Monday, April 13, 2015
Seems I’ve mutated.
I’m still me; I still look weird.
But my internal squirmings and squirrelings have rent this Blogger carapace asunder like Tony Stark having rumpily pumpy adventures with Thor inside his iron suit.
And I don’t want to remain anywhere near any misplaced Asgardian deity metaphors.
So here’s my new hangout as of now:
It’s exactly the same, exactly the different.
Demons — it seems — are biddable.
This isn’t the end at all!
All this amissness, this weirdness, this whoopsterpoopsterishness — it’s simply one of these...
Ha! That explains things!
What a chump I am for mistaking my rebirth for my demise!
9.59am, Monday, it is, then...
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Friday, April 10, 2015
Something is definitely amiss.
I said so yesterday.
My life is passing before me.
I said something was amiss
And I was right.
I said so yesterday...
Thursday, April 9, 2015
I am gripped by the wriggleworthiness of a confirmed whoopsterpoopster.
Ok, let’s analyse that baybay.
‘I’, I hope you all get, because that’s basics, and ‘am’ follows on from there unless you think too hard about it — so what are we all to do with ‘wriggleworthiness’?
That’s where the problems begin.
According to Mirriam Webster, wriggleworthiness is a word that ought to feature prominently in the final furlong of the Oxford English Dictionary — only it doesn’t.
Seems it slipped out through the appendix like an weirdsy escapologist who ducked out of the whole escape from the bowels of an elephant deal by creeping back up the pipe and taking a wrong turning somewhere close to the navel.
Whichever way you look at it, this wriggliworthiness signifies escape.
Only the wriggleworthy can wriggle free of anything.
They are eels amongst men, oiled kickboxers amongst eels.
So, where are we up to?
My desire to escape?
Because I’m so gripped by my own wriggleworthiness that I’ve passed over ‘gripped’ like it wasn’t even there?
Something is amiss.
Something is surely amiss.
And that’s before we get anywhere near figuring out what a whoopsterpoopster is, confirmed or no...
Monday, April 6, 2015
I have my election strategy sorted.
This time round, I’m playing my doorstep canvassers like it’s Hallowe’en.
Remember the deal from October?
You pudda da pumpkin in da window, you loada da sweeties in da basket — then you waida for da costoomed kiddies to show up.
It’s fun, it’s necessary — it’s life.
That said, the stakes are higher for a UK general election.
Not everyone can win treats — nor even deserves to.
Yet there will be no picking favourites by virtue of a proudly displayed pumpkin-turned-poster on my watch.
May my front window declare that I am open to all comers, like the maw of an indiscriminately horrid demon.
As for sweeties, hmmm —
I know who’s getting my vote already, so for them, let there be marshmallows.
Which leaves the Also-rans and the Noes-because-Woes...
For the Also-rans, I shall fake a series of smiles and nod my head like a bored nurse blowing breadcrumbs from a snoozing octogenarian.
This is the UK, after all. We’re polite.
For the Noes, I shall reserve my pickaxe.
When my Dad was still alive, he destroyed a brick garage with it, and when my Grandad was still alive, he would invite visiting political canvassers into his shed to chew the fat while he strangled a chicken.
My pickaxe stands in the hallway.
And it will be shown to those whose time has come to be shown the door.