Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Requirements of a dog

This is stub for an article that may or may not be, deeply insightful, fulminating, and bathetic.


flash, ah ah, savoury of the unversed

wireframe for flash splash page on Twitpic

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Sausage as king

I think that could work in monarch infested countries.

Delegate regal duties to a big meaty sausage, wearing a crown.

These cockroach parasites could wear their robes of dead things and bits of precious rock in many ceremonies.

Safe in the knowledge that their subjects could bite bits off them any time the tithes and taxes got too high.

This would work in financial markets too.

Make the millionaires edible. I could chew a bit off a banker when the stock market crashes.

Perhaps in a sauce of my own devising. Maybe not, we'd have to vote on that; as it's our democratic right to decide how inflationary soup is filtered out of the Wall Street thing.

I think that's a good idea, and I will vote for anyone who espouses that ideal; particularly if they are made of pigs' sphincters and mouldy bread (i.e. a sausage).

All these words are valid English, just not in this order.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

where wolf

he voluminous blooming gust of belched air comes across the dark green dark of the moor, and so does the werewolf. His mouth is spittled and raw, his breath strong and red. His penis hangs between his legs a black weight. He will eat and fuck you, his teeth in you and his hips cracking against you.

So (knowing this) you run headlong through the gorse and bracken. When you find the road, its gravel outlying, you run that much faster over its hard return to your slapping feet. No good: you maybe faster, so is he. His breath is on your heels, a hot one two, the leap to bring you down a potential that is about to be realised.


Get your car up the ramp to the waiting ferry. Customs is passed, and you are very relieved that, the weight of contraband is undetected, a freight of tobacco a bible coded prediction of selling in car boot sales, along with lamps, porcelain dogs and bootleg CDs.

kind of shite

There's no win in the motorway, up your arse all the way to junction nine, until you swing a turn as they pass you. The little lights of the exit, as you swing, studded along the way.

almost ok

You run the last length of road. A memory of a polystyrene float in front of you as you look through the chlorinated blue before you get to the end where the tracksuited (dry) instructor beckons you on with cupped hands and mimed front crawl.

The flecks of spit run up the the back of your neck. The burn of teeth is surely following.

kind of shite

When I was 17 or so I got a job on a farm, and my dad said to me (the only real advice he ever gave me, other than "don't fuck someone ugly", that was any real use) - "if a farmer asks you can you do a job, say yes, because nine times out of ten the job will be less boring than the one you are doing"

On the first day then the farmer says "can you use a hay bailer?" Now, you should take note of the verb in that statement, it's "use", it's not "drive". Had the farmer said "can you drive a hay bailer", I, with driving experience fully described by a short sentence which included the components: "fairground", "bumper car" and "badly" and notwithstanding respected father's advice, would have said "no, I have not driven anything without a pikey hanging on the aerial, and I would like to respectfully decline the implied offer of stimulating employment"

much better

janitor part 3

Anyway, the crux of the matter, the reason why I'm writing here (and it's only hypergraphia) is that I have killed an ex-executive - that doesn't count as murder, more humane culling. I stabbed him on the stairs, and his cardboard box of desk clearings fell and scattered pencils, photographs, binders: all the paraphernalia of the recently redundant - an addition to the mobility pool. He coughed once, I remember, and went down to his knees. Before his eyes glazed over he made some attempt to find a photograph on the concrete. I know this because he almost had it when I put my foot on his hand and looked in his eyes.

Part of the benefit of being a cleaner is ready access to cleaning fluids and the furnace. So Mr. Anonymous Binned Executive (Abe) was traceless as he burnt with all the shredded documents in the basement.

And no-one knew or cared because he was redundant, blipped off the balance sheet, and hiding his embarrassment by exiting down the stairs - he chose to forego the ignominious descent in the elevator, box clutched to chest advertising the recent letting go. But even so, as we passed on the stairs, me with bucket and mop, him with box of crap, he thought he was better than me - me with a correspondence course degree! He looked straight through me (never pass on the stairs, it's bad luck). So I stabbed the fucker.

In the alcove

So I sit in my grey room, hearing, but not listening to, the grinding elevator's descent/ascent, and I write this. Whilst all you important people ascend/descend I'm here writing on the back of discarded photocopies.

I take the best home to my depressing "studio flat" where I transcribe keyboard and interweb-wise what I think you'll appreciate. Although, saying that, I know enough about the blogosphere that no links out and no links in make this a peninsula whose only egress is barb-wired by no hub, no authority, search engine obscurity.

And if you have stumbled across this (barrier) then fair play to you, well done, buy yourself a jar of pickled cockles to celebrate. Then fuck off. Move along, there's nothing to see here, this is my cheap therapy.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Almost a sentence (names removed to protect the environment)

Words used in tweets:

now as one clearly get up there it's off about top That's No like when all got good Microsoft fucking has fuck Who Big they because via see shit though how More ok back tweetie know too Also well am made measured go Don't doesn't

Monday, February 08, 2010

diskgrinder is dead, long live diskgrinder

Gone, the way of things.

Diskgrinder on twitter is fucked: half my fault, half spam fault.

Fucking off out of twitter

That's about it for me, I've done nearly 14,000 tweets on twitter since I joined in 2006, every one a finely sculpted insight into my inner turmoil (not interesting), love of wordage (slightly interesting), ability to swear and ANGER (interesting).

Now I'm bored. I'm bored by the ironic hipster slant it's taken, bored by the "ho ho, I'm banal, did you get what I did there?" slackly sardonic schtick.

There's some I'd like to keep in touch with, but most of them have graduated to long-form, realising the one shouting to many not listening protocol isn't great for correspondence that isn't designed for public consumption, and DM is just crap email.

Also, I've run out of bon mots, the bon mot mine is tapped out, no longer a mot that's bon is to be found in the seam (in fact I may have cut a sewer whilst digging).

So that's it bar the occasional "I've just ate a sandwich" tweet, or some 140 character diatribe on what a cunt David Cameron is.

Cheers ta.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Reason to be cheerless

you're looking for some proper foundation as to why you're fucked. It's not built on other fucked. Fuck off

Monday, February 01, 2010