Wednesday, July 30, 2008


According to Google, My Mother Is A Dirty Whore

I have got a new dentist. He is Hungarian. Anyway - like all new dentists I have had before, he wanted to show what a good and innovative dentist he was, and so decided to find something remarkable about my mouth. The last one used to go on about my tongue and how long it was, which was annoying as it was a veiled way of complaining about the fact that, short of hanging it out of my mouth like a dog, I had to sort of bunch my tongue up when I was having work done, and it used to get in the way a bit. This one didn't mention my tongue, which was great, instead he commented on my wisdom teeth. "Ah you have your wisdom teeth", said the Hungarian dentist. "Yes," I said proudly. " I guess that makes me wiser than a lot of people does it not!". "Well actually" he said, "These wisdom teeth are rather odd, small, peg shaped ones, not like normal teeth at all". My heart sank, as I know what these cunt dentists are like - fucking thieves, always trying to get you to have work you do not need. "What does that mean?" I asked. "Oh it is just a birth defect - they are perfectly healthy, just smaller than normal, and slightly odd looking."

What any sane person does in a situation like this is Google. So when I got home, I typed "peg shaped tooth" into the search box thing, and read though the results: "Peg shaped teeth are a result of congenital syphilis" it said.

I got on the phone to my mother, who had spent most of my adolescence proclaiming the joys of being a virgin before marriage, and announcing triumphantly how she had only, ever, slept with my father in her whole life, and outlining the importance of marital fidelity. "Hello Ma" I said. "How are you?". "Oh hello Noreen", she said. "I was going to ring you, I have some very sad news". Now I have never had a phone call with my mother in which she has not mentioned the recent death of someone I barely know, and the gaping hole their departure will leave in the lives of their nearest and dearest, and frankly, it gets on my fucking tits. This time I was ready for her. "Did you have the clap when you were pregnant with me, Ma?" I asked, quickly. "The what?" she said, faintly. "Syphilis". I said. "My dentist is Hungarian and he says you had the syphilis when you were pregnant, and it gave me strange teeth". "Who is this dentist?" She said angrily. "Is it the O'Leary boy?- he was a very disturbed child. "No, I said patiently. "You don't know him. And the O'Leary boy is not Hungarian, is he? Anyway he is only doing his job,this dentist, he is not the one with social diseases, giving their offspring deformed teeth". "I don't like Hungarians" she said "Their recognition of the Pope is rather begrudging, for all they call themselves Catholics, and they have peculiar Byzantine traditions. Do you remember the boy at the convent who was always scratching his backside, Zoltan something? He was a very strange child, and that mother of his had no idea how to feed the children, always shovelling great big donuts into them and sighing and looking pained all over the place. They're a funny lot. Don't listen to a word he said. Syphilis indeed".

She was not to be drawn on the subject any more, and to be perfectly honest I believed her, and I even started to feel slightly guilty about poisoning her mind against Magyars. So I blame Google, those knowitall fuckers. How dare they call my mother a whore! And yes, I do know Google host Blogspot, and they might well decide to hide my blog because I have insulted them, but I say this to you Google bastards: No one calls my mother a whore! My mother deos not have syphilis. Fuck off, geek cunts.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008


Into my hole

I watched that film called "Into The wild" - an exercise in how smugness will bite you in the arse, where a talented and privileged boy, in a fit of misplaced empathy for his less fortunate brothers in the world, rejects his education and fortune to live a life of exaggerated simplicity - dallying in peoples lives, swanning about rejecting "material things" but always managing to find someone to sponge off, before slinking off into the wilderness to contemplate his navel, then finally dying as a result of his own mediocrity in recognising plants, but not before carving a breathtakingly simplistic tract on life onto a piece of medium density fibreboard about how we should, like, be nice to each other and stuff and probably have people in our lives to share the good times with. What a cunt!

I have very little idea of why we are on this earth or what anything means, and I have very little interest in finding out, it seems like an almighty distraction from the real business of living, so creating a contrived basic survival situation for oneself in a civilised world is just plain gay. In fact, it did occur to me that the real thing the silly kid in the film (unfortunately it was a true story) was running from, was his burgeoning sexuality, which if I were to put money on it, would almost certainly be in the "fruit" category.

The main thing that sets us apart from the simple animals with whom we share the earth, is our sense of the ludicrous. If we ever lose sight of our true path in life, which is always closer to farce than we would probably like to admit, then we lose our way. For living as we do in a world devoid of purpose, where people scratch around looking for something, anything, to give them meaning and make human lives seem that little bit more worthwhile, we miss the eternal irony that we, the ones with the consciousness, are nature's joke, and that to laugh with her is the best way to realize our potential such as it is. Into the wild can go up my hole.

Monday, July 21, 2008


Cunts won't wear them

The poignancy of a waterproof shoe with holes in, is accurately reflected in its tired sounding name with decrepit overtones - the croc. Cunts don't wear crocs, because they think they are too clever to fall for that one: "Oh the croc is a cunt's shoe" say the cunts. "Absolutely, only a total cunt would wear those splayed, ugly things." Not true. Crocs are worn by people with deep sadness in their lives, sinking their depressed and exhausted feet into the dependable yet ugly rubber, cheering themselves up by clipping little mascots into the great big holes where laces ought to be.


Channelling Mr. T

First name Noreen. Middle Name O apostrophe*. Last name Brien.

*Yes Philip Challinor, I know my middle name is actually Assumpta, but I am taking the artistic licence on this one.

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