The Fear

July 27, 2009

I’m scared. Genuinely fearful. House-hunting. I’m soon about to join those ranks again.
Well, I’m not ‘piss my jocks scared because the hills appear to have eyes’ –scared.

It’s worse then that.

How Clean Is Your House? Usually quite clean, thank you very much. But mine is the exception. Mine is the exception that proves that every other house, houses that are not mine, houses that have been rejected by the cold concrete foundations of civilization and are reverting back to the land that was once uncovered.

Grease. Grease that you wouldn’t believe; I have seen today on TV. One inch thick grease on an oven. Grease that has come to enjoy life, and willing to take it away. Grease that has annexed the counter top as it slowly encroaches up the wall and upon the fridge.
A fridge that doesn’t need this kind of agro. This fridge has problems of its own. The armies of mould have opened the lower gates and are now approaching the few compartments left with democracy.

The floor? What floor? Oh, this? This constantly moving layer we have here? This layer that consists mostly of used food cartons, pizza crusts and the manifestation of pure fear?
I suppose we could call this layer a ‘floor’, in that it’s below where you feet should be and still possibly above the soil.

Today, on this program-come-terror store, one of them (the large scary one), used mayonnaise to clean off some stickers from a drawer. Mayonnaise. Then she gazed into the big biker’s eyes and I swear to God, chatted him up. Incredibly unsubtly. Then she scraped off the stickers (with a plastic scraper mind, because then it doesn’t scratch). I think this was all foreplay of some kind.

Sexy, mayonnaise-themed foreplay.


Sexy, Frilly-themed foreplay

This is not the first bad house that they’ve cleaned you see. Supposedly, it’s some kind of ‘series’ which I take to mean as every house is like this. It must be. How else could they have 5 series of this? Where people live like poorly educated monkeys? These people seem normal. The guy today even had a passable girlfriend-type growth

He had a mother.
A mother!

I’m scared. Every house that is not mine and the 0.0005% of homes in Ireland I’ve visited are like this. They must be. Where else could these houses be?
And I’m gonna have to live like this too it seems.
I really don’t want to live like this.

So I’m going to have to ring them. I’m going to have to get to come to where ever I end up living, and get them to clean my house with mayonnaise. I really, really hate mayonnaise. And I don’t want to have sex with the large scary one. I really, really don’t. She had something bun-like on her yellow head.

Are all cleaners yellow? Is that why every other house is so dirty?

But it’s that or live in the eternal squalor that is not living at home or in any of the other places I’ve lived in or the 0.0005% of homes in Ireland I’ve visited. I can’t hack that. I can’t. It’s impossible. Unhackable.
What if I end up living with a biker? He definitely was a biker: he had a bike. I saw the smaller one with the strange mouth clean it. I don’t know with what.
It might of been ketchup. Or some other condiment.

Whatever it was, it worked. IT WORKED. What is happening here!?

I don’t want to live in a world where I have to clean with condiments. I thought I lived in a world where condiments on non-food items where some of the problem. I was wrong. Me and the 0.0005% of homes in Ireland I’ve visited were wrong. And I’m soon to live in one of the 99.9995% of homes I haven’t visited yet, so I will have to live with my wrongness. Mayonnaise-coated wrongness.

And that’s why I’m scared.

Vampires: Dicks

July 21, 2009

So, I finally got around to reading Stephen King’s ‘Salems Lot. A vampire story for those not in the know, written back in the 70s or 80s or some decade that came in between. And it struck a chord in me. A cord even. Much was struck. I’ll leave aside the details that encompass how bloody good it was, and I will not dwell on it being one of the few books that made me consider putting on another light.

What I will dwell, stay, accommodate myself on is this one, overwhelming fact: Vampires are total dicks. End of story.

I lied there. It’s not like me to end a story after two short paragraphs. Before I continue, a reiteration: Vampires are total dicks. Don’t worship them, don’t fall in love with them, don’t go prancing on trees with their cold, bitter, unbeating (?) hearts. They’re total, total, complete, total, dicks. I can’t repeat that point enough.
THEY DRINK YOUR BLOOD! Dicks. It’s third on my list of total dickdom. I don’t care how damn mysterious they are. They’re dicks. They will steal your babies, hunt your children for sport, pillage your town and turn your cows inside out.

Dick thing to do

And not for some ritual or bullshit like that. Just for the hell of it. Repeat, Vampires, are total dicks. They impale people, they cannibalize, they turn into fucking bats! BATS! Oh yes, handsome and dreamy, and shit, but people gloss over the whole bat/wolf thing. Do you want to play second fiddle to whatever midnight chicken-hunting, child-slaying escapade this vampire mate of yours has to do?

Cos that’s the thing, vampires are basically creatures that live on instinct. Like spiders. John Goodman resistant spiders. Ouh, they may have plans, may even keep the occasional few. They might come back to school later to hold your hand by the swings, but if that blood sucking bastard spies a toddler on the way, it will grab that baby and feed. FEED. Not eat, munch, grab a quick snack. Feed. Like lions, hyenas, woodworm.
Or maybe just kill it. For the fun. For the HELL OF IT.
Because Vampires are dicks. Immortal dicks. You think they live forever because they can love? No, cos they’re dicks. They know what they want, and they take it, and no amount of teenage angst obsession will change that. Ripe for concubining, that’s how they see us.

Vlad the Impaler was the inspiration for Dracula. I can think of few situations where impaling on a name-ending basis could ever be a good thing. The number given for the amount of people he executed ranges from 40,000 to 100,000. A big range, yes, but in my long history of debating, once the number of people you’ve impaled exceeds zero, overestimation of figures tends to not matter so much any more.
And people want things like this to ‘open up’ to them? They’re dicks! Bram Stoker may of had some quaint ideas on how the human anatomy worked, but I don’t recall the passage where Mina and Dracula both looked on at the cheerleaders from the bleachers, being moody and listening to the blathering of My Chemical Romance while they both discussed how they’re so angsty.

Angsty Panscy

And what’s with the humping?

Angst. Blow it out your hole. Hungarian blood suckers care as much about the human condition as a child cares for behind his ears. These things are adult concerns, if they are to be concerned of at all. Vampire aren’t adults, vampires are dicks. True, adults can be dicks, but philosophic ponderings are not my forté.

It’s not that they’re just ‘misunderstood’ It’s the fact that the sun will burn them alive. Would the apartheid of ended if the Black population had a habit of bursting into flames at the merest touch of Ra’s ever giving light? Would women of gotten the vote if at the merest whiff of a cross them recoiled in horror, hissed like snakes and fled into the night?
They’re not ‘visibly different but I guess we’re all just human underneath and let’s all get along’, they’re cock-smoking vampires who suck blood and rape, and no amount of Christian Slater interviewing Brad Pitt will change that.

Except for Angel. Angel is a dude I could have a pint with.

BBC starts blowing out its own ass.

July 20, 2009

Addicted to heroin, then VIOLENCE.

Or something like that, I was too busy laughing to jot the quote down. It’s from BBC News today, in relation to that guy who was found making home made explosives and dangerously (terror!!!) wandering around a shopping centre with a phone (evil!!!!!). We are then subjected to constant replaying of some shitty You-Tube (sodomy!!!!) footage of how he was testing out some of his home-made concoctions.

Master of terrorist secrecy (rape!!!!) aside, and I am pretty sure that if this guy hadn’t been caught, he could of at least blown his own foot (medical bills!!!!) off, do we really need this constant barrage of overblown words and adjectives out of Edgar Allen Poe’s thesaurus? You’re the God damn BBC; there’s hacks like me out there for over the shit, blown out your nostrils, entrails spewn nonsensical list of fantastical language (twin towers!!!!!) that loses all focus mid sentence so you to reread what you just read to make sure Paul still has some shred of sanity left knocking about in that head.
And I don’t. You, Mr/Mrs BBC, on the other hand, do. 24 hours of recycling the same 3 stories. Every damn day. And it all has to be book-ended by bullshit overblown language and grainy ‘let’s hear your point of (child interference!!!!) view’–footage of people recycling the shite they heard from you yesterday. We have the pub for that kind of crap and we have Sky News to blow it out of proportion. We don’t need more of it.

How long before RTE follows suit and we have Anne Doyle using phrases ‘apocalyptic (bestiality!!!!) terror mongering’?


What the hell was this about originally?

The People’s Party for the Segregation of Bulls and People in Well Populated Areas

July 13, 2009

Pamplona? You know what they do there, right? Bulls. Many many bulls, are released onto the streets, in a state of some agitation, where no attempt is made to placate them.
And you’re in front of them of course: running. For the hell of it.
Intelligent stuff.

The paper yesterday called them ‘revellers’, which mean someone who ‘is engaged in lively and noisy festivities.’



Make no bones about it: I and a few of my friends have been known to revel from time to time, festivities of fun and noise are enjoyed, occasionally we may partake in a beverage or two, and it has been rumoured that a run down a street is not something that we are totally opposed to. In principle at least.
Bulls are rarely involved.

I can count on one hand the number of times I have been gored to death while revelling. So can Daniel Jimeno Romero from Madrid. Except he needs fingers to do so.
Well possibly not. I’m not sure there’s even any fingers left on the guy’s hand. As we speak, a Darwin Award is well on its way to his local graveyard.

“In 11 years as Mayoress, nothing like this has ever happened before.” Woman, I think you need to think about your sentences somewhat. Nothing like this? Nothing at all? Are you sure? No bulls have been let loose on your streets at all? And, well, of course, no one would even think to place themselves in front of these bulls that have never been on your streets before. For God’s sake, you just had those streets paved the other day!
And where did all this damn alcohol come from? You’d swear it was some kind of annual festival.

Fine, grand. I’m just a crazy Bulls and People apartheid supporter with regards to this matter, but meh, let them run through your streets if you want. And why not run along side, whooping and howling like you just been given your daily slice of crazy pie by the nurse. The buxom lady who also has intimate knowledge of how your incontinence affects your daily psychiatric care schedule.

I’ll continue to just eat the bastards.

The undead dieth

July 3, 2009

Mikey Jackson. What a man. What a creepily dead, terrifying man. Ghoulish is a word that was used often to describe him. Course, it wouldn’t make any sense to call him that now, seeing as two of the characteristics of ghouls, i.e., eternal movement and restlessness, are now sadly absent from this man.

There was talk of the fact that felt up children, which of course, we won’t talk about about cos it would sully the reputation of this fine, plasticized man. This man who had his own zoo. This man who drank wine with children and danced very unlike a child-loving wine-drinker.
In an article in the paper today (Kevin Myers if anyone’s interested), I was reminded of the young girl who, unlike her fellow passengers, (including her mother) shrugged off a plane crash and just got on with it. I imagine afterwards she said something along the lines of: “Meh”.
Maybe Sky could dedicate some of its army to covering this a little bit more in-depth; perhaps use some its 7th battalion and 342nd Airborne that are currently patrolling Jackson’s Neverland Ranch. Will he arise once more to feed and drink wine again?  Thank God that Sky is on the case bringing us rolling updates on Jackson in between its mouthfuls of Andy Murray Wimbledon-slippery knob.

I dunno, personally I find the Unbreakable story more worthwhile. I suppose the problem is that that movies already been made, while the Jackson Biopic is only around the corner. My bets on Johnny Depp doing an Edward Scissorhands and Willy Wonka amalgamation.

One final thing that about 1% of people will get. Remember the first two Fallout games? Remember the Ghouls? Think Thriller.

Now, remember the Ghouls that glowed in the dark?
Uncanny ain’t it?