My mother is (discounting any amusing plane crashes) going to walk through the front door in 31 minutes. Yep, that last paragraph took me two minutes to write. That works out at, like, 45 words a minute. That's SHIT. I bet Stephen Hawkings can type faster than that with his tentacle or whatever the fuck it is that he uses to navigate through the empty shell of his life. And when she gets home I think that we'll all be able to breathe a big old sigh of relief. Yep, I can formally hand over the whole 'looking after the abode' thing to her and get back to doing what I do best: NOTHING. Well, to be honest, I wasn't doing much anyway when she wasn't here, but there was good deal of neurotic worriment to my nothing-doing when she was not in the building.
The puddle of tea/coffee on the tabletop... it was still there in the morning. Except the water had evaporated, leaving some nasty brown smudge that wouldn't budge no matter HOW hard I scrubbed it. Granted, the extents of my efforts were to pick up a sponge from the sink and kind of brush the stain a bit, but I'm pretty sure that even the STRONGEST of efforts wouldn't have been able to shift it. So I sort of covered it with the sugar-bowl and sidled off.
Twenty-five mins til she gets back.
I invited, like, nine people here to have a mass house partay (following the pattern of my leader and hero, Tom Cruise-Control in Risky Business). Guess how many came, or even bothered to reply to me? Two. TWO. THAT IS SHIT. YOU LOT ARE CRAP FRIENDS. I don't care if you were abroad, you're still crap. THAT DOES IT I'M GETTING MYSELF A NEW GANG. A cool gang who will actually take the time to reply to my text messages and will come to my house for fun and will BRING SOME FOOD. In this case, fish freshly caught from the sea. In order to make this gang distinctive, I've decided to have some restrictions on joining. Basically, to become a fully fledged member of People I like, you must be a penguin. Or Oli G, Abi or Lucia (two of whom came, one of whom is MY GIRLFRIEND. YES I HAVE A GIRLFRIEND. AND ITS OLI G). Or Cassie, who at least had a passing interest on coming but then just fell through like the crumbly patch of bridge she is.
Penguins are cool. And delicious, incidentally.
I would also use my penguin-clansmen as a security force to guard my house from the evil forces of Mordor.
I was kinda scared that somebody was gonna break into the house** and, like, steal the priceless family jewels. Tee hee, I said family jewels. What would I do if somebody broke into the house? Well naturally, I'd take them down with some well placed kung-fu. WACHOP KAPOW... down goes that fuckin' burglar, throat crushed, coughing up his stomach lining, unable to walk. KA-MUFFIN, WUH-PAH, down goes his evil assistant, teeth mushed in, nose just a hollow, testicles flattened into a small pink disk, kneecaps at acute angles, leaking spinal fluid and brain matter all over the carpet. Then I take an axe*** to their spines with gleeful abandon. Then I tie one to a wheelchair, set fire to him and roll him down a hill! Owned!***** And I roll the other in a carpet and THROW HIM OFF A BRIDGE! PWNED!!!!!!!! LOLZ!!!!!!!!OMGOMOGMOGLOLZ!
BUT WHAT IF A BURGLAR BREAKS IN AND I HAPPEN TO BE INCAPACITATED IN SOME WAY? You know, my legs have been lost in a hilarious industrial accident. Or if I've been poisoned by one of my many enemies. Or, perhaps I was listening to Linkin Park and the pure dark rebelliousness of the lyrics lulls me into an anti-authoritarian coma. Somebody evil could break in and steal it all while I just lie there bleeding into my sushi. I CAN'T LET THAT HAPPEN. THE FAMILY JEWELS MUST BE KEPT SAFE. SAFE FROM RUFFIANS AND TOP SECRET JEWEL THIEVES AND EVEN THE ARCH MASTERMIND ERNST STAVROS BLOEFELD:
I don't trust these criminals.
My mother should have arrived two minutes ago. I feel pretty-fucking-abandoned. But there's been no news of major plane crashes yet. I think. I dunno, there aren't any in the road directly outside my house. I'd have heard. So there's no need to worry JUST YET.
But I'm worrying. While I was up here, the crooks could've be breaking in. HOW WAS I TO PROTECT MY HOUSE? BUT THEN IT HIT ME. The answer had been staring me in the face all week: the ultimate 'Home Alone' film, about protecting your home from burglars. The plot of this film centres around a young boy who's left Home Alone in his Home (Alone). The boy who is left Home Alone is played by famous rasta movie icon Macauly Culken or however the fuck you spell it.
Macauly Culken in his hey-day as family actor/rapper
While this boy is Home Alone, his house is attacked by burglars. Well, instead of phoning the police or shooting them or something realistic, the Home Alone boy just builds masses of ultra-cool traps and mutilates them for a good twenty minutes. The crooks then get hit on the head with a shovel by some old guy. In the sequel to this film, the boy does this again, except this time the crooks end up being eaten by pigeons or something. And all this while the boy is Home Alone. I can't remember what the film was called, I think that it was "The boy who committed GBH on some poor criminals but ended up being the hero." Twat.
This film is factually inaccurate in two main areas. Firstly, one of the criminals is Joe Pesci. Now, I'm no fancy historian, but I do know that, historically, YOU DO NOT FUCK ABOUT WITH JOE PESCI. HE WILL HURT YOU. So really, after the first time the boy sets fire to ol'Joe, Joe wouldn't have sat around and let him do it again. The Joe I KNOW woulda set fire to the boy's mother. Then the boy's house. Then he'd have baseball batted the boy's dog to death JUST BECAUSE HE FELT LIKE IT. That's what kinda guy Joe is: YOU DO NOT FUCK AROUND WITH HIM.
Secondly, is it even legal to drop spanners on, throw bricks at, set fire to, blow up, electrocute, throw cement at, drop paint-cans at, swing heavy metal pipes at, push tool-chests down the chair at, set fire to (again), defenstrate, scar, throw off buildings, and then pigeon-attack, criminals? Seems a TAD OVER THE TOP to me. So I asked the guy who makes the laws, Tony Blair:
It was nice of Tony to give me his time.
He said that it was all ok, just so long as no permanent marks were left on the criminals. This means that Macauly should have been throwin in jail for recklessly assaulting those crooks. Then it'd have been "The boy who committed GBH on some poor criminals but ended up being the hero 3: Ass poundage in jail."
So I decided to build a set of death-traps around my house to protect me from all the evil catburglars and whatnot. But then I re-read this post and realised that it was already dangerously incoherent and was mere inches away from imploding under the weight of it's own utter shittitude, so I just left my dogs downstairs and gave up on the whole idea. The dogs'll sort out any burglars. Hell, one of them bit Abi yesterday, just because she happened to disrespect their authoritah. Woop.
What the fuck is going on now? My mother is now 19 minutes late. Maybe there WAS a plane crash. Good. That'll teach those fucking stewardesses not to give me lamb when I specifically asked for pork.
Losers.
*I know this is a misspelling, but it was too good to let go. The idea of a bag of handicapped people makes me laugh, and at the end of the day, that's all that counts, isn't it? Fuck off.
**Not really, but this lets me include a new ker-azy**** pop reference.
***In America, axe is spelt ax. Apparently that extra 'e' to make the work non-retarded is JUST A BIT TOO DIFFICULT TO HANDLE, eh, guys? This is why your space shuttle is going to explode - you just don't go that extra mile. "Oh I can't put an extra 'e' on the end of 'ax', it's too hard. "I can't superglue that bit of foam packing back into place in the shuttle, it's too hard". BASICALLY THE SAME THING, RETARDS. In conclusion: McDonalds suck.
****When I say ker-azy, I mean pointless******.
*****This is known in acadamic circles as "The Roy Method."
******Man, asterisks are fun.*******
*******You're gay. Rinsed.
No comments:
Post a Comment