Land of Diskgrinder

What a shit of a day. Got seriously side-swiped by some arse wole at work today. See, my job divides basically between shouting at subordinates and being bloody-minded with senior management. This is the lot of a middle manager - which is I - channelling fuckwittery to the destination least able to cope with it. My particular pleasure is the smug-as-a-cat-with-cream-filled-mouse-smugness "I told you so" moment. That and schadenfreude. These two unpleasant pleasures I live for in my day to day travail; which is mainly pushing up that hill with the embiggening boulder and Tantalus telling me, "you think you've got it bad vato, check out this bunch of grape headfuck that's vexing I." To which I will reply, "they are probably sour anyway, ask that fox with the crick in his neck." Then some thirsty crow will start plonking rocks in my beer - which was half empty, but is now half full, thanks to the efforts of this dirty-arsed Sheryl. Shittety d...

Well, that's the point mainly. Subjectionable content is what's here, so making objects of it is a reification that is mostly welcome. It's a farm where crap grows. Anything is objectionable to someone. Even the following: Cats are little satan manifestations Dogs are god's own anagrams Atheism is not a belief, it's the lack of belief Communism is a lifestyle choice Capitalism is something e.e. cummings doesn't believe in 'E' is the capital of England 'London' is the capital of Londongland Londongland is responsible for cockney hormones You muppet So it goes

Tip top conversation from the anonymous shadows. A contributor to the comment stream that has something to say (cogent, reasoned and pertinent) is always welcome. But mystery abounds (if mystery, a concept recursively vague in itself, can abound), who am this? Where from? Sign up to blogspot or ORG, NObody. Ball's in your court. Laters, Nick

Some old guy who's never fucked a woman.

If you think that sounds cool, ask King Midas. He's not laughing. His cock is gold.

In the red-brick methodist church on Underpool Road, set up on where the organ used to be. This is where the money went. It ended up in a folded pipe; we couldn't get it out. There was a dead rat up there. Whether it had crawled up there and died, or died because it was up there, we don't know, we're not a party to rat plans. Cecil's not up the pipe. technorati tags: loonspuddery , spammety Blogged with Flock

You know, that stuff in the river there

Pffffft. Been blocked for ten fucking years this Saturday coming. Still got bits and pieces that I am obsessively polishing (I don't know how many times I've tried to complete Conversations ), but there's no traction- keep slippling down that muddy hill. Slippling an nice word that just slipped out typo-wise, just there, you seen it a minute ago (if you'm a slow reader).

"And when I was on Venus; I was a border guard, patrolling from Barsoom City to Ransome Heights. Me, a 30 tonne engine bristling with anti-personnel spike-guns, all wired into my sweat glands, so when I got hot," and the captain falters, "I mean - when my slave-head detected insurgents in the jungle - I'd sweat bullets at a thousand miles an hour in every direction." "How did you get on with your slave-head?" asks the autopilot, momentarily dipping into its deep data archive  to retrieve: [ slave-head : autonomous AI symbioted to drone-soldier limbic system to provide 360 degree 24x7 coverage - 'wide open eyes in the back of my head' as the marketing has it] "I spoke to it twice," says the captain, "once to tell it to fuck off, and the second time to tell it to come back." "Were the two occasions contiguous?" "If you mean 'were they one after the other', then no, they weren't and why don't...

There is a leaf-made mound below the break, where the water is filled with light and runs over stones, There is a trap inside the earth that surrounds, The grass is pressed down, the stems are broken, spring sap wells in wounds, The sharp mouth full of needle teeth, the hot rust smell of blood on breath, The sparking dead black eyes without soul or intelligence behind, It breathes here, it lives here, Here wolf.

Just reading Karl Schroeder's Ventus , and damn it's hard going. There's something slightly clumsy with the writing (whereas my writing is of course top draw graceful, for sure), and he overuses some odd adjectives, "storied" being a particular favourite. And now I'm about to go to read V for Vendetta by Alan Moore as light relief.

That's where it is right now. The start where the ball comes quick towards your face and you just know you're not going to get your hands in the way in time, and you're going to get hit right on the nose. And time does not fucking slow down; it's not a series of snapshots that punctuate moments before your eyes. No, it's quick: you see it; it hits you; there is an explosion of blood and snot. You don't quite realise your nose is now on backwards for a few moments (moments you will recapture later when trying to remember things that don't involve hot blood and snot). For a moment, you have a third person perspective without pain; you can see, in three quarter profile, how you are reacting to this high speed, ball-based accident in your face incident. Then the pain brings you back behind your eyes. There's only really one kind of exclamation for this kind of time and it'll be similar to - "Fuck! Shit! That fucking hurts!"

All you who enter here About 12 of you And why do I get referrals from this guy ? He appears to support that Intelligent Design baldercrap. Much the same as that creationist tomfoolery, only without Jesus on a dinosaur. Jurassic Jesus Read more about the daft origin of this image

It's a seventies thing

Many year ago, there was a yard where public school acquaintances were bunched in a barn on the other side, in the dark, across the cobbles, an electric wire connecting their PA to the electricity supply. The PA relayed and amplified loud, shit, eighties music, like Dire fucking Straits, like Level fucking 42. The wire was a lead in two parts with a yellow plug and socket separating it halfway across the yard. So, Fuckface Vaughan's girlfriend was getting pissed off with the noise because it was past wee hours, and we're in Langham, Rutland in 1986, which is quiet and at home. So I unplug the halfway socket and I get a chorus of "we know" chanted from the dark barn hole by these public school twats (a barnful of public school twats is a twattery). This referred to a past indiscretion (the thing) I had revealed to Fuckface Vaughan, thinking him a friend, that he would treat of it as not a laugh. Now, I don't think he told them what he and I knew, I just think he...

You should not believe in this section. The men here have guns that need a series of mechanical actions to prime; and, although this is long-standing, and mainly without our remit. We should remember what our responsibility is. To fight the 30 foot grey venusians as they fight for their lands. Notwithstanding they should realise that their environment is manufactured. We could conquer upwards with our medical expertise. More, or less, where the planet spins orange on its ( known ) axis. What the fuck is this? I don't remember writing any of this. Looks like my kind of writing. Oddness abounds.