Monthly Archives: December 2007

one eyed purple-pee-ple party like monkeys with underwear on their heads

[experimental: 2]


the life of rock-star small mouth bass-like fish(ies). append your list of niceties here, and then replace nice with a creation that shadows your most excited state of being.

it all started out with two formen, drilling holes into a party scene that kept the spirit alive in both the letter and the decapitated latter. j1, plug extraordinaire and prodigy child winner of the 2007 Largest Plug without a Socket Award, while j2 had enticed monkey into a preliminary headlock, proceeded to award the latter party with the former party’s most dedicated piece of dentistry, a toothbrush. don’t fear what happened next. j2, upon discovering that spain had in fact defeated the british (in his dreams), then (and without doubt), extracted the foreign object from his sherwood forest of fairy-tales, three legged motorboats and detrimental affairs. it was tragic, but not as tragic as movie-speak. monkey was not impressed, of course. however, this time, instead of woofing, he barked and then bit.

d started to philosophize about suns and their correlation with other proximity objects, like [more] suns, neighbours and other first year anomalies. requirements aside, it all really started with a blow of the horn, a vicarious attempt at reminding the south-side that the kid they call ‘oprea’ really did exist and was not just a distant cousin of the party animal loch-ness. fuck you. and fuck snow white and the seven little chemists. how about that for a feature film review?


snow-fights only happen when wild colombians embrace pacifism with the intent to prosecute freedom and the expression of reproduction. without any concern for wild animals, small foreign game, or other superior creatures, the anti-socialist riot begun. left. right. back degrees. similarities, differences, exponential criticism – they all survived without the consequences of settled dust. and then there was the biggest government intervention of the Year of the Ceasca; consider this: if nicaragua had pinochet, we would all have been incarcerated for eating ice-cream and sucking lolly-pops.

d said mommy. or maybe it was mummy or maw-ma-wee. it’s the sun allusion that still survives. and then whisky was mixed with chili and they all spoke tongues that have not been heard for seventy-four dog years (ears are for the phonetically challenged, those with ADD and prolonged dyslexia).

resuming again.

some chevys, some levies, some pasta and s just asked if we’re blogging. d is talking about santa-claws. “and he let them know that he ain’t kidding.” t3, a strong chemical in and of itself wants to tell you a joke: “chuck naw-mate-norris just counted to infinity.” it’s true and so is t3’s dedication to early-pubescent virgins. i spoke too soon… or maybe it’s chuck norris that has that proclivity. fucking precocious.

nbc? mal-infringement? left and right leg? water? watertight? who the fuck is g4?

don’t read the below, read the above.

j3 wants to spank my monkeys, although, we will concede that the real monkey can’t and won’t have any of that nonsensical shenanigan(s with four plural ss).

here comes the 2007 award winner: “crocodiles without gats? small kittens? or fluffy snowballs, but really, i wouldn’t use that word to be perfectly honest with you…

ok, you can read now but skip…the diseased pet and the one-eyed flying purple people eaters…

p.s. t3 spilled a 97% empty can of ginger-ale on the macbook. donkey ass.


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Filed under abstract, anomaly, belligerency, biology, categories, cigarettes, cognition, collusion, corporate, corruption, creative, creativity, empirs, fights, kings, one, party, snow

the game with three pac [not P+C]

[experimental 1]

The world according to the stars and the moons of world Exponential. Time is timeless, Michael said it. How do you feel about being entertained by forty-four monkeys with hats that look like humans. Speak to me when I am talking to you. You don’t ask questions, you don’t ask questions. Two rules of being i) aggressive and ii) rather random with two other chimps. Let’s continue this discussion with self-self-self plus one. Revoking your expenses is not playing by the rules. You’re fired, you complacent two-headed dinosaur. “What’s next,” says Michael the Chimp from forest Sporadic with flavourless overtones of Confrontational-Adrian…with a dash of FOUR AND A HALF FUCK YOUS.

Exact time, according to Copernicus, 1:31 OM Eastern, 4:11 YM…one second, some plug is speaking his mind…”look at my fucking thumb, look at it,” come on, “LOOK AT MY FUCKING THUMB.” Fucking ‘ell John, Jesus never even thought of that. I’m tired. Oww…who is being so loud…it hurts (and he also wants to add the following eulogy: “Kiss my ass…”) Frankie Wilde-with-a-y, hard a.

Updates: Scary noises, half-dressed-girls walking out, Sebastian walking in. Wait, Seb wants to say something…

…”party like it’s your last minute….” (or, hour, or…)

[caught between philosophers and artists extraordinaire…]

and now, Monkey…

…”I NEED TO ANALYZE(A) FANTASY (AND MY BED) HOCKEY” –> HE’S worse than a plug, he’s a half compromised deck of cards…

The only people in this world who need TVs are Jonsins, Natashas and Margaritas. penis penis (Monkey almost ruined it…). WOOF! – Monkey sneezed. WOOF! — Monkey sneezed again – and – I didn’t say cheers, ‘bless you’ or any of that colloquial parlance. For a dash of Sacha…”Dude, FsIeSbH just went to deb.”

…signed, your favourite AMOEBA.


Filed under abstract, categories, expectations, explicit, free, game, party, philosophy, questions, rules

the man who lost IT: the beginning, skeleton arguments

(c) – sevendipity

– from rags to riches, one man’s journey to recycle another man’s garbage, horse, carriage and the world in between

– colour blindness and the way it affects middle aged men, starting from the left toe, and ending in their right hand’s thumb

– the discovery of a homosexual proclivity, sooner or later, the moisture will affect to the extent that asbestos will ‘thank’

– trees, christmas trees, gay christmas trees and the process of decapitating capitalism for the sake of securing liberalism, passive-aggressiveness, the fall of marriage and the use of incontinence pants in a geriatric infested clone society…

– mullets in fascist mesopotamia, the killing of TWO trees and white elephants urinating in german forests…

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Filed under brain, insanity, middle age, neurons, psychology

sixteen hours of my life: walk, bus, train, tube, plane, car

british airways
(c) – jonezi06

The 7:16 AM to 12:05 AM ‘walk-bus-train-tube-plane-road-trip…’

7:16 AM

Fuck. Already? Shut up!! ZzZZz… Snooze button one more… Time. Ugh, here we go…

My email to Rob at 9:12

“So I woke up this morning to some whistling, banging and even more frightening (correction made here…), the sound of labour being put to good use. In other words, someone came and washed our staircase, including a complete garbage run.

Initially I thought that some bum was bathing in the riches of others, but to be honest, once I saw (correction – saw not was) Aunt Jemima busting out the Mr. Clean and the super sized bucket, I was sold.

On the train to Marylbone now, catching the rush hour buzz with Dr. Prakash and his many minions slash clones.”

9:30 AM

Chiltern Railways has just introduced a new ticketing system that allows customers to exploit the infrastructure we all refer to by its first name: technology. About time, (insert rolling hills comment here – but after the next station). I purchase my e-ticket online and Chiltern sends me an SMS with a link to a website. The matrix barcode that is found on that website then gets scanned by a man wearing a highly fluorescent suit, who says he works for ‘them.’ Notwithstanding morals, the effect of having your blackberry scanned by ‘Mr. InSharge’ is rather impressive. Did everyone just get off? Or did they just moved away from my spatial presence?

12:05 PM

London Underground. British entertainment is awful in general, but the exception to this rule is their love-affair with this midget-sized-human-carrying-loaf-like buggy, that they baptized the ‘tube.’ Common courtesy needs not be adhered to when riding the rails. Shove, contain, pick, tickle, stare, yawn, poke, cajole and if you can’t muster enough courage to contain your mischievous side, entertain a local favourite and discard a-la-open-air, a fart.

And now I must continue to nurse the gratest-good-for-the-greatest-nunber-myopian-horseraddish-served-chilled-and-on-a-vidictive-broodje bullshit, inter alia, otherwise to be referred to, from now on, as the bump on my head that I got while peace-keeping a wild game of undress the genetically modified pony in South Kensington.

2:04 PM

The exhaustion is obviously starting to set in. I asked a man if (and if, where) a Pret-a-Manger exists at Heathrow T4 and he surprisingly managed to process my nonplussed babble and output a reply. “Yes, just make your way down that hall and turn left at WHSmith.” I followed his directions religiously, but my atheist nature still circumvented my one and only chance at lunch. I got lost, in an acorn shell, only to find myself face to face with a Pret employee, condescendingly and contemptuously staring him down. I am adamant about my gastro-intestinal preference for Posh Cheddar and there was no way on planet Francaise that I was to forego such digestive pleasures.

Initially, I went in search for food due to hunger. That however, and much to my surprise, did not last long. After I had to tisk-tisk this woman at the self-check-in counter, who was waiting for Summer to come around before selecting a seat she would be comfortable in (note to woman: economy class discriminates equally), I lost it. Anger does wonderful things to human beings – including accentuating my pre-hunger to the extent that it became starvation.

I almost forgot about security. What motherless inferior thought that neurons are best fired in the wrong direction(s), and invented a ‘body scanning device?’ The hell is a ‘body scanning DEVICE’ (Insert a further analogy here, an additional digression, on human relationships, sex and body scanners)? What really worries me is that the now archaic ‘scanning’ devices, left to rot in the underbelly of the Tate Modern, were also intended to explicitly ‘scan,’ implicitly ‘a body.’ I don’t want to talk about anachronisms, but such is technology; giddy to go to the park, but when it gets there, none of the kids want to play with it, or even worse, call it ugly. But enough about the Western imperative.

(Allow for the ingestion of a Venti Latte with an extra shot, here).

4:31 PM

A stuffy bus. British Airways, I hereby declare war. Let me start with the unacceptable first. You simply do not smile and say ‘Right this way,’ before you ask two hundred of your most loyal (and paying) customers to board a bus that will (naturally) take us to a plane that still requires fuel, a crew and a final baggage check. I understand your impatience, but please accept the reality that my patience lacks discipline and that the next time you keep me locked up in a bus, like a gladiator before a scrap, I will unleash my pugilistic proclivities…period.

Secondly, the clapping of my hands right now is an act of acknowledgment. By upgrading the Iranian family that was sitting next to me, to business class, I managed to escape being subjected to the limited English lexicon, of the patriarch sitting to my right. ‘My bag,’ repeated every other four seconds, does not only compel a mind numbing stupor, but it also allows for the summoning of gentle but insidious voices, in my head, telling me to create a positive space around my intentions or else unleash the seventeen legged virus and be done with it. Ah, life [with(out] for now…) geriatrics!

8:27 PM

I absolutely hate being stuck in a sardine can for this long. There are benefits, however. Firstly, the sunset I just experienced is angelic (and I don’t even subscribe to The Religious Times). Secondly, you can watch people sleep, which, I won’t lie, is quite scary. Seat 35D had some slobbering, while 37A, a neighbour, looked more like a pretentious warrior princes from the 16th century than the 33-ish year old man that he was (or still is rather). It is comforting to realize that the lower-back pain, that is imposed on you when you are cleared to fly, can be temporarily relieved with a little wishful thinking (see chapter one, page three of book seven, entitled ‘on my way to the washroom, at 30,000 feet) and some red vino (which the two girls who are sitting 20 degrees and 41 degrees east of me respectively, seem to have fallen in love with). Actually, on that last thought, I’m going to ask one of them what else she has fallen in love with over the duration of this flight; I might even get an opportunity to finish ‘on my way to the washroom’). We’ll see…

8:40 PM

Blah, blah, blargh. I feel like an enslaved camel awaiting emancipation via an Ottoman Letter of Intent. Ewan McKendick’s ‘Contract Law’ is positioned right in front of me, ripe for picking, but it looks like the only person who didn’t eat enough is my neighbour. She’s from Mauritius.

10:51 PM

We’re landing in 30 minutes. I have managed to keep myself on the road for almost 16 hours, covering terra firma by foot, surface rails, underground rails, bus, plane and…that’s it actually.

The descent has now begun and everyone is overcoming their anxiousness with the reality that in a few more minutes, Toronto will be scraping the bottom of their feet. As for myself, I’m exhausted. The amount of work that I have to keep myself preoccupied with over the break, seems rather overwhelming but not impossible. Focus, keep focused.

Customs and baggage: I don’t want to talk about it. Fucking moppets. Anyway, I’m tired, irritated and out of energy. We’ll confabulate later and further discuss the intricacies of public transport in a market economy.

Ah, it’s good to be back, but I’m not sure that this place can still be called home…

Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange.

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Filed under airport, british airways, bus, car, labels, plane, story, symbols, trademarks, train, trip, tube, walk

what i think of haute couture christmas: stage one, prefabricating

(c) Manuel Bóo

life is much more like a box of mermaids than it is of chocolates. abstinence should be treated with absinthe and not ‘concoction-depressing.’ lunacy. in my experience, as a photo-journalist, those who undertake to conceal, reveal. it matters little whether or not a myopia has defining characteristics. what is more critical, is whether or not there exists a feature to begin with.

why do aberrations have two tails and no heads? why is it that the burden of proof can lie with both the plaintiff and the defendant in those cases in which no law exists? my first understanding of walking was crawling, and even then i wet myself. the terrifying existence we all live in, is manufactured by ourselves, deprived by our surroundings and reinforced by a perverse proclivity to disgust. a machination is only surreptitious if all the parties to a bargain have equal bragging rights. even though a time machine speaks to you in linguistic hues, you never quite foresee the sort of colour that could have been, but for…end of sentence.

utopia, myopia, -opia. the creations that we absorb ourselves with are mere obsessions of an unforeseen, unpredictable and absurd reaction. forgive me if my precociousness is pretentious, but my mother once wrote on my birthday card that presumption can always offer – quote reasonable, unquote – solutions. for the third time, i’m not mentally deranged, just speaking my mind (howsoever defined).

and yet the wind blows through a particle board with the same velocity that it blows through an imperceptible void. it is there because you want it to be there, not because the freedom of expression act, post nine nine nine nine nine, felt it legally compelling to consider you. i am vomiting on my own ideas, my own legitimacy, my own future. presents are not for christmas, they’re for undeserving children.

santa claus is dead. hope and courage are not.

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Filed under auto-surrealism, christmas, consumerism, general, life, media, proclivities, psychology, santa claus, surrealism