Friday, February 26, 2010
As you may have gathered from the sparseness of my evident wobb, I'm on something of a hiatus at the moment — which is a bit like a haiku, but with considerably more syllables and not a great deal of room to attach a saddle.
Back soon when I've done breathing life into the reams of starchy prose before me. It's like mouth-to-mouth on a stale ciabatta at the moment, it really is.
*Emits groan and disappears once more into the cloud of crusty paragraphs looming overhead...*
Sunday, February 21, 2010
We’ve all heard of the phrase hoist by your own petard, but now it seems there’s a new saying in town: silenced by your own bowel bar post.
I’ve had several cracks at a follow-up (and no, that’s not intended to be an intestinal pun) — most notably an aborted celebration of the moose species, which sadly ended up petarded atop its own grammatically horrific antlers — but since then (and this is an intestinal pun on its way folks...), nothing has come gushing down the sluice pipe of my creativity.
All of which means that I have very little to report other than the gurglings of my own stymied post-colonic mockery-addled malaise.
Which, naturally, you don’t want to hear about.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Thanks to an incident involving a splinter and my favourite typing finger, I am now officially a cripple.
(Are we allowed to use that word any more btw?)
This morning, I made like one of King Arthur’s noble and heroic knights (and you can really see Oxyjen’s post sinking in here) and lanced a universe of pus from the tip of my index finger — and yet, said digit still remains horrifically swollen, like a mutant parsnip-beetroot hybrid.
So I’m reduced to typing with my nose and scrolling the mouse with my ear.
Should make for an interesting day.
Especially if alien gladiator hordes invade and I’m forced to man the turret.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
SM: Uh Oh — here comes Mr Stupid...
WO: Eh? What do you mean?
SM: You’ll find it in the dictionary, a couple of pages after “misfit”.
WO: Ha ha. Very funny. So why “stupid”? What have I done this time?
SM: Half price on the session after next if you can guess.
WO: The session after next?
SM: When I'm doubling my fees, yes. But that’s immaterial right now.
WO: It’s very material if it’s coming out of my pocket.
SM: So we’re agreed?
WO: Whoa, whoa, let’s go back a step. I don’t recall agreeing to anything. So let me get this straight, you’re offering half price...
WO: On a session that’s twice the price of this one...
SM: Yes. And before you ask, you had written confirmation of my proposed change in fees exactly one month ago.
WO: Did I now?
WO: Ha ha. So this written confirmation...
WO: On ethereal notepaper, was it?
SM: Are you insinuating the letter was lost in the post or otherwise mislaid by persons unconnected with my good self?
WO: Good? In what way is passing off your newly doubled fees as a special offer supposed to be in any way good?
SM: When you came to me, you said you wanted the best therapist money could buy. I’m trying to help.
WO: You’ve got a funny way of showing it.
SM: “The way of the monkey and the way of the human are not as one.”
WO: Is that right? So how do you explain this on your business card, huh? “Sock Monkey: I ken your zen”?
SM: That’s just my sales pitch.
WO: You could get done for that, you know. It’s fraud.
SM: I think you’ll find it’s merely frayed, actually.
WO: Are you looking for a poke in the eye?
SM: No. I’m looking for an answer to my question.
WO: Isn’t that supposed to be my job? I’m the client, remember?
SM: Hmmm, unlike the way of the monkey and the way of the human, the way of the client and the way of the complete and utter pain in the arse ARE—
WO: Fine, fine. I’ll take it. Half price session, twice the price session — whatever.
SM: Okay — shoot.
WO: Shoot what?
SM: Shoot your guess.
WO: You’ve lost me.
SM: You’re supposed to be guessing why I called you Mr Stupid.
WO: Pardon me, but in the light of all that’s happened since I walked through the door, isn’t that something of a no-brainer? My very presence in this subterranean boudoir of yours, week after week, is barely indicative of common sense, let alone cerebral firepower. Of course I’m bloody stupid, you idiot. I’m here. With you. On this blasted couch.
WO: You’ve gone very quiet. What’s up?
SM: I’m trying not to laugh. On soooo many levels.
WO: Okay, okay, okay. My guess. This week I’m stupid because...because...I owned up to being undercharged at Tesco. Fifty whole pence! I could have bought chocolate with that.
SM: Hmmm. That’s pretty damn stupid — but it’s not what I was thinking of.
WO: I give up then.
SM: You’ll effectively lose another fifteen quid in addition to the 50p squandered at Tesco...
WO: I don’t care. Spill the beans.
SM: While you’ve been away from your desk, your cat has been hijacking your blog again.
(Sound of door slamming)
SM: “Subterranean boudoir” indeed...
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Looks like Shit-for-Brains is stuck for ideas.
I can always tell. He comes over all mawkish and mopish, drinks way too much of that weird brown milk.
His latest ruse (can you believe it) is trawling the internet for GUEST BLOGGERS. Ha! More fool him! Wily puss cat that I am, I managed to intercept the correspondence using my fish-enhanced feline cunning, and somewhere along the way discovered a great new cat dating site called Mog4Mog.
You heard it first here: CYBER ROMANCE BLOSSOMS.
So, here’s what I got from the delightful RUFUS...
I am in love with your elegant fur.
Let me lick you all over and seize you in carnal embrace
Forgetting that my wretched human has emasculated me
But at least you won’t get pregnant.
What do you say?
Baby, when you flaunt your gonads in that provocative way, what is there to say?
Okay, maybe “Bejesus! Watch what you’re doing with that thing! You’ll have a poor girl’s eye out!” Corny, I know — but as chat-up lines go, that one never fails me.
You requested an answer, O tommish ginger one. And here it is...
I wandered lonely as a cat,
all promise of love, a dim hope.
Then you dangled your tackle before me.
O Rufus! Come on! Let’s elope!
Shit-for-Brains is away for a couple of days, so let’s talk about fish and mice and soft cushions in the comments trail, all you cats. And be warned, pesky humans — should you be foolish enough to intrude on our catly business, your words will be treated with scorn. Unless you’re Rufus’ Special Mummy. She’s allowed (but only just).
Friday, February 5, 2010
A chance discovery of this forgotten nursery rhyme should serve as a warning to us all.
Not every Thing That Becomes What Is is necessarily The Best Idea.
All the King's horses
and all the King's men
then went home.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Now here’s a funny thing.
Actually, not so much funny as not particularly funny at all.
It’s just weird, I suppose. And even then, not.
Last night, I found myself doodling in a bar. I should have been drinking, I know, but a gang of lads had been in and sucked every last drop of lager from the taps with their boisterous knockabout nostrils. Under such circumstances, what’s a boy to do?
Anyhow, this is what I drew.
If you’re desperate for the sort of thrills and spills normally reserved for riding a bucking bronco bareback, you can enlarge the picture by clicking on it.
At the time, I wondered if I ought to post it, seeing as I’ve run a few similar items before, but then I thought, “no, that’s perfectly ridiculous — people will think me such a fool, and I’ll probably end up in the internet equivalent of the stocks being pounded by virtual rotten fruit. Don’t be so bloody stupid, Whirl. Grow up. And pack dancing on the table, you spectacularly showy twerp. It’s U2, not the Bee Gees.”
What changed my mind (about posting, not continuing to dance on the table — which I now regret bitterly, btw) is this post from the delightful Fairy The Wonderhog.
If I’d stuck to my original plan (insofar as sitting in a bar constitutes any kind of strategy), the Onion of Light would have been lost forever.
Now, thank heaven, she’s saved.
And Juan is just the first of many.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Some days, you wake up with the sun in your heart, a smile on your face, and an expectation that nothing but good will come of everyone’s hearty endeavours in this glorious world of ours.
Other days, it's as if the mood swings of a thousand grizzly bears subjected to a regime of alternating honey treats and electric shocks have been beamed into your brain with the aid of a device normally reserved for enema clinics while Demis Roussos dances naked on your stomach, belting out a medley of his classics.
What's odd about this morning is that it seems to be neither of these, and I'm confused.
Do I kiss everyone I meet — or rip their heads off?