Yes-aye! Having it

Givin' it large back in the day, there were some very tweaked things that came to pass. When the parties kicked off in our neck of the woods, it all got a bit abstract. And that is good. My flat for a year or so was an open house, known as 'The Nuthouse' or something. Not big and not clever in your eyes you constricted fucking prudes you, but in mine - fucking skill. One friend would fall asleep after giving it some for 72 hours or so in the living-room (understand; it was like shifts - cunts would drop off while others caned it, and would slowly switch as the swirling hours corkscrewed by) with his fucking eyes open. But mull on this cinnammon stick - you could only see the whites of his eyes. Wide-open, but his eyeballs rolled totally up. Spooky fucking shit my friends. Imagine it. I am totally off-tits, sitting directly opposite him not three feet away, the cunt sitting upright in the chair, head un-lolling. He is a close friend who has become the living-dead, apparently vaguely interested in eating my brain.

Line breaks are always a welcome relief, don't you find?

Those parties when it all kicked off. I bless my cotton socks I was there. Mad sound system. Driving soaring sounds. A few hundred people comin' on dirty and sweaty, fuckin' givin' it some and not giving a fuck. Tribal fucking savage happy cunts. Ecstacy indeed. In both of it's explicit meanings we would be fucked without it.

Who remembers Refreshers? Fucking hell!


"Pithy quotes are for cunts." You. Again. One more and I will lamp you.


The Inner Wisdom of the Learned Teacher

Here is my lesson plan that I dictated last week to my Guided Writing class, entitled 'The Only Constant is Change'. I know, but fucking cut me some slack. I've been teaching this class for over a year, and the fucking well is running dry. Accompanying it are my ruminations at the same moment. In italics. Babel-fish stylee.

Describe how you think Demented Isle has changed in your lifetime.
"Describe how you think Demented Isle got to be so fucking mental.

What do you find difficult about modern life?
"What do you find difficult about modern life, apart from my Christ-awful teaching?"

What do you think have been positive changes?
"What do you think about clutching at fucking straws?"

How have you changed, do you think?
"How have you changed, or is it quite possible you've always been a muppet?"

If you've changed, has it been a gradual process, or have certain events precipitated change?
"Have you become excruciatingly dull over time, or did you one day suddenly get your head kicked in?"

What changes can you see in Demented Isle's future?
"What changes can you see in Demented Isle's future, seeing as the place is a U.S. bargaining chip, has an utterly dysfunctional government, and as such is fucked?"

Have you ever (idiom) turned over a new leaf?
"Have you ever turned over a new leaf, or do you have an ego the size of New York and consequently cannot fathom your own myriad faults and shortcomings?"

How have your friends and family changed?
"How have your friends and family changed, and how are they faring under the bitter yoke of your acquaintance?"

And finally, do you favour the status quo, or do you embrace change?
"Fucking hell. I wish you would stop looking at me like that. I need a drink. What the fuck time is it?"

Yes Bob. The noun 'mail' is uncountable and cannot be used with the indefinite article 'an'. The countable noun 'message' must be used.
"MMmmm. Think I'll go with the Kirin tonight. Those cheeky pachenko-lovers. Oooh. Smoke. One big skin or two? Two you cunt!"

Ok everyone time's up, you can give your papers to me for correction. Thanks for coming, and I hope I see you next time.
"I'm off home to get right mashed up. Laters".


"I have just wasted three! minutes of my life". You, a second ago.


You can stick racism right up your arse

I fucking abhor it. It is the bastard son of that most dangerous thing in the world, ignorance. I pity racist people, for as well as being cunts, they are incomplete as full human beings. I also cannot abide the neglect or abuse of animals. I will punch you in the neck if you like Celine Dion. Gary fucking Glitter. I find Hello Kitty repulsive, indicative of our infantilism and ignorance. I will stick you with a shiv if you are a homophobe, intolerance can fuck off. Tofu is for cunts. Over a quarter of TV viewing is shifty fucks trying to sell you stuff. Turn it off. Most cunts are cunts. If you like rice pudding or gooseberries, you are no friend of mine. Dismissive of alternative medicine? Then you too can fuck off. Who the fuck thought of mosquitos? That's right. God. What a cunt. Draconian drug laws and policy. How can people take this life seriously? What the fuck have we done to the Earth? The food chain has been destroyed in Harbin, no messin' about with a 50-mile long benzine slick. And because no state mouthpiece tells the truth, guaranteed it's ten times worse than I've heard. I had an airplane crashing nightmare last night which has put me in a weird mood for the whole of my only day off. I am now considering going home overland again.

George Best has died, and for some inexplicable reason that has made me very fucking sad. As you've probably gathered. Cunt that he was, I raise my glass to him.

On a lighter note, Bloody Marys rule the world.


"Pele called me the greatest footballer in the world. That is the ultimate salute to my life." George Best


Moore's Law. Fucking hell!

Technology. A right head-doer or what? I'm constantly fucking dumbfounded by it, as I'm quite the innocent in that regard. Dumb as a box of rocks in fact. I like it that way however, since I'm constantly pleasantly surprised by it, like a retard re-learning how to use a spoon everyday. Every morning, after twenty minutes of throwing cereal and milk around the kitchen, he finally directs the spoon to his cake-hole. "Well fuck me!", he thinks to himself. "These spoon things are the business!".

In about 1991 my mate Steve was the first one of my friends to get a cell phone, being, as he was, a wide-boy. He came to my apartment one afternoon and we smoked a chunky cone, resulting in the raging munchies. He went to the local shop to get some chocolate-chip cookies. Mmmm. He left the phone on the living-room floor. It was an early model of course, the size of a brick in a sinister black leather case. While he was gone, fuck me sideways but the fucking thing rang, chirping like an asphyxiated chirping thing. The screen and keypad glowed Blade Runner-green. I jumped, regarding it with wonder and suspicion. I circled it cautiously. "But how?", I thought. "There's no fucking wires or cables or anything. This is sorcery and magic!" I felt like intoning a spell to ward off evil or some shit. Eventually I steeled myself and picked it up. After pushing all the buttons, swearing and giving it a good shake, the chirping stopped. I've loved technology and it's astronomical development ever since, apart from those 'Dance, Dance' machines you find in amusement arcades. Those are for cunts!


"Jumping Jesus, Holy cow, what's the difference anyhow"? David Gray


That cunt just puked on me

Typical exchange of an evening in my house:
You skinning up or what?
Alright. Grab us a beer while you're in the kitchen.
No. Get your own fucking beer.
(Skinned up. Beer grabbed).
Look at that. Gross. I don't think you should go down there.
Why, there might be...FUCK! Headgrabbers! HowthefuckdoIgetbackupOhJesusI'm dying....
Do 'im with the chainsaw!
I can't..Whoa! Gnarly. I need a health-pack.
There's one in the infirmary.
Oh yeah. This plasma gun rules.
Look out for that big fat zombie cunt.
Mars is fucked in the head.

Yes. X-Box. Doom 3. What do we make of video games then? I think they are wonderful, and in many respects have come of age. The right games now are immersive and cerebral, challenging on many levels. I piss on cunts who dismiss the whole gaming lark out of hand, and I would urge people to get into it. Doom 3 for example is a huge, terrifying puzzle with a sense of realism that draws you in completely. A game called Half-Life 2 is just incredible, where you are completely inside a bleak Orwellian world, very philosophical and thought-provoking. Shit-scary and violent as fuck as well of course. I am Gordon Freeman, and I am a free man.

I'm not a hardcore gaming cunt, but I really appreciate the depth of that shit now. I'm not surprized that the industry now equals the movie industry in profits. So come on. Get X-Box Live you cunts, and I could soon be blowing your brains out on the battlefield. You know you want to.


"Jesus God they're flanking Fuck! In the church tower Cunts! Playing 'Brothers in Arms', frightened.


Can Christmas fuck off or what?

Yes, it most assuredly can. I am a right pagan cunt, and could give a fuck about the Gregorian Calendar along with it's bullshite creation of symbolism and significance of certain days and times, foisted on us all by those Christian Church Elder cunts. For example: witches are fucking wicked! Broomsticks for polishing the peanut and huge fucking orgies all wasted on hallucinogens. Fair fucks to that I say. I think it's incumbent on each of us to know about British fucking paganism before the Church got all pissy and told cunts what's what. You don't tell me fuck-all, you repressed fucking freak. You and your miserable vindictive God should fuck right off out of it. They even fucked up time. The Church turned it into a linear progession, going forward in a straight line. You what cunt? Time is cyclical, as pre-Church peeps knew. Birth and re-birth, women's cycles so closely tied to the moon and oceans. We would all be happier if we were allowed to see time this way, more a part of life's time. Linear, digital time is bollocks.

Which reminds me. It's 4.30. Gotta go teach.


(Read 'A Sideways Look at Time' by Jay Griffith. Pure brilliance).

Ding ding! "Time please, gentlemen". The most heinous English phrase ever conceived.


You what, cunt? War on what?

Fuck me if 'The War on Terror' exists. Does it fuck. It is one big cunting myth. It is the result of mis-rule, a forsaking of a culture of life, replaced with fear and death as an instrument of social control. Fear has been manufactured by PNAC and whichever twisted cabal Blair mixes with. It is sickening. Sometimes I can't quite believe I am witnessing it. Like the London bombings, and Blair et al saying it was disgusting to suggest that they were the result of the British Army raping Iraq and Afghanistan. When Blair said that, whoever was standing near him could probably smell the Semtex on his hands, the stupid fucking cunt.

The CIA is the biggest drug dealer in the world.
Google Ptech 911.
David Kelly was fucking murdered. His last email was to Judith Miller, the hateful fuckwit she is, I hate her guts. "There are dark characters playing games" hours before he was killed.
Hunter S. Thompson. Suicide? I don't fucking think so. He was sitting on dynamite, literally. WTC1 and 2 and 7 laced the fuck up with munitions. Kelly and him both, suicided.

Fuck us all anyway, the bunch of stupid cunts that we are.


"Pull it". Owner of Building Seven.


All Hail Bitches!

Well fuck me but it's a funny old game. I had just turned thirty, and one day came to a profound realization. (Before I flesh out that scintilating opening salvo, let me just remind you I am a right dizzy cunt. I am, in fact, a fucking retard in many respects. The inability to be objective immediately springs to mind, much to the scorn of my scientificasious friends I'm sure).

Christ. Anyway, it struck me. For the last ten years, I had been single for six months. Five relationships. Does that ever happen to you? It's like for a weird moment you can just 'see' yourself. And you go, "Fucking hell, what sort of cunt do I think I am anyway?"

Six months in ten years. "Brewski", I said to myself, "it is time for centering, to come back to yourself, to learn more of who you are as a man alone under the firmanent". 'Bout eighteen months later I fucking did it again. Which would indicate how seriously I take myself.

Born of my lapse however was a deep and lasting friendship, which I wouldn't have missed for naught. It is indeed a rich fucking tapestry, and women rule the world, the delicious hussies.


"I quite like that Brewski fella. Makes me feel all funny". Your Mum


Blogging. Any fucking chance?

This blogging malarkey is off it's fucking nut, is it not? I aver this as a rookie, a grommet, as someone who is 'short'. Although I know some people who read this (but who don't post, the fucking useless pricks), I haven't told many, so in all likelihood you are a total stranger to me, which I suppose is as plain as the spliff hanging out of my mouth, Brewski you terrible stating the obvious cunt you. Jesus. My point is that, to me, writing a blog is like conversing with myself while enabling others to 'listen in', and maybe, God fucking forbid, comment. Unless you're one of my friends, in which case you can fuck right off you voyeuristic fucking retard, I know where you live. Be warned.

And that is a very interesting thing, as in recent years I've chosen to spend most of my time alone and apart in far flung climes, which means I know fuck all about fuck all. I've fucking loved it, you should give it a go. I feel refreshed, and will dive back in a better cunt. A fascinating perspective, from here anyway. It must be fucking torture for you though.

So here I am, writing about blogging while blogging. How wanky is that? I am perturbed. Maybe it's just not done. Perhaps I'm commiting a huge blog faux pas. Like that time I inadvertently called a student of mine 'fuckwit' in class. She is now somewhere saying 'fuckwit' every time she errs. She spills her cup of tea, "Oh, fuckwit!" It took some creative explaining and no mistake. (Made possible by electronic dictionaries here not having British filth listed. Sirrah! She is now getting scowled at constantly in Australia). Is there any point to this little scribble? No, there is not!

One thing I must mention is that people (girlfriends especially) have grown to hate me because I'm the sort of cunt who goes through life apologizing for everything. Fuck! Sorry about that.


"Fuck off." Me, earlier, after a young man apologized for bumping into me on the street. He was a foreigner, of course. (I'm on Demented Isle). Scared the shit out of him. Cunt.


Listen to the thunder, cuntchops.

Bloody hell. Holy Toledo. Christ on a bike, pedalling furiously. Fuck.

All of us sorry bastards, blessed as we are to have, astoundingly, been born into life, are subject to personal realities that make us mentally recite the above line, or something like it, every little while. Like a rumbling soulful thunder, part dread, part not-knowing. This is only occasional in our mental lives. Dread-notknowing is of course the entirety of our spiritual. Anyway, my mental dread-notknowing for the last while is: very soon I will be meeting my Dad.

After mad violence my Mum ran away from him when I was three. Two or three years ago my oldest sister got in touch with him. He has a room ready for me in his house. It is in Cork, and apparently the cunt drinks as much as me. He does come from Cork after all. He lives quietly weaving baskets, baking bread and revealing cryptic messages in 'The Magic Flute'.

About a year ago I called him. We were both blind drunk, but understood each other perfectly. When he said 'Son', which he did repeatedly, I would choke up. It took a minute or two before I could say 'Dad'.

Can you imagine it? Can you hear the thunder? When I go 'home' we will drink the island dry. The dread-notknowing is the new world of hangovers I am about to enter. New, hostile, territory. We know by now the Spidery, the Head-Cracker and The One whose Name we Do Not Speak. But I am still young. I have so much to learn. I will be OK. Dad will guide me, or will fucking die trying no doubt. Pray for me, you bastards.


"Admire the world...as you would an opponent, without taking your eyes off him, or walking away". Annie Dillard


Love lost.

My first post on Hotrocks, and what a load of inane drivel it was, touched on women's pointy fucking shoes. I have a violent reaction when I see them. They fuck me off no end. They are horrible, a fashion aberration. I would laugh if I wasn't so disgusted. On Demented Isle, I thought their huge popularity was particular to this part of the world, until I started seeing them pop-up in Western magazines.

And then, everything shattered and fell away. Since the eighties, one of my favourite women in my fantasies was Diane Lane. I thought she was fucking gorgeous, what with that scar and all. Did you ever see 'Rumblefish'? Great film, and Ms. Lane would thicken my long clean cock. And then, about two years ago, I saw a piece of shite with her and Dick Gere. They are married, and she gets a right good seeing to from a young, handsome book collector. And she wears fucking pointy cunting shoes. That was the end right there, apart from a vague interest when she gets fucked from behind.

I will never forgive her. If I am enjoying a five-knuckle shuffle now, and think of her, my tumescence will start to flag as into my mind comes pointy shoes. The situation is always retrievable though, no fucking worries on that score. I just imagine her in DM's and a full-length floral print summer dress smoking a spliff in an exquisite living-room drenched in the afternoon sunlight. And she is horny.

For a full ten minutes or so, I forgive her. Then I feel such shame. "But Brewski", I say to myself, "she wears pointy shoes. How could you?" And I go abroad in the world tainted and downcast. I bet she fucking has bunions too. Those fucking shoes will do that to a girl, I'll warrant. Bollocks to it.

Diane Lane, you have much to answer for.


"Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional". Susun Weed.


Gaudi is my man.

Musicians and writers had always been my soul's delight. And then I went to Barcelona. Old Barcino. And I stood in front of La Sagrada de Familia, and wept. I had never been touched in such a way by architecture. Secular cunt that I am, the divine was before me. De Parc de Guell, overlooking the city. Gaudi was an instrument of divinity. His creations seem to grow from the earth, all colour and Nature's wish. See it before you die, cocksuckers.

Also, Old Barcino fucking rocks in and of itself. Beautiful soapy stone for skating, and the Old Quarter is a den of iniquity. And because noone reads this shit anyway, I love my long clean cock.


"Some old cunt just got hit by a tram!" A Barcelona pedestrian, circa 1901.


Machiavelli. What a cunt.

This went down the collective memory hole faster than you can say "GladioHk-UltraNorthwoodsProject!" Al Jazeera: [Al Shaykh] "In the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate. There have been continuous provocative acts since the day before yesterday by the British forces against the peaceful sons of Basra. There have been indiscriminate arrests, the most recent of which was the arrest of Shaykh Ahmad-al Farqusi and two Basra citizens on the pretext they had carried out terrorist operations to kill U.S. soldiers. This is a baseless claim. This was confirmed to us by [name indistinct] the second secretary of the British Embassy in Baghdad when we met with him a short while ago. He said that there is evidence on this. We say: you should come up with this evidence or forget about this issue. If you really want to look for truth, then we should resort to the Iraqi justice away from the British provocations against the sons of Basra, particularly what happened today when the sons of Basra caught two non-Iraqis, who seem to be Britons and were in a car of the Cressida type. It was a booby-trapped car laden with ammunition and was meant to explode in the centre of the city of Basra in the popular market. However, the sons of the city of Basra arrested them. They [the two non-Iraqis] then fired at the people there and killed some of them. The two arrested persons are now at the Intelligence Department in Basra and they were held by the National Guard force, but the British occupation forces are still surrounding this department in an attempt to absolve themselves of the crime."

Cue a fucking tank raid on the prison to save them. They were disguised as soldiers of the al-Sadr Brigade, and they look hard as fuck. SAS, perhaps, or SRR (Special Reconaissence Regiment). A day after, Western media never mentioned this again, content with colourful pictures of soldiers falling out of tanks, on fire.

Red flag operations, the fomenting of unrest. Machiavellian shape-shifting fucking cuntbags.

This one is Sirrah-less.

"The box. You opened it. We came." Hellraiser


Oi! Fuckface! You feeling lucky?

Great God Almighty when I look back at some of the stupid shit I've done I'm astounded I'm still in one piece. I am a lucky cocksucker and no mistake. Seriously. The litany of near misses is fucking Biblical. This is discounting of course the fully intentional laser guided targeting of my brain matter with the clusterbombs of fine alcohol and all manner of narcotics. Fuck my brain anyway, the stupid cunt. To illustrate the power of my Guardian Angel, get a load of this shit:

'Bout three years ago, a Saturday eve found me getting fucked right up. On Demented Isle there's no fucking licencing laws, one of the main reasons I've been here awhile. I love landlords and landladies, and they adore me, so the joint fucking shuts when you crawl out the door. It was about 8.00am on a beautiful Sunday morning, the tropical sunshine bright gold on the palms, the ancient fruit and vegetable sellers recoiling happily from our small group's utter depravity as we wandered down the road to a large park. At that hour old bastards throng the parks to practice Tai-Chi, walk backwards with arms wildly swinging (I've no clue either) and generally do stupid shit that I suppose invigorates them in readiness for their day of screaming at their families. They also have ball-dancing classes on sandy ground under the massive canopies of 300-year-old banyan trees.

After snogging a girl I barely knew, and really didn't like very much, I noticed one such dancing group. I decided to climb into the tree and spy on them from above. As you do. I duly did so, and reached my objective, obscured in the foliage suspended about fifteen feet directly above them on a thick branch. I am not a clumsy, weaving fucking drunkard. I keep my shit together. I bet I could drink you cunts right under the table. Anyway, somehow, some way I fucking fell off, falling only like a drunk foreign cunt can. Heavily, and with bemusement. Bang into the middle of about fifteen waltzing coffin-dodgers. And I missed them all. Every single one of the cunts. I landed woomph! Took a few seconds to breathe again, and stood up, to find myself facing the old woman instructor. Without the slightest pause, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, she assumed the position and said in perfect English, "Let's begin. One two three, one two three...." And we began waltzing. Fucking surreal shit. After a minute or so I muttered something about having to, um, go, and she graciously bowed as I fucked off.

So anyway, I didn't kill anyone by falling from the heavens. What an ignonimous end for a poor old cunt that would be.

Anyway, I'm interested to hear about your luck, because I seem to have a huge surplus of the stuff. And no. You can't fucking have any, you mooching fucking cunt you.

"Aagh, great hands". Anon. You know it.


If you live with a dog or cat, listen the fuck up

If you're unlucky enough to have looked at a couple of earlier things I wrote, you'll have noticed that I love animals, and think most humans are cunts. These humans reach this state not under their own volition, but by being lied to by commercialism and it's root; business. I grew up with animals an ignorant fuck. Animals were fed with 'wet food' in a can, and kibble manufactured by right fucking corporate cunts. And I am angry.

It is the equivalent of feeding your friend McShit every single day.
Start looking into a raw diet.
Raw meat.
Raw fish.
Bones an' all.
Organ meat.

Two years ago, my girlfriend at the time, who I still live with as great friends, 'rescued' a Husky here. Being greatly interested in diet and health generally, she started to research the pet food industry, and found that it is utter bollocks.
We started introducing Ollie to the raw diet. Best thing I've ever done. Look at that fucking picture. That's what your friend needs and wants. If your friend is older, introduce it gradually. Unlearn, cunts, unlearn.

Manufactured pet food is fucking poison. There is nothing like watching your friend digging in to whole chicken or side of pig. I've never seen a healthier cunt than Ollie - the brightest eyes, strongest teeth and lushest coat. No health problems whatsoever. In a sub-tropical climate. And I can just crack a barley-pop, skin-up, throw Ollie a fish, and the National Geographic Channel is right fucking next to me.

Any questions, any doubts? Then you are a victim, as I was, of the corporate-myth machine. Fuck those cunts. Unlearn.


In Memory of Felix and In Praise of Ollie.


Do my head in, fuckwit!

Words are vastly fucking over-rated, are they not? Empirical observation? Fair enough. Poetic lyricism that gestures toward our metaphysical life? Fair play to you. Conversations we engage in in our day-to-day lives? Cuntitudeness to the Nth degree. If you are not an intimate of mine and you talk to me, as your mouth moves and sound comes out, the pure revulsion I feel for you emanates from my brain like a biosphere-wrecking ray from DAARPA or some shit. The only reason you can't feel it is because you are as thick as fuck.

Alright, maybe I shall direct my antipathy not toward cunts, but toward what we call 'small talk'. After a lifetime of being a right gregarious geezer, 'shooting the breeze' or whatever you N.American bastards call it, and generally being mildly stimulated by individuals who would express themselves with charm, wit and self-deprecation, I reached the point about two years ago where not even a brace of beers would enamour myself of a small-talking cunt. The kernel of this has been growing in me for years in fact. I remember teaching a bottle of absinthe a good fucking lesson in Portugal about ten years ago with two intimates. I wound up conversing with a nano-talker from New Zealand. One of the intimates who I was particularly close to recognized the danger as my eyes flashed, I sat up straight, and looked confrontationally into the man's mug. He'd had the audacity to say, "It's hot here, isn't it?" Artfully, I was moved from the man's immediate vicinity. He was in my sights the whole fucking night though.

This is why, now, most avenues of life are closed to me. In my early years I worked briefly for a PR company. Jesus Christ Almighty. I thought my head would explode. What an utter waste of life. "This coffee's shit, innit?" "I hear we're getting a new account." "You see that film on Channel 4 last night?" "What d'ya make of (insert some wanker professional footballer here)". Acquaintences would see me walking to and from work, and I would remind them of Michael Douglas in 'Falling Down', but better looking. I was ready to kill, and knew then that I could in no way tolerate people who fill their lives with small-talk shit that meant nothing. "But it's necessary", you crow. "To get on in life, one must bear this festering cacophony of bollocks". Fuck getting on in life. What the fuck does that mean anyway? Having renounced most cunts views of what it is to 'get on in life', I am one happy fucking chappy. Having spent twenty years being tolerant and gregarious, I am now in a position to be wildly happy, unsociable, and free of the infantile bollocks that most cunts spout.

So if I ever see you in a club, and every cunt's on really good E, and I ask you for a sip of your water and a smoke, and we're both gurning, smiling, and rubbing our hands up and down our (own) thighs, and the bass is bassing our innards to fuck, do not turn to me and say, "These E's are really good, yeah?" Because, mashed up as I am, I will do my best to sneer and walk away. But in reality will grimace strangely, stumble backwards, and fall over someone's outstretched, unfeeling limbs. You will appreciate my sentiment though.

Anyway, treat words with respect, is all I'm saying. Know what I mean?


"Words are leaden shite". Any seer you care to talk to.


You 'avin a laugh or what?

If you're anything like me, which I hope to Christ you are not, you are in a condition of stupefication. A dulled horror has draped itself over the world in the last few years that has slapped me senseless, that has changed what I thought we were all about. If history still remains in the generations to come, cunts will look back on our time with horror. They will wonder how the elites that controlled the military-industrial complex and the banking system and the pharmaceuticals were ever allowed to get away with it.

The company that the Bush Junta has chosen to rely on to stockpile Tamiflu, to the tune of $1 billion dollars, is called Gilead Sciences. a company once chaired by - Donald fucking Rumsfeld. He resigned upon becoming Defence Secretary, but still holds between $5 million to $25 million in stock, the value of which has shot up in the last six months, earning that cunt a cool $1 million as a conservative estimate, with much more to come.

Halliburton's stock has tripled since the Iraq 'war' began, and the U.S. Junta continues to do business with them, even though it has been found that they have overcharged the American tax-payer by $1billion. Cheney receives a massive yearly retirement from them.

Following Hurricane Katrina, Carnival Cruise Lines recieved a $236 million contract to house the homeless, almost three times the cost of housing them in hotels. Carnival is the No.1 sea transport GOP donor.

D'yuh know what I fucking mean? Words escape me. The blatant hollowing out of what this life of ours is. Anything that was noble and for the general good was rare anyway, but this shit is just taking the piss. Science 'under threat' for God's sake. The world has fucking left me behind mate.

Anyways, cunts, here's my favourite joke of all time. Stop me if you've heard it.

There's a tomato and an egg in a frying pan, sizzling away in hot oil. After a couple of minutes, the tomato says to the egg,"My God but it's hot in here".
The egg exclaims, "Fuck me!! A talking tomato!"


"I demand that someone whittle me a stick." Me, mashed up, circa 1991