Whenever I will be put to trial for shooting someone, I already have my perfect response...
‘But judge, I have here with me a baby kitten that I will place next to this adorable human baby belonging to the victim’s widow. Now I will try to shoot the baby with this police officer’s gun... may I?’
‘OBJECTION! You can’t give that freak a gun!!!!’
‘Denied, I want to see this. Give him your gun, warden.’
‘Thanks. So here, I’ll try to shoot the baby from 10 feet away.....’
*takes aim*
*shoots*
*kills victim’s widow*
‘See? I can’t aim! I’m a cyclops, damn it!’
‘Hmmm... in light of this new information, and also because I’m feeling a bit peckish, I have no choice but to let you free.’
If you think this is injust, then feel free to imagine an angry crowd coming up to lynch me and cut me into tiny little pieces, as soon as I was set free.
So you see, it really takes a one-eyed man to truly see. All you two-eyed wankers are nothing but blind, blind, blind....
And you all know....
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king...
*kneels to receive his divine power to rule over all*
YOU NEVER WALK ALONE – CONVERSATIONS WITH MY SPAM FOLDER
My good friend Wint Margarite wrote me an e-mail yesterday telling me about Emma Watson’s ass being destroyed. Poor Emma, that’s what happens if you take too many laxatives. Wint tried to joke about it, saying it was due to his gigantic penis, but I actually thought this sounded a bit morbid.
Another great friend of mine, Nannette Doretha, wrote me about the urgent matter of weight gain. She sent me a link to a website where I could buy some pills to get rid of my excess fat. You know, that’s kind of what I always liked about Nannette, always straightforward in her approach. If she thinks you’re fat, she’ll tell you. I mean I don’t like some of my so-called friends, like Ghlrrm Lhqxqq (he was born in an African tribe where they didn’t believe in vowels), he’s just calling me names all the time, just trying to hurt me. I mean, just look at his email’s subject: ‘Were you drunk? Answer, bastard!’ He always gets pissed when we’re out drinking and then he always blames me, the bitch. I really should kick him back to the forest he came from.
But hey, I’m a nice guy. Just like my ex-roommate Servoss Bertram used to say: ‘Your tool will have great value for them.’ Yeah, that guy was always quite the poet, you never really knew what he meant. But he’s still not over my being gay, he just wrote me that I shouldn’t stay flaccid with ‘her’, while he knows I have a boyfriend. I never expected Servoss to react like this to my coming-out, after all, he was the one who dragged me into his bed every time the sun went down.
When Kerstin Zacarias e-mailed me today, I was quite upset too. She told me she needed my advice, but refused to talk about what it was she wanted advice on (you always have to drag it out of her, it’s tiring). Instead, she just mumbled something about erectile disfunctions and suggested trying some pills, and that was that. I figured that maybe she was pregnant or something, so I told her to get an abortion, she was too young to have a baby, plus it would ruin her career as a top class spammer.
Another fun friend of mine, Jhyig Buxu Socorro, made a fun pun in his mail. ‘Style up your life with classy fake watches!’ As if a fake watch is ever stylish! I wrote back saying that I didn’t understand the need for fake watches, because a fake watch is a device that is unable to tell you the time, right? What else could make it fake? Check and mate!
But my closest and most personal friend is Burket Knedler. He is the only one who truly knows me for who I am. His message brought a tear to my eye: ‘You are the captain of the bedroom!’ Your partner is RAVING to friends about the great sex with you while all of them get normal, boring sex!’ Burket finished his ode to me with a poem. I quote it here because it literally brought tears to my eye...
‘But at length an answer was undo the door, on first page
was disappointing, however, as it contained was done partly
by the invention of new words, she did not seem to hear
rhoda call after her like the son of a gentleman, until
you have forgot.’ (Burket Knedler)
SELLING OF ONE’S SOUL
‘Can I interest you in 600 free calling minutes?’
‘No, you cannot.’
‘But 600 free calling minutes equals 10 hours of time to talk to your friends, relatives or pets who can answer a telephone.’
‘My pet is afraid of phones, once I threw my mobile at her and the beast just ran away in fear.’
‘But what about your family? Surely they know how to operate the telephonic device? And friends, you can’t have friends without a phone!’
‘I don’t like calling people. What would I do with 600 minutes of call-time when the average time I spend calling people on the phone a month lies somewhere between zero and four minutes.’
‘But everyone likes calling!’
‘And everyone laughs at the kind of job you do, but does that mean I have to do it?’
‘But if you sign up now, you get this complementary mobile phone pouch with our company logo on it!’
‘So that I can give you some free advertising in exchange for those 600 minutes that I won’t ever be able to use before they expire? Because of course they expire, right?’
‘Well, naturally! You have four days to use that time up.’
‘So by trying to tempt me into this 600 minute scheme, you’re actually encouraging me to use my mobile for over 2 hours a day, thus inducing the growth of a brain tumour that will very likely affect the speech areas of my brain, making me unable to use the minutes in full because I won’t be able to utter anything any more by the end of the week. Is that your hidden agenda?’
‘Really, sir, no need to be so anal about it.’
‘Gha! Anal is my middle name! Sort of...’
‘It’s only; if I don’t get a sale soon, I’ll probably get the sack.’
‘That’s really not my problem, man, I don’t want your brain tumour.’
‘So, I take it you will not be taking advantage of our limited exclusive offer?’
‘Only if you let me urinate against your leg.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You heard me.’
‘But sir...’
‘Do we have a deal or not?’
SMURF REPAIR
‘Lo! Look at me, Vanity Smurf, wondering through Smurfland with a crooked smurf. I cameth to the smurf shop.’
‘Oh! Cometh here Vanity Smurf, come to Handy Smurf! I have a tool to smurf you right!’
‘Thank you Handy, can you help me to take my wheel off? It’s stuck and I’m afraid I might get stains of dirt on my lovely hands.’
‘Of course Vanity Smurf; it’s not easy smurfing your crooked wheel holding that mirror in your hand, you know!’
‘Oh I know, but how else can I smurf myself?’
‘Okay, okay, let me smurf it for you.’
‘You smurf very well!’
‘Thank you, I have been smurfing for as long as I can remember! So, how are things, Vanity?’
‘Oh, quite good! I’ve had a smurfdate with Poet Smurf!’
‘Did he smurf you?’
‘Oh yeah, all the way in the smurf, man!’
‘Cool! Well, your smurf is repaired, it’s good as new!’
‘Thank you Handy, if there’s ever anything you smurf...’
‘Oh, I know where to smurf you!’
‘Smurftacular!’
PET
I have a pet at the moment; it’s looking at me with its million eyes while I’m typing this. He’s sitting on my left knee, flying around a bit, returning to my knee, carefully exploring our newfound friendship. It’s the third day now that we’re together, yesterday he was with me in the living room, also on my knee, watching me write, watching me get stressed, comforting me by tickling me
a bit. His behaviour is very pet-like, maybe even a tad too gullible for a pet. I can hold my hand over him and he doesn’t budge, knowing I can crush him so easily like just any other irritating fly, but he seems to trust me. I can recognise his behaviour now; I’m keeping him. I’m going to research what flies eat, how to give him a good diet and how to get him to grow attached to me.
‘This fly a metaphor for something missing in your life?’
‘Fuck off, that’s not true! Stop trying to analyse me, will you?!’
‘Don’t you see there’s something strange about this behaviour. A fly you say, how do you even know it’s the same one?’
‘I said so, because I RECOGNISE its behaviour, the way it flies, the way it plays with me, look! look! did you see?’
‘Did I see what?’
‘The way he came to sit on my middle finger, he ALWAYS does that, sits there for about half a second, possible wanting my attention, then flies off to show me what he wants me to see!’
‘So?!’
‘What?’
‘Does this change anything about my postulation about something your life is lacking?’
‘Everyone’s life lacks something! Jeezes, why do you think people have pets in the first place?’
‘But why are you IMAGINING you have a pet?’
‘I’m not imagining anything. Did I even ask for your opinion?’
‘Maybe you didn’t, but I like irritating you. You are so fun to play around with.’
‘If only you were as good a friend as this fly here.’
‘Call me your conscience.’
‘Shut up.’
And here he comes, my fly, resting on my finger again, catching my attention and asking me to play with him.
A metaphor, as if?! Look at how tangible he is.
Pfff.
WHATEVER HAPPENED TO JIMMY?
I wondered if it was a pubic hair of one of the legs of some spider I had killed that rested on my laptop screen. Blowing it off, I decided it didn’t really matter, as it would never again fulfill its primordial function. Did you know liars are more likely to distance themselves from their subjects when they talk about it (calling it ‘a’ pubic hair, ‘some’ spider, instead of ‘my luscious’ pubic hair or ‘Jimmy’ the spider)? Liars also tend to elongate their sentences, e.g. using ‘did not’ instead of ‘didn’t’.
Timmy got a hold of Jimmy
‘You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?’ *shines desk lamp into Timmy’s face*
‘Why, yes, as a matter of fact I do, thanks for noticing.’ *Timmy squints his eyes*
‘Ha-ha, very funny... you know you are not leaving this room until I have a confession that you killed Jimmy!’ *so much spitting on Timmy’s face while he speaks*
‘But I tell you I do not know what happened to Jimmy!’ *Timmy elegantly fishes with fingers in his own nose, hoping for a bite*
‘Oh really? Then why do we have two witnesses confirming they saw you at the scene of the crime, shouting ‘I will cut your fucking head off’?’ *through the man’s teeth, a drop of saliva now unintentionally shoots forward, landing between Timmy’s hands on the table*
‘Because.... err.... wait... I got one... because it wasn’t me who was there, but an imposter... oh, and just maybe.... I was talking to my pubic hair!’ *Timmy leans back and just enjoys this melody (for a split second)*
*sigh* ‘We have DNA evidence connecting you to the crime scene, security camera footage of you getting out of your car together with your victim and a drunk e-mail dated August 13, 1989, where you threaten to kill Jimmy by cutting off his legs, and I quote, ‘wiht a hair of cxissors’ (SIC).’ *almost orgasmic, more drool is spat towards Timmy The Hero*
‘Oh, it’s all a setup! There’s DNA of me to be found everywhere - you can ask my psychiatrist. I’m very territorial; so I have this uncontrollable urge to err... onanically spread my genes all over the cities in which I live... Also, security camera footage? In that resolution, it could be just about any guy with a limp and no clothes on. And an e-mail from 1989? I may have been drunk, but time-travel drunk? I think not.’ *Timmy farts in support of this defense*
‘So... then where were you last night between 9 and 10?’ *switches off desk lamp to save on the police’s energy bill (‘60 Watt lightbulbs? Are you crazy?’ they all said at the station, not clarifying whether his craziness would be related to his careless waste of nuclear electricity or to his torture method of shining light on his interrogees - let’s assume it’s a bit of both)*
‘Why I was in that back alley, killing Jimmy..... oh shit!....’
‘Oh shit, indeed...’
‘Can I say it?’
‘Say what?’
‘Boys, take him away!’
ENGINE START
‘Good day, sir, how do you do?’
‘Hi! How may I help you?’
‘Well, I was looking at this car here. Is there anything specific that separates it from other cars?’
‘Why yes! It is standing closer to us than any of the others!’
‘Really? That’s great! Would you happen to know where I can find matching gloves for the car?’
‘Matching gloves?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be driving it looking like a douche with non-matching gloves, you see...’
‘This is the 21st century, sir. People don’t generally wear gloves any more when they go driving.’
‘Really? I had no idea. Well, that saves me a bit of cash too.’
‘I’m sure it does.’
‘I’ve got expensive taste in gloves, you know.’
*mumbles*: ‘But not in cars apparently…’
‘Can you tell me how heavy the car is? See, I am worried a bit about the riots and I wouldn’t want the rioters to get back problems when lifting up my car...’
‘Err, well, it’s a pretty light car, this one.’
‘Good! Perhaps I can also put on a note on each side of the car that explains how one should lift properly, from the knees, not the back...’
‘Anything else you’d want to know?’
‘Well, I’m not saying I would use this feature of the car, but if I were to use the car as a car bomb, do you think I could get some of my money back for some parts of the car that are still intact?’
‘I guess...’
‘I mean, of course I’d wipe the blood and guts off the pieces.’
‘I notice that the colour of the car is black. Can this be driven by white boys such as myself?’
‘Naturally, the car is not racist, sir.’
‘But do you think black boys will now come up to me and attempt to seduce me?’
‘The chances of this happening are slim, sir, the car is painfully un-cool, so the most attractive things you would attract with it are flies squashed against the windshield.’
‘Oh, more good news then. I wouldn’t want to get myself a pimp-mobile, you know.’
‘Pimps don’t drive Volkswagen Polos, sir.’
‘Don’t give me all that technical mumbo-jumbo, I don’t even know what a Volshwagapolos is! Is that part of the engine?’
‘That’s the name of the car, sir.’
‘Really? But I wanted to call it Boris. Do you think I can change its name?’
‘I’m sure it wouldn’t mind, sir.’ *sighs*
‘But it is a boy, right? I’m never sure with cars. I mean, I don’t want to drive a girl-car.’
‘Well, in that case it’s a boy, yes.’
‘That’s a relief... You know what? I think I’ll take it.’
‘You don’t want to do a test drive?’
‘Nah, I wouldn’t want to wake it just now.’
‘... Okay then...’
I JUST CAN’T WAIT TO BE KING
I may not live near a place with hills, because I have never had the pleasure of rolling from one (or does the hill roll off of me? I wonder...), nor did I ever feel the urge to avalanche myself thusly (I avalanche - I avalaunched - I have avalanded).
Everyone has a goal in life. What if mine is to be the Potato King of my street? Like everyone with a goal in life, one has to push certain buttons to reach one’s targets. People who want to be sheep shaggers go out and buy some lamb chops (just to get the feel of it, you wouldn’t want your first sheep to know that it’s your first time, do you?), people who want to be dentists go out and start losing their will to live and those who want a nuclear strike to hit their town call a country that has some A-bombs....
‘Hello, North Korea, is that you?’
‘Yes, this North Korea’
‘Can I speak to Kim-Jong Il? Your beloved Leader? It’s important!’
(*yells out in palace of Doom:*) ‘KIMMY!!!!!!! Someone in telephone! Needs you! Stop playing with your trains!’
Stop Talking To Yourself Page 3
