Land of Diskgrinder

...that's elbow? That's fine.

Calculate how much you money you burnt driving, fill in either cost per litre or cost per gallon (the vice of the versa will automatically update converted). If you can't work out the rest, then go for a long drive in a 4x4, you need the money. Cost per litre: Cost per gallon: Miles you travelled: Average miles per gallon: You spent:

Put a sensor on the accelerator pedal, wire this into a display on the dashboard that shows exactly how much money you are burning in the engine as you press down. This would have two good effects: More speed=more petrol=more money burnt=incentive to slow down If you see the pennies flying away as you drive you might think twice about driving

According to In Our Time the difference between shame and guilt is how you act when you're caught out- Shame: you just want to disappear, let the ground swallow you up Guilt: you want to make amends, apologise So, either fuck off or say you're sorry. That seems to be the moral.

That's a bad sector I just parked where you told me to, sir Where did you park? Just over there, sir That's a bad sector Pardon me, sir? I said, "That's a bad sector" Sorry sir, could you repeat that? I said, "I said, "That's a bad sector"" Sorry, sir, I don't understand I said, "I said, "I said, "That's a bad sector""" Pardon me, sir? I said, "I said, "I said, "I said, "That's a bad sector"""" Sorry sir, could you repeat that? I said "I said "I said "I said "I said "That's a bad sector""""" Sorry, sir, I don't understand

Probably not using the right knife

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FAQ, dumbwad Is there a dog? How do I turn off this chainsaw now? Could I be a solipsist with multi-personality disorder? So, run that by me one more time, we're thinking outside of the box? How about the world and then Poland?

Every now and then the abyss is there Under you, where things drop away, glinting in the dark And in other news, things are looking up Things with glistening eyes And now the weather

My boys well into these, me too. Also, crackers at a drive-in.

I intend to replace my self with a drawing. Well, I'm inking about it.

I am liking this game a whole lot. It ebbed and flowed, and had a to and fro thing going on for a while. White is a good player, but inexperienced, I am mediocre but have played for thirty-five years, so it's evenly balanced. My attack has developed out of an early excursion by white's queen down the queen-side. But, there's some tricky moves left. Getting to be good. I'll post the pgn when it's finished. UPDATE Balls to pgn, here's the way it got to here: And it ended: Kc1 - c4 Qe3 - N(c)d4 Qd2 - Ra1++ Could have gone on longer, but I'd have nabbed white's black bishop and still have a strong attack.

I am the hood, and I will fuck up your oil rig with a disguised dog

gmail me , and I will send you a real letter.

You ok Me not ok That's the problem We ok now?

Daffodils are shit So are bluebells Foxglove too Dandelions, however, I like Because they grow out of cracks in concrete in the city haze And they are fuckers to weed out So don't

had mescaline and poppadoms for tea. It did me no head harm hoo what's that crawling all over my laptop? It's ants, ants! I love ants

Fuck off, I don't like Devizes.

It's better that way round

Some good friends never go away Even though they take the piss more often than not And there's an irony in that they condescend, but it's always me who wants to be protective Like in the Danish Invader, with bitterness on a D string, when I was so impressed that you did that, and all I could do was sentry up the aisles and glower at giggling twats who didn't see the thing I did Too much to count, but there's those minor fuck ups in Manchester and Oxford, and how roles reversed and you looked after me Equalled by me ensuring your bunch of cunts friends didn't fuck you up (came close, but I hit the shithead whilst you were passed out) Anyway. You're my brother. So fuck off. Don't fuck off.

I've known you for more than thirty years and I've only just realised your name, from stem to stern, encompasses the alphabet. Happy birthday Unassasis, or is it Fred? Happy birthday.

Examine your ceiling in comfort How to sell slaves to conscientious romans: buy one set one free How to sell marmite to schizophrenics: you hate it, you love it, you hate it, you love it, the voices agree How to sell to schizophrenics #2: two for the price of one

Fingers crossed.

See there, where that little thing, with the wings, got crushed so easily? Yes, that thing, with its guts pushed out That fragile thing, once flying in this dark Well, it's dead now, cracked under the wheels It really Had no business here

Wherein I burn whole And demons crawl Up my throat And shout obscenities At passers-by Oi you, yes you with the fucking baseball cap You look like a cunt This I do while staggering drunk And with a weight of things just behind my head Long time gone, my house, my car, my wife Yes you, fuck you, fuck all of you I was once a barrister And now I'm here, in this pitch But old Fuck you, give me a cigarette, but fuck you I was, but I'm not any more

This I have always loved and thanks to LH for reminding me.

Kidney bean looks like a kidney Broad bean is not as narrow as other beans So what the fuck is up with human beans?

It's that day of recovering things left uncovered the week before. Like sandwiches dried up in the fridge. Sundays are for worrying about Mondays.

Doesn't do them justice really.

Well I may just as well pack up and piss off. He's 9 . Now I know I have proud dad blinkers on. But FFS, I'm seeing serious talent burgeoning there. Did I tell you he's 9? (yes I did that) I can't communicate how transporting Cass's text was for me (dad-biased obviously), but one day my boy will be able to. From one generation to another, yay!

At times of fear and darkness all around,of tales of monsters and ghosts that kill,while you wait in bed from the terrorfying evil that waits for you,just remember its only a story.These were times of magic and objects of power...Let us BEGIN! Once apon a time (for that is how all stories start)out in the deep dark forests lived an unknown life that lived for years and never seemed to age. No one could see his face,he wore a hat wich he held down with one hand,he wore a cape with 100 or so pockets full of objects he had stolen as his anti-hero self,his hands were covered with gold gloves so no one could see them. Everyone knew one thing about him and that was that this life wanted to travel, to run, to journy on towards the moon and the sun, and when he picked that decision he ended up here he had become a criminal for stealing,but he enjoyed that so this is how he had his journey.... He had it!The chest was his!the police running wildly after him, he jumped up to the first branc...

Which is no reflection on their character. Just that the last time we spoke I made a royal arsehole of myself. And there's no recovering from that. I'm quite good at apologising as, being aggressively dismissive of anything I don't like (Microsoft, Tories, stupidity, people), I get a lot of practice. On this occasion however I was being aggressively dismissive and needy. Which is not the most attractive combination. And some things you just know can't be recompensed with words and especially not excuses. It would go like this: Me: "Look, I'm sorry about that thing there," Other: "So you should be, fuck off." Me: "Ok, then." Perhaps I should apologise anyway. Oh yeah, already did that . (I know that doesn't count)

When the everyday grey closes in Like today, when the sun shined in my eyes and I was little seeing what was in My way, as I biked to work, and crossed the bridge And hoped it was you every time I looked And crossed the road and watched, the cars go by, flicking past All of them without you in And then I saw the light rise round a building there ahead And dirty pigeons fly off And ordinary people overtaken on their way to work Women wearing trainers but otherwise corporate And boys on bikes with record bags slung off one shoulder in the eight ay em, on the way to minutes measured in how long before too long, I get out of here It's everyday

Other than the clock ticking and the central heating humming. All is quiet, there's a gap there, once filled with small boys shouting. Silence echoes in my house, up the stairs, and in the kitchen, off walls, and in the in betweens. Where once were arguments about Transformers, Bionicles and Super Mario Galaxy. There's that sound of gone.

Sometimes things are like picking scabs, all of them are almost just as nasty, but one is nastier than the others, so that's the one you'll choose. You keep on coming back to it, like the keys you know are on the fucking mantelpiece , and yet they're not, but you keep on looking there, shuffling through the bills and picking up the ornaments that otherwise would be unbalanced - if your keys were under them. And all the time they're in your hand - one day you'll let yourself in your house, with your keys, to find your keys. But you can't resist, it's there, it has an itch that can be momentarily satisfied (but amplifies ongoing). Conversely, you can rehearse conversations that will reverse and therefore never happen - "if they say to me: this thing; then I will say: that thing; and I will be the winner". Not going to happen, things don't work that way, there's always something missing. So you keep on coming back, to see if it's stil...

There's this thing that Carlos Castenada would shit on about: self importance. It's where you think everything you hear, or read, or see, is somehow related to you. In this respect, it's a less fundamental reading of solipsism (in that it's not as up its own fundament). Unlike this post, this post is completely not about you. And there's the paradox (the soap powder that washes blacker), related to Epimenides' thing: what I just wrote was true; but reading it makes it false for the few that do. "You won't read this," is more true than it isn't for the majority. Really, this isn't about you, it's about seven o'clock.

Originally uploaded by diskgrinder for that graphic novel I'm not writing

I have this weapon of mass banjo.

I have nice eyes

Tom Baker Stephen Hawking Sir David Attenborough And should have: Douglas Adams So you can see which mast my colours are nailed to, there.

That is behind a wall, where Eric the sparrow used to sing His little heart out, hoping that the spring, in his step, would make Some other friend hear him, and come and see The twigs and leaves he'd gathered there But he got ate by Merlin, next door's cat (for a friend)

(black to move) when you lost you had no answer to the threat on your central pawn, I tracked back through your game and I reckon the knights on a6 and h6 were not doing you any good. You may have had some counter with an attack on g3 (pxp) and lived with the Q checking, as you could escape yet still have a threat on his rook. But your pieces are peripheral to the central action. Yeats had it right with "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world," your forces are on the outside looking in, where the main action is right up your centre - castle early, centralise knights.

For every Apple you need a Microsoft For every Obama you need a Clinton For every Churchill you need a Hitler For every Steve you need a Bill For every ice-cream you need a pill For every dog you need a rat For every Ken you need a Boris For every sandwich you need a shit For every road you need a graveyard For every flower you need a weed For every day you need a night

Well fuck off, if you don't believe me, I have this hat to make out of tiny ants, so I can't be (any more) disturbed.

Then fuck off