger of being brainwashed.  Simply walking down the high street can cause numerous assailants to approach me and try and adopt me into their little cults.  No I don’t want a leaflet on the Socialist Workers Party.  No, I don’t want to join your wildly specific denominational church.  No, I certainly don’t want to sponsor a dog for £2 a month.  That puppy is probably a puppet for the Illuminati, and I’m not having anything to do with it.

However, as I was strutting through town whilst wearing the shiniest of my tinfoil hats (an accessory which tends to deflect even the most adamant salesman), I found myself confronted by a man in a rather long overcoat.  He was wearing a pair of sandals, but seemed to lack socks and trousers.  As I studied him quizzically, he opened his overcoat and exposed his gentleman’s bits to me.  He had a tattoo on his chest that said “Wouldn’t you like to live free like me?” 

This message resonated with me.  Yes, I would like to live freely and nudely.  Some of my favourite things happen to me whilst I’m nude.  Being nude all the time would greatly increase the chances of those things happening more often.

The streaker informed me that was part of a club called “the Society of Anonymous Serial Streakers” or “SASS” for short.  After filling in an application form (which I found odd considering it was an anonymous society), I was enrolled for a 7 day nudity initiation course.  I was told to pack a bag and report to a specific address, a remote location in the woods.  I decided to keep a journal of my time there to track my progress:

Picture of a notorious flasher.

Day 1:  On arrival, we were forced to empty our bags and place all our clothing on a big bonfire.  We were allowed to keep our footwear, which was a relief until I realised that my Transformer wheelies were not really suitable for country gravel tracks.  I’m still picking the pebbles out of my penis. 

Aside from that, the day has involved sitting around singing campfire songs.  I’ve made a friend called Chad who is also new to all this nudity business.  Hopefully his support will help me through the week.

Day 2:  For some unknown reason, the whole morning was spent doing trampoline practice.  The afternoon was then spent on a bouncy castle.  I’m beginning to think that the nudist lifestyle mostly involves activities that make you jiggle a lot.  I’m not sure what I’m learning here, but it will probably become apparent by the end of the week, like having an epiphany at the end of a spiritual journey.

Day 3:  While talking to Chad about which girls we liked, Chad revealed that he had a massive crush on a girl called Sandra in the women’s dorm.  He then revealed that infatuation in a physical manner in front of the whole camp while watching her take pogo stick practice.  Our trainer says that if Chad gets physically aroused again, he will be expelled.  “Never raise yourself in the presence of a lady” is rule number 1 here.

Day 4:  We’ve been taught some naked theory today.  Apparently, a successful nudist never sits on white furniture.  Our enemies are sock manufacturers, and many of our kind have exploded themselves outside the gates of Cotton Traders.  Death to the clothed ones!  Death to the flesh deniers!

Day 5:  After abseiling and limbo classes, Chad expressed to me some doubts he was having about the Society.  He thinks we’re being radicalised for some sort of jihad against people who wear clothes.  This is of course nonsense.  Chad is just struggling to accept a lifestyle in which he is truly a free man, in every sense of the word.  If he wants the government to put him back in a box where they’d stop him doing naked lunges at PTA meetings, then that’s his choice.

The evening saw us gents engage in a rousing game of Johnson Jousting.  After defeating my opponent, I leaped onto the top bunk and shouted “My dick’s like Pride Rock, cuz it’s always in the Circle Of Life!” and everyone thought I was great.

Day 6:  Chad has been expelled today during another incident where he had to queue behind Sandra on the diving board.  He was forced to wear the pull-tie bag of shame around his privates, and had to walk home as we threw stones at him for a few miles.  What a lightweight!  I knew he wasn’t cut out for this lifestyle!  When I get out of here I’ll dangle myself through his letterbox, just to show him what he’s missing!

Day 7:  Ah, home time.  After some awkwardly exchanged hugs (you can’t make too much skin contact) we all piled on the coach back to town.  Roughly 40 seconds after stepping off the coach, we were all rounded up by the police and arrested.  I knew those fascists would get to us eventually, and that’s why I hid an IED in my crevice.  Goodbye cruel world!  Remember me as I am, naked and proud!  Nude not prude!

Friday, 5 October 2012

Serial Killer Suggestions

It's no secret that Hollywood is on it's arse, both creatively and financially. That's why we at Muppets for Justice occasionally like to suggest new ideas for movies.  Anything to break up the formulaic tedium unleashed by the current slew of film studios.  So, focussing on horror movies, we had a bit of a think tank with a certain undesirable section of society.  Basically, we asked several serial killers to tell us what scares them the most.  If it scares them, it's guaranteed to petrify the likes of you and me, right?  Anyway, here are the results:

Ted Bundy: An old man who has had his eyes replaced with a dog's eyes.

Fred West: How about a child with a jack in the box full of poisonous wasps?

Charles Manson: A haunted toaster that turns itself on when it's unplugged.  It continues trying to toast even when there's no bread in it.

Rose West: A woman in a window brushing her hair, but when you look again she's not there and SHE'S BEHIND YOU - OH GOD!

Raul Moat: An abandoned hospital staffed by ventriloquist dummies in nurse uniforms. The admin is done solely by clowns.

Ian Huntley:  A ghost that has died and become a ghost's ghost.

Anders Brevik:  Uncontrolled immigration.

James Egan Holmes:  A group of hooded men stood around chanting, and when you look closer, they're...AHA!  Gotcha!

Seung-Hui Cho:  A leech the size of a hippo.

Jack The Ripper:  An enchanted flute that summons the chupacabra.

Ed Gein:  A woman who turns around and her face is a skeleton's face. Her boobs are also a skeleton's boobs.

Thomas Dillon:  A child on a swing that is on fire but he keeps swinging anyway.  He probably started the fire himself.

John Allen Muhammad:  Moss growing on an old woman who has sat down for too long.

Aileen Wuornos:  Some children go into the woods, but are possessed by a wizard who makes them eat  all sorts of disgusting things like worms and slugs and puppy dog eyes.  He creates a banquet of grizzly foods and forces them to finish the whole thing.  Also, they kill their parents.

Nathaniel White:  A school kid with long hair over her face and she's sepia-tinted.

Scott Williams:  A man in a restaurant rapidly eating his way towards his credit limit, and not giving a fuck.

I can't it over?  Phew.  I'm sure we can all agree, that was probably the most frightening collection of ideas ever committed to the Internet.  Let's hope that a bigwig film producer gets hold of these ideas and incorporates them all into a Halloween blockbuster.  Let's also hope that he pays me, handsomely.


In other news, eccentric son of the Internet Rob Z Tobor, has kindly given me this accolade:

This certifies that I am a Radical Abstract Thinker, which gives me something else to put on my CV underneath Secret Lemonade Drinker (if you get that joke, you're too damn old!).  Anyway, if you sometimes think radical abstract thoughts, perhaps you would consider reading his Blog.  He's been popping up on my Sexy People feed on a daily basis for months, and now you've got no excuse not to visit.  Do it now!

Monday, 1 October 2012

Song Dissection - Beck

So, here’s another Song Dissection for you.  This time I felt like a challenge, so I decided to tackle Beck – Loser, as suggested by Chiz.  Let’s see if we can discern some sort of narrative within this blithering mess:

In the time of chimpanzees I was a monkey
Butane in my veins so I'm out to cut the junkie

-       OK, so we’ve established that Beck is a monkey that is addicted to hooking up Calor gas cylinders to his veins.  Quite why he decided to go into song writing is beyond me, but let’s continue.

With the plastic eyeballs, spray paint the vegetables

-       Two points.  One, if you have plastic eyeballs, you really need to change your doctor.  They should at least be giving you glass ones, or could probably resolve your ophthalmic needs with laser eye surgery. Two, I would never support a man who enjoys spray painting paraplegics.  It’s just cruel.

Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose

-       I used to know a girl at school who smelled distinctly of bacon.  Not nice smoked bacon, but bacon that’s been spat out of a dog’s mouth and left on a windowsill for a month.  We eventually found out that this smell was caused by incontinence, and the fact that she didn’t change her undergarments.  The point I’m trying to make here is that if you own some pantyhose that smells distinctly of meat, it’s probably not a great item to keep around food preparation areas, even if you’re only selling dog food.  Food hygiene is important.

Kill the headlights and put it in neutral
Stock car flamin' with a loser and the cruise control

-       We’ve now established that Beck is not a great driver.  That’s probably how he got his plastic eyes.

Baby's in Reno with the vitamin D
Got a couple of couches sleep on the love seat
Someone keeps sayin I'm insane to complain
About a shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt

-       Actually, I think he’s a got a right to complain about this marriage.  What kind of sick weirdo would force a blind monkey to marry their daughter?  Also, they could at least give him some clean clothes for the big day.

Don't believe everything that you breathe

-       So if I breathe in noxious fumes, they don’t necessarily exist?  Quick, pass the glue!  I have some school years to catch up on.

You get a parking violation and a maggot on your sleeve

-       Is that the punishment for a parking violation?  I’d take a maggot on my sleeve over a parking fine any day.

So shave your face with some mace in the dark
Savin' all your food stamps and burnin' down the trailer park

-       Sounds like a good night out to me.  Someone’s going to be hungover tomorrow!

Yo, cut it.

Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?

-       I won’t kill you because assisted suicide is illegal, even if you are a blind monkey suffering from car crash injuries.

Soy un perdidor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?

Forces of evil in a bozo nightmare
Banned all the music with a phony gas chamber

-       Let’s take this back a step and contemplate what Beck is describing here.  He is imagining a post-apocalyptic world in which music, in all forms, has been outlawed.  Any kind of sonic output is punishable with bruising justice.  The standard sentence for a convicted musician is to put rounded up into concentration camps, pushed into a makeshift gas chamber, under the impression that they’re going to die.  Then, the whole thing turns out to be a hoax and streamers come out of the showers or something.  This is unimaginable cruelty.

'Cause one's got a weasel and the other's got a flag
One's got on the pole shove the other in a bag

-       Are these Christmas presents?  I’d be pretty pissed if my parents only bought me a flag or a pole for Christmas.  The weasel would be pretty cool though, although difficult to wrap.

With the rerun shows and the cocaine nose job
The daytime crap of a folksinger slob
He hung himself with a guitar string

-       Don’t know of many folk singers that have died a rockstar death, but there you go.

Slap the turkey neck and it's hangin from a pigeon wing

-       I assume this is an insult towards the wobbly bit of fat that some people have underneath their arms.

You can't write if you can't relate
Trade the cash for the beef for the body for the hate

-       This is the weirdest trade-up I’ve ever heard of.  He should start with a bottle of water and try and work his way up to a camper van.  Still, if I was Beck, I’d have stuck with the body.  It sounds like he needs a new one after that traffic collision.

And my time is a piece of wax, fallin' on a termite
That's chokin on the splinters

-       That’s an incredibly wretched life for that termite.  He might even rival Beck himself as the most severely disabled person in this song.

Soy un perdedor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(Get crazy with the Cheeze Whiz)
Soy un perdidor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(Drive-by body pierce)

Yo bring it on down
(Soy un perdedor I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?)
(I'm a driver, I'm a winner; things are gonna change, I can feel it.)

Soy un perdidor

I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(I can't believe you)
Soy un perdidor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
Soy un perdidor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(Sprechen sie Deutches, baby)
Soy un perdidor
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?
(Know what I'm sayin?)

-       These aren’t closing lyrics.  They’re more like spasms.

So what can we take from this song?  Well, Beck goes into great detail about a car crash which turned him into a partially-sighted simian, and repeatedly begs us to kill him.  Lovely!

If you have any songs you’d like to see dissected here, please let me know.