The Blog to End all Blogs

When I was little, I often wondered if there wasn’t some kid out there, possibly in China, who was exactly like me. But in China. And Chinese. We’d be thinking the same things, doing the same stuff, getting hurt at the same time etc.

As a youth, I was still wondering about the same thing, but as my field of perception had grown, so my twin’s possible location had gone further out. Now I thought it plausible that the super-identical other me was on a different planet in a far away galaxy.

As I got older and survived more and more hallucinogens, I got to thinking more and more about the invisible side of the universe. I had gazed into other dimensions and thought to myself, perhaps my cosmic twin is in fact just one of countless other cosmic twins scattered over countless other dimensions.

I couldn't post the blog which I'd started last night and finished this morning due to technical difficulties. I kept trying to upload it but to no avail. I started freaking out a little. Mad thoughts pounded my brain. What if I can never post again?

It’s not that I’m a big blogger or what have you, I’ve just started doing it. But I’m bored as quickly as I’m excited, one day I’m 100% and then the next…nothing. I figure I’ve got to ride the wave of blogging fervor while I can. Hence the madness.

Then I think, maybe I’ll blog about my uploading sadness and angst and it strikes me that there must be a gazillion other bloggers out there thinking exactly the same thing today. Which makes me wonder what the chances are of someone else writing the exact same blog as me at the same time. Maybe someone just like me. But in China. And Chinese.

Tooth Fairy

I lost a filling on Saturday morning. I’d forgotten all about it until just now when the heinous garlic belches started, compliments of last night’s pizza. So I think to myself, man, it would suck balls to have to come near my mouth today and just like that my dentist calls and asks me if I want to come in at 11. Oh hell yes. I’m not only cruel, but unusual too.

Airport Coffee

I love flying. I always feel like a rock-star when the ground drags away and I wing my way wherever. It’s like the ultimate shortcut. Now you may say that a wormhole or an unstable rip in the fabric of linear time and reality would, in fact, be the ultimate shortcut. Or you may claim that a time machine would be the ultimate shortcut. And you’d be right you nerd you. And yes, the traveling to and from the airport, the parking and trekking and walking and waiting and pissing all takes time which adds to the actual journey, but hey. Whatever. Flying good. Crawling bad. So anyway, Firefly and I are coming back from the sea the other day and we’ve checked in and we’ve ordered cappuccinos and I hear our names being called over a storm of static on the PA. Bugger. We abandon our coffees and run to the nearest active boarding gate.

Uncle Evil: Our names etc., PA system blah, blah etc.

Airport Moron #1: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.

Uncle Evil: This says SAA xxxx and we’re BA xxxx, dude.

Airport Moron #1: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.

Uncle Evil: Whatever. Do you know anything? (I say turning and addressing a man whom I later learn is world famous for being the first person to have his brain entirely removed and replaced with a giant wet Yak turd.)

Airport Moron #2: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.

So we shuffled in as unconvincing a manner as we could and made our way to the end of the line. Firefly decides to rescue our coffee order and returns just in time to catch Airport Moron #1, now holding our ticket stubs for the second time in five minutes, saying, “Oh no, you’re in the wrong place. Completely. You should be at gate 8.”

Uncle Evil: F@#K! F$%K YOU, YOU F&*#!$G EVIL FREAK F@#K!

Airport Moron #1: Mutter, mutter grumble…

As I pull Firefly through the airport at high speed I notice that she’s again without coffee and I realize that I have lost my cool and this flusters me to the extent that I stumble and spill my coffee all over the floor and onto a pretty lady’s white socks and sneaks. I recompose myself and apologise to the lady and the blur of people surrounding me who are looking at me as if I spilled my coffee on their white socks too and head to the front of the cue.

Firefly: (Now seriously doubting my sanity.) Are you sure..?

But I don’t answer because we’re there.

Uncle Evil: Our names etc., PA system, disaster at SAA, blah, blah etc.

Airport Moron #3: Yes, yes, just stand here in this cue.

Uncle Evil: It’s just that…

Airport Moron #3: Back of the line please.

We had to wait to get to the front of the cue for the clincher. Enter Airport Moron #4, looking terribly severe with crossed arms and a ridiculous tapping foot.

The absurd conversation that then ensued with Airport Morons #3, 4 and 5 was, well, just that. But basically they’d been trying to track us down because we had apparently not paid. Oops. So #4 harrumphs impatiently and frog marches us back to Check-In and I go through the credit card rigmarole as efficiently as I can and we run back and get re-searched and then it happens. Airport Moron #4, running ahead of us, slips in my coffee spill.

Even the dirty looks from the people on the shuttle who had been standing like cattle waiting for us couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.

But the real belly laugh only came last night as I recounted my tale of woe to the woman who had made my original booking. It was with great disbelief that she then presented me with the original payment receipt. British Airways had pulled us off the tarmac in high drama and forced us to cough up for a flight that had already been paid for.

Nice.

Blog Eat Blog

Today was pretty normal. This evening I, along with my good pal Crazy Bastard, signed the release contract to a kid’s book that we’ve been working on. This morning we entered hostile commission negotiations with our contractor, The Madam. It was such a fucked situation. All through the process The Madam was under the impression that she would be cutting us in for x. All through the process Crazy Bastard and I thought we would be cut in for 2x. You see how the problem becomes quite apparent? Unfortunately our previous meetings with The Madam, which we thought had ironed out this misunderstanding, had not, and we found ourselves in a bad space of hurtful words and ugly accusations. Under normal circumstances Crazy Bastard and I play Good Cop/Bad Cop. My incredibly easy-going nature makes me the ideal Good Cop, except early in the mornings when I think I’m being screwed. So we played Big Angry Sulking Bastard/Bad Cop-turned Good Cop in a world gone crazy. Not my proudest moment, but in my defense, who the hell schedules meetings for 7am anyway? At the end of the day it was a win-loose situation. No one in the right, no one in the wrong and everyone at the table staring with intent. Luckily, The Madam cracked first and we got exactly what we wanted.

As I drove home, letting AC/DC blast away all the weird, dirty, guilty feelings that had built up in my brain throughout the day, I thought about this weird world and how ambiguous the line between right and wrong can be sometimes. And I thought to myself, fuck it.

Businessman, when you make a deal,
Do you know who you can trust?
Do you sign your life away?
Do you write your name in dust?

Hey, hey, hey!
Every dog has his day!
It's a dog eat dog!
Dog eat dog!

Awesome Parallels

I use AC/DC and Magic Wand on the 23 setting.

Nice Boobs.

It's apparently national cleavage day today. Sadly, only a certain demographic are aware of this great idea. It seems, as with all things, the concept has been appropriated and marginalized though sponsorship. Take the ladies at my office for example. They're hot and sassy and fun and on this day, the one day in the year specially put aside to bare the boob, and there's nothing. Nada. Zilch. F-all. Polo necks. And why? Because they listen to the wrong radio station. Station A buys the right to pimp boob day and stations B-Z stay mum about the whole thing. Maybe it's just as well with morons like our ex-VP running around who still thinks that girls dressed up in suggestive clothing are "asking for it".

I wonder if there'll ever be National Dick-Print day. I don't think tights have been in for dudes since the Three Musketeers so we'd probably all rock up in rugby shorts and bike pants. And leather. It would be weird. Not as weird as the comments though, and I for one don't want to spend the day trying to smile and make eye contact with everyone who says, "Nice package". The whole idea has so completely freaked me out that I thought I'd post it up here and see if I could ruin someone else's day.

(original posting on Friday, April 07, 2006, MySpace)

Chain Reaction.

We all know how yawning causes more yawning causes more yawning etc. Yawn. I was thinking how fun it would be to yawn at people and created these ever expanding malicious yawn cycles so that when I see someone else yawning I can think to myself that maybe I caused that yawn. Then I realised how lame that was. What I would really like is if flinging steaming shit was catching. Then I could take the biggest crap ever and fling that steamer at our Jacob Zuma. Then, with any luck, everyone in the vicinity would also fling their crap at him and very soon that dumb bastard would be engulfed in a mountain of hot shit, which would slowly fill his lungs and press into his eye sockets. That would be cool.

(original posting on Thursday, April 06, 2006, MySpace)

In the beginning.

Okay, I'm just typing some shit in here to see where it goes. I'm slowly working my way around MySpace and figuring out what's what. Like what's a blog anyway (other than a word that rhymes with dog)? And, if there are millions of bloggers, how often do people write identical blocks? And how many of then look similar? And stuff? Anyway, I'm out for now. It's almost time for me to take in a few rounds of adventure golf so that I may keep my mind keen and limber for whatever the night may hold for me. Like sitting on the couch in front of the idiot box.

(original posting on Tuesday, April 04, 2006, MySpace)