Everybody must get stoned

Yeah so anyways if you've ever received a large inheritance after the death of a loved one you know how fucking bittersweet it is. Yeah you can throw down mad cheddar on the big ass LCD TV, the xbox 360, furniture etc. You can go into the grocery store and just buy up all that shit. You can live for a few years not having to think about cash at all. It's all fresher than what's in a ziplock. But all shadowed of course by the absence of the departed. In death she supports me. Turn the clock back, take back this money and all this fucking stuff, and be in your kitchen pouring me a glass of red and talking drunken Irish shit. Jesus Christ grief can just fuck off.

This blog is exactly one year old in five days. A year?! Fuck me will someone turn off the fast-forward?

Here's something that will brighten your day - geoduck farming. Hold that thought.

As part of my sociological curiosity I've been watching N.American cable TV, eating Cheetos and caning beers while shouting "Fuck all y'all" at regular intervals to noone in particular. I bought a recliner by the way, which I can state with absolute confidence is the best chair in the world. Feet up, literally enfolded in the softness, ocean and mountains out the window to the left, 360 loaded up with Saints Row, big spliff, come on.

I haven't shaved in three months! Call the cops!

My bank balance is so weird. Never in my life have I had savings, or earnt any significant amounts. Now I see commercials for things and I'm like 'fuck me I could buy that'. It's all abstract though since I'm about as materialistic as a sadhu. And about as stoned.

What in fuck can I harp on about now. I know. Why is Jameson's my favourite whiskey and yet the most adept at transforming me into the most argumentative cocksucker that ever drew breath? (After a few shots) ....

You: I had a really busy day at work today.
Me: No you fucking well did not.
You: Pardon?
Me: Did you fuck!
You: What the fuck are you talking about?
Me: Busy my arse.
You: It was well hectic I'm telling you.
Me: You are fucking wrong.

Fucking hell I just had three cups of a fresh ground coffee called 'Kick Ass', the last one of which I 'enhanced' with a few gulps of said whiskey. As a consequence I feel I must run around the back yard roaring at the sky.

Not, that is, until I improve your life with this: Seahorses. Seahorses fucking rule.

Sirrah!

"Fuck the Panopticon". Me.