» Letters they'll never read

Dear dyslexics,
The unforgivably excessive permutations of terminology and phraseology in the English language undoubtedly appear impenetrable to you. Etymological derivations from multitudinous antediluvian sources must engender bewilderment; to this problematic repetoire, the inexorable advancement of time bequeaths neologisms - nascent, oft-impenetrable linguistic units frequently defying logical explanation. The vagaries of the language must be vexatious to your lexically-disadvantaged prefrontal cortexes; irrespective of your valiant and most strenuous effort, abject failure to comprehend is unfortunately inevitable. In respect of your likelihood of assimilating the information contained within this unnecessarily-abstruse missive, I can only conclude – you’re fucked.

yours,
-hp
(Thu 4th Mar 2010, 22:57, More)

» Creepy!

Devil dog
I've not often partaken of the jazz cigarette since uni - but at a get-together with the old crowd, disgusting quanities of drink were imbibed, and it seemed like a good idea to relive past glories. All was well with the world.

Until I got home, and let the dogs out. Standing outside, breathing the fresh air, enjoying the light, misty rain and trying to sober up a bit, I saw something staring at me from within the hedges at the top of the garden. Baleful, unblinking, it neither moved nor made a sound. Just those huge, wideset eyes, reflecting the light of the moon, full of malevolent, silent menace.

As silently and quickly as I was able, I got the dogs back into the house and shakily wondered what I should do. The garden's fenced all around - so whatever got in would struggle to get out, and I couldn't keep the dogs inside forever. But the *size* of the thing - my initial htoughts had been maybe a stray pitbull, or English terrier - but the eyes were too wide, too large for that. Half-remembered stories of big cat sightings arose unbidden in my mind, and were hurriedly pushed back down.

Drunken wisdom allowed for only one course of action. Nervously, heart beating quicker than it had any right to, I put on a heavy jacket, grabbed a hammer and a fishing knife, and slowly crept up the garden, away from the comforting lights of the house, into the stygian gloom.

Still, it did not move. Still, it did not blink. Its steely basilisk gaze never left mine, and seemed to turn my muscles to cold stone. Forcing myself forwards, I edged further into the dark, into the hedges, to meet my adversary face to face.

And that's more or less how I ended up pissed, stoned, and scared, at the top of my garden, at three in the morning, in the rain, menacing two knot-holes in the fence lit from behind by the security light on a granny flat.

:(
(Thu 7th Apr 2011, 14:28, More)

» Why will you burn in hell?

Well.... this
wot I wrote a while ago, drunkenly, as a response to Rory Lyon's odd and unrelenting focus upon a B3ta stalwart's mother, and never posted due to it being horrible enough in terms of both content and form that I was a bit ashamed:


Let's spare a thought for Rory's mum -
she cannot walk, she cannot run
she spends her life upon her bum
slowly dessicating.
The praline in life's chocolate-box -
she wheels herself down to the docks
and chows down on the sailors' cocks
to make 10p, fellating.

A wizened, crippled, dried-up cunt,
a mother to a spastic runt -
subsisting on the sacrement
that she is forced to swallow.
When she's done, she wheels back home -
her breath smells like the cocks she's blown -
each bump traversed brings forth a moan,
because they've fucked her hollow.

It's not for naught she sells herself
despite her age and failing health -
when Rory sees her hard-earned wealth
he gets a small erection.
With spittle dribbling down his chin
he snatches mummy's whoring-tin
runs to the meter, shoves 10p in -
--At last! Dialup connection.

"Not long now," he thinks with glee
"I'll troll them all, and then they'll see!"
But plans don't trump stupidity
and haven't since his birth.
Try as you might, you won't detect
a hint of wit or intellect -
in fact, it's best you just forget
that Rory crawls the earth.

Trembling fingers start to tap
upon the keyboard on his lap,
producing naught but worthless crap
all rendered with poor grammar.
He spazzes out opprobrium -
"YOUR FAT AND SOS YOURE FATTY MUM!!!1!11!"
- as subtle and as Swiftian
as a mongloid with a hammer.

Born from a back-alley ride,
a lion's roar, he claims with pride.
Sadly, though, the dull cunt lied -
which should be dealt with harshly.
Boasts aside, the truth is that
he's just a boring, trolling twat
- a neutered, mewling pussycat -
Mufasa? More like Parsley.

So spare a thought for Rory's mum -
it is a bad thing that she's done -
pretending that she had a son
instead of an abortion.
The flotsam from her genitalia -
paid for by a lonely sailor -
grew to be an abject failure
grotesque and malproportioned.
Wasting all his jobless time
posting banale shit online -
a spandrel from some sailor slime
squirted in a cripple.
For his hopes, and all his fears,
for all his tantrums, all his tears -
his twisted, tortured, wasted years
won't leave a fucking ripple.
(Wed 18th Jul 2012, 0:31, More)

» Made me laugh

Androcles and the Loin
Proudly mounted on a public display board in a primary school. I particularly liked the way the artist has rendered said loin turning to face the camera with a rather shocked "wtf did you just call me?" expression.


(Thu 6th Dec 2012, 15:04, More)

» Babysitters

A young lass was supposed to look after me, once, when I was but a nipper...
I chased her off with one of my A-Team action figures. BA beset 'er.
(Thu 28th Oct 2010, 14:39, More)