Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Shark Talk

For a short while, in my corner of the world, there was some talk about culling Great White Sharks. Great Whites are totally badarse, and will wreck your shit. All of your shit. All. Your. Shit. Some people (big pussies with vaginas full of sand) want the government to cull Great Whites, despite the fact that experts say that's stupid.

Here's the thing, man: experts know stuff better than amateurs who know nothing about the subject they're talking about. A lot of people thought there was one (1) shark that was hunting humans, and that this shark should be killed. Firstly, how're you going to which shark it was? You'll just be killing a random shark. That like Man A breaking into someone's house, and Man B getting arrested because Man B was shaped like Man A. Secondly, the idea of a rogue shark is stupid, and if you believe in it you're stupid. If you don't think you're stupid, think again. Then go get some knowledge. Some knowledge with heaps of teeth and fins.

What I mean is you should jump into the open mouth of a really big shark.

Enter the fucking shark.
Here are some shark facts: Sharks can cut a motherfucker with their skin. Their skin has teeth. They can can't be used like sandpaper, though, because they're too cumbersome. Sharks have two dicks, because their woman have a lot of heart, but lack in technique. There was a mural along a road with a bunch of sharks who were wearing armour, and it was fucking killer. The replaced it with a mural featuring some knockoffs of The Avengers, which looks like shit. Sharks can swim faster than any Olympian, and can also eat more humans, on average.

A shark could probably last against a barbarian for a while, but a good barbarian would win. A crap barbarian is not worthy of doing battle with a shark. Sharks are like the barbarians of the sea, and giant squids are like dragons. Those fucked up deep sea fish are like bad politicians and people who live by business catchphrases from the 40s. If sharks could walk on land they'd die because they need to be in water, the legs won't make a difference. That's sad.

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Story about the time I saw a really bad comedienne.

The emcee for the night introduced her. That wasn't the bad part. The bad part comes later. The lady, whose name was scrubbed from my memory, came out, looking all confident. Too confident. Confident in the same way a guy with a barbed wire tattoo is confident. She looked like a used trophy wife. Like, a trophy a kid gets for trying hard at bowling. She came out, and introduced herself.

For two full minutes.

There were no jokes, just an itinerary of some of the places she had been, and a story how she lost her Australian accent in South Bumfuck or wherever.

This wasn't a set up, there was no punchline anywhere. Maybe she thought we needed context. Maybe she isn't aware that if a five minute set needs two minutes of humourless contextualisation, then the set might be flawed. Maybe she made the rookie mistake of opening with new material, rather than going with a proven opener. Worse, maybe she actually tried that material before, and decided to keep it. It wasn't her first time, according to her introduction, so it's possible that she just refused to scrap the stuff. To be fair, if she was the type to retire material, she wouldn't have a set.

So, after talking about her drawling accent, she talks about meeting her husband. She must've been secretly nervous, and forgotten all her jokes, and also how to talk, because she unleashed a horrifyingly long stream-of-conciousness piss stream into our mouths, which were open in disbelief.

  'Ah met mah husband on a cruise shyeahp, mah friend said 'ah know y'all're' single so I'm settin' ya'll up on a blind date,' an' she had meh choose a'tween two gahs, one was a masseuse, and I thought 'bout that, ah guess a masseuse could be useful if ah needed a massage, ghyuck!'

She looks around and nods after each ghyuck, as if to infer that we all know what she's talking about and find it amusing.

  'Th'other gah was Jewish! So ah went with the Jewish one, an' he was real nice. We gawt murridged an' ah called mah mawm. Ah told mawm he's Jewish with big feet, an she said 'maybe he's Jewish from the waist down!' Ah said maybe, ghyuck! Mah husband's 64, he's an accountant, any y'all know what MENSA is? No? Obviously none 'a y'all is in it, ghyuck!'

  Aneh-whey, mah husband's sawn's in MENSA, he's real smart, he's, lahk, a year older then mahself. He's from a previous murridge. Mah step-son, ah mean, not mah husband, though he was murridged previously. Ghyuck! Ghyuck, ghyuck, ghyuck!'

Keep in mind, I'm paraphrasing her, here. Her actual set went well over her allotted time, meaning she cut into the set of the next performer. The lights flashed to signal her off around part one of the husband.

  'Mah husband had a few previous murridges,' said the lady, as my friend pointed out a comedian we'd seen before.
  'Look, it's [name redacted, because I know he googles himself]!' he said. So it was.
  'So it is,' I said. My friend walked over and introduced himself. Then he introduced me, as someone who wanted to be a comedian. Before I can open my mouth [name redacted, because I know he googles himself] speaks, having only looked at me.

  'You should be!' I'm taken aback and amused at the same time. This! Is quality. The sort of thing that I'll leave my house to hear. My friend, [name redacted, because I know he googles himself], and myself all turn our heads to observe the woman. Something occurs to me.

  'You know, maybe she's actually really good. Maybe she's doing a really subtle Neil Hamburger thing.'
  'Oh my god!' [name redacted, because I know he googles himself] said, 'did you see him when he came?'
  'I missed him. Still kicking myself.'

The lights flashed a second time. [name redacted, because I know he googles himself] suggested we kill the lights completely. I wasn't sure that'd stop her. The lights flash again. She looks angry, as though she's Galileo and the lights are the Catholic Church. She finishes her set just as the lights are about to be killed completely.

She must've gone straight to the bar and ordered one of everything strong. Whiskey, vodka, turpentine. The good whiskeys and beers were in a separate part of the building. Someone must've told her, because she went wobbling out there really carefully, trying not to twist an ankle. I didn't see anyone help her. I felt like giving her a tip.

I wanted to tell her you learn more from bombing than from killing. Even I know that. George Carlin, Patrice O'neal, Louis CK, Mitch Hedberg, Keith Robinson, they've all bombed. She'd probably have seen the advice as condescending garbage from a nobody. Or, worse, she'd have appreciated it and found some way to give my syphilis as thanks (her method would probably involve the methylated spirits on her breath and a loss of inhibition/brain damage on my part), then her old Jewish-from-the-waist-down husband would get all sad.

Lady, if you have googled yourself and wound up here, I apologise for any inaccuracies. Like you, my memory has aged like milk.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Special Anouncment

Large portions of wordglobs published on this blog have been removed. It's not that bad, really, all of it was pretty poor material. I've left some choice cuts behind (cuts from my very own behind, choice), and will continue to slice chunks off sporadically.

Friday, December 16, 2011

Music Ideas

Here are some ideas about things. I hope you like the concept of ideas. Liking these ideas is secondary, but would be nice, I guess.

Some names for a band: Tepid Terry and the Troublemakers, Berkley and the Berks, Wolf Kabob Rolf Lenitz Experience, Mr. Band, Torpor, Mr. Band Jr, Tepid Terry and the Terrors, Duodenum (good name for a duo), Acockalips Now (good name for a slut-rock group), Smiling Stiffs, Tepid Terry and The Wolf Kabob Rolf Lenitz Experience Band Jr., Diprotodon, Mantonio and the Manly Men of the Manthing Peninsula, Tepid Terry and the Tossers.

Some word sequences that evoke imagination sounds: psychedelic bongripping warrior moustache riffs, hypnotic wizard ceremony distortion music, Magma Residents Skin Chamber child is father to the man, wolves chew formaldehyde brain, don't look back mind walker, smokey pikes spikes and sebum, lead to shadows, of katharnakarathkar jewel of the kuiper belt, dyson spheres at the edge of time, soup newspapers cans barcodes, scrap metal junkyard hillbilly jam chicken teeths.

Some notes that can be used in music (not all of them, though, only some): A, B, C, D, G#, Bb, B aware, note of apology, C#, Red Letter, A again, Post-it Note (don't sue me), don't forget Bb, E, E, E, E, don't use that note in that scale or I'll give you an F# I am a music teacher therefore however I do things is the right way, suicide note, F#, Ab tire, $5 note, notice pinned to your door, brown note, and A.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

The future of Regicide, and also the world.

Pretty soon: Bad things happen to unremarkable people. Lizard-smoke is exhaled into a berk, and berks are called as such (berks, not lizards). Dirigibles and astral elixirs are in this season. Being cohesive, as usual, is out of fashion. Fashion is stupid as three and a quarter fucks fucking.

later on, after that shit: Three hombres mosey on into a quit town and trouble starts. Beer can almost be tasted through the water. Feathers are ruffled, necks are roughed, amounts of money that are less than trivial today are paid for goods services that cost ten to twenty times as much. Someone gets shot.

Much later: 1342 (a serial story redacted from this blog) is concluded. It makes much less sense than anything written here. An explanation and sample interpretations follow the final installation, to help people make up their minds about which part they like based on how clever they now think it is. Trick dice are used and the dungeon master knows all about it.

About a year later: Lizz Windsor, that slapper on England's throne (yeah, I said it. What're you gonna do, send me to the colonies?) gets sick of me talking smack about her, and commands that a new colony be founded, and that I'm to be sent there. Nobody can understand her writing, though, because the paper has been digested by a corgi. Later, it turns out that she was bathing in the blood of virgins. She is crushed whilst attempting to mount a horse. Prince Charles is royally chuffed that his wife killed his mother, and dies in that manner, aged 173. The bastard child of Diana, the people's princess (a ridiculous concept) takes the throne, because the other one is really boring. The media tells everyone this is exciting, and a bunch of people try to make money from it. Since the affair is televised, people assume it must be a good thing. North Korea's god-king becomes enraged because his cult of personality isn't as big or pompous.

After that shit: I start advertising. All content is removed from Regicide because the biggest advertisers (bogus diet plans and dick pills) don't want to be associated with word soup and berks. A berk shows up at my door with some free dick pills and I pay him with a can of word soup. The Pope calls me, but he used my old mobile number, and I can't hear the old phone going off because it has been buried in Darwin, and the battery is also flat. And, it has been stolen by a group of children who think they're tough. They use it to text lewd pictures of themselves and one accidentally sends a picture to the Pope. He is amused. He shows some of the other dudes in the Vatican, and they have a circlejerk in the Pantheon the next day.

2016: Front page news worldwide: When Eddie Murphy impersonates a white guy, that's what Tiger Woods sounds like. Everyone apart from my grandfather laughs. 

Soon after that: Alan Jones dies from a fatal epiphany after he looks at a thermometer and realises it's really fucking hot. He is exhumed and the missing link is found. He dies a second time, in Hell, and goes to Double Hell. Alan Jones is still a dick in Double Hell. Love you, AJ.

2020: everyone realises that Will Smith is really shitty. He is stolen from his interdimensional-house-cube and thrown into a lagoon. His family leaps in to save him, but a lagoon monster drags them off. The Willenium ends. Carlton Banks dances for six days, and rests on the seventh day.

2025-2036: England attempts to sue me for libel over what I said in this very post. Since all that shit is true, I'm found innocent. However, since it would be inappropriate for someone derived from convict stock to win a case against the crown, I am sentenced to a very hard slap on the wrist and a stern talking to, equivalent to the punishment one would receive for committing murder in Perth.

2070: Resources war. Everyone dies. Except for businessmen, who have two brains, and can apparently survive in severely irradiated conditions. They assign arbitrary values to things, then try to hoard these things, going so far as to maim and kill one-another for them.

2072: Everyone dies, again. Properly this time, no slimebags slimin' their way out of shit. A skeleton smiles and feels fuzzy. He calls his skeleton ladyfriend to go not get dinner, but she's busy. Lonely skeleton listens to a Man's Gin record five times and stares at his wall. He can no longer drink because his throat rotted away. It is very sad. Skeleton ghost terrorists (the ghosts of the skeletons which belonged to terrorists) rise from their terrorist burial camp and blow up the universe.

2073: I edit all the typos out of Regicide.

Saturday, October 8, 2011

This Stinks

Ever smell anything like this? It's a rancid, crawling tar that forces itself down your windpipe and epoxifies your lungs. People try to mask the odour, with the funk of copulation, that new car smell, the sickening sweetness of some bubblegum aural pollution, the narcotic incense of the divine. But a black dog in a white mask isn't white. You mask the stench, but it crawls back into you when you're alone with your thoughts, if you haven't already discarded your ability to think to evade the stench. It comes when you dwell on your failures, when you think of the past, the future, life, death, the world yourself, and how it fits together. It grows so pungent it can make you ill. You've either caught a whiff of it, or you've drowned yourself in bullshit before you got the chance.

Angst gets me so hard. 

Thursday, February 17, 2011

If someone wrote a book about your life, what would they title it?

Here are some possible contenders:

Duck Based Economies: A Retrospect
Winning the Waiting Game
Contraception On Two Legs
Wasteland Survival with Artie Fish
Man after Man: Anthropology of the Future (They already did this one, actually.)
Advanced Bastardry
Koran III: Desert Search For Techno Allah
One Man's Junk
The Citadel of Procrastination
Bad Dude: The Legit Scoop
Glorious Leader Uncle Reggie's Little Octarine Book
Funkenstein: A Tale of Two Funkensteins: Part XII: A Night at the Cactus Motel (Revised Edition)
Illusory Narcissism for Dummies
Just When You Thought It Couldn't Get Any Worse
Fantastic Adventures in Bonerland
The Psychedelic Warlord (Disappears in Smoke)
Chef of Ill Repute
Bad Dude, or Baddest Dude?
20 Recepies Involving Vegetarian Bacon, Eggs, and Barbecue Sauce
White Boys Can't Funk
Psychedelic Hour Long Guitar Solos: The Book
Vinyl Smells Nice
The Man Who Gave Very Few Fucks (Less than 3/8 of a Fuck)
History of the Mouse Organ
Technobarbarians of WWIV
1d6 Per Caster Level
The White Zone is for Loading and Unloading Only
Self Unemployment: The Definitive Guide