I have decided that love sucks. Well, not love. Relationships. Well, not even relationships. Teenage relationships. Well, not even that. I mean teenage relationships that revolve around two or more couples sitting sucking each others lips while I sit there and stare blankly at a wall, trying to blot out the loud sounds of suction. Seriously, guys, today was like the internet history of Micheal Jackson, there were so many horny 16 year olds. OOH BURNED.
And anyway, what is this deal with kissing? Its just UNSAVOURY. Here's how the dictionary defines 'kiss':
Kiss n. A band from the 70's sporting cabucki theater make up and black leather costumes.They play awesome rock and roll and have survived line up changes and death of a member.
See? I rest my case. It is unsavoury. So don't act like you're so damn mature when you manage to pull it off. Mwahhaa. (Why did me typing 'pull it off' make me cackle so damn much?) So, in conclusion, I have decided that ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.
Firstly, I don't like relationships. They require too much hard work. You have to, you know, take the effort to go and see the person and you have to talk to them and stuff. Apparently, just sitting in blank silence and playing with your phone for an hour, before checking your watch and striding out of the room doesn't seem to be a good example of 'quality time'. And I always end up looking like a frigid freak. ITS NOT MY FAULT THAT I HAVE NO SEXUAL CHEMISTRY WITH ANYONE. I am like the least sexually chemicular person ever. I'm the human equivalent of Wadey. Seriously, I could be locked in a room with Paris Hilton, and it would take a full four hours before she was blowing me. That's a long time, by the way. I was rinsing Paris Hilton. Because I hate her. Skank bitch.
And after a while you end up getting pissed off with each other / pregnant / getting STDs. And in the end, no matter how well the relationship goes, you both end up dead anyway. So, great one there. I just totally RINSED love. Did you hear me? Wicked. But, on the other hand, sex sounds like fun. And you need something to high five your friends with (male) or feel guilty about having done too soon (female).
nb: I just re-read that sentence. You do not literally high five your friends with sex. That would be unpleasant, heavy, sticky, and everyone would have to go and wash their hands thoroughly (with soap AND water) afterwards. So, don't do it. Have sex, THEN tell your friends, THEN high five.
Tangent over.
After a fruitful day of gazing at people making out, I have decided that a change is due. No longer will I be made to feel socially inept for not pulling the face off The Cowman. I will no longer endure your snooty looks as you lather yourself in someone else's saliva, phlegm, and half-digested food. No more will I be the weird asexual frigid freak at parties. Mwahahhaa. For, me and the Cazzoid have developed a brilliant system, that solves every problem, removes me of all the responsibility of relationships and still doesn't mean that my love life is deader than this fucking kitten:
(Imagine a really really nasty picture of a kitten dying/exploding here, I can't be bothered to make one properly at this point in time)
What is this plan called, I hear you cry? Simple:
Couple by Engagement
Basically, its very simple. You pretend to be a couple, but you don't actually do anything couply eg. talking, pulling, taking any effort to go and see each other, looking at etc.
BUT at the same time, you save up all your couply stuff. Then you release it all in a really crazy 10 minutes at some point in the future. This date will be pre-arranged. I'm imagining a wild orgy of crazy sex, latex, and wild and crazy arguments over the other partner's screwing around.
The BRILLIANCE of this plan is that you are absolved of all the consequences of coupledom, safe in the knowledge that any problems you have with your partner will be solved during the crazy ten minutes. You can literally do ANYTHING, and your partner can't say a word. Of course, they can equally be a bitch to you, so a trust system will evolve.
You're allowed to screw around, ignore your partner, disappear for weeks on end, get drunk, insult each other, and chase whatever bit of skirt takes your attention. I don't think I actually discussed that part of the plan with Cassoid, but if she wishes to complain, she can do on our crazy hour of death.
Therefore, all the nasty and boring bits of coupledom are cut out, and you can give the finger to all the other 'traditional' couples who will all die of AIDS pretty soon anyway. HA HA, you got screwed. Literally.... and now I've lost interest. Roll on May 24th.
This plan isn't going to work. I am going to die sad and lonely. Ah well.
A gay cow's worst fear? AIDS (Acquired imoono deficiancy syndrome)
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Monday, April 11, 2005
On swearing
After some due consideration/soul searching, I have decided to swear less on this blog.
It was after I realised that I actually am the most foul mouthed member of the boat club. Now, this is no mean feat. The boaties are well known for their amazing use of expetives, throwing around the C word left, right, and fuckin' centre.
'OI, GET THE F...ING BALANCE YOU STUPID C...TS!'
'SHUT THE F... UP YOU C...!'
And that's just the teachers. A-ha-ha. The boys are even worse. And god bless us.
We are the most foul mothed of the sports, with effing and blinding being heard literally every minute during a de-rigging session. But I'm pretty sure I still managed to be the most filthy speaking potty mouthed sonofabitch who ever picked up an oar, and I'm pretty proud of that. The spewing forth of that amount of language is a complicated discipline, needing many hours of study, tongue weightlifting, language therapy, and standing on one leg on a post in the 'crane' position, while repeating the three core words over again: 'Fuck... shit... cunt... fuck... shit... cunt... hummmmm.' I did a lot of yen mediation too in a pub full of scousers, so that the foulness of the language could fully permate my entire soul.
It was hard, it was painful, but it was worth it.
But now, I have decided to tone down the ol' language a bit. Why? I'll tell you. As you all know, I have two idols in life: Ghandi and Stephen Fry*. And neither of them swore very much. Um. But for one much more important reason. Something my mother told me on her deathbed. Well, not her deathbed. You never know, she might die on it. I just had a thought. If somebody falls out of a plane (I dunno how, there's a hole in the floor or something), and they fall and they crash into a bed and die, does that bed become their deathbed? What if they crash into a hammock? Is it a death-hammock? Well, if I fall out of a plane, I don't want to end up in a death-hammock. Hammocks are silly and once you get into one, you can't get out without looking stupid. And the one time you don't wanna look stupid is when you're dead; you can't say something witty to get out it.
So, yeah. Something my mother told me on the bed that might be her deathbed, depending on her exact location when she dies:
Every time you swear, God kills a kitten.
Firstly, the actual proverb goes somewhat differently, but my mother is a frail, simple, confused person and I don't think she quite understands the concept of masturbation (which, by the way, Mrs Ogg, your son has been doing INTO THE CAULIFLOWER). Anyway, its now swearing that makes God kill kittens, not masturbation. And when she told me this, I was shocked. I swear so damn much... there must be a mountain of kittens somewhere that are dead JUST because of me. But how many? I did a bit of maths.
On average, I estimate that I swear once every two minutes, which is 30 times an hour (this is about right). If I'm awake for twelve hours a day, and I've been swearing competitively for an average of six years, then...
30 swear-words an hour x 12 hours a day x 365 days a year x 6 years = hahahahhahahhahahhahahaha.
I have sworn roughly 788,400 times over the course of my swearing life. Fuckin' brilliant. That's a LOT of cats. If the average new-born kitten weights 3.5 ounces, then I've taken out 2,759,400 ounces of kitten. THAT'S NEARLY 77 TONNES. DO I RULE OR NOT? That is quite an achievement. I am actually proud of myself for wiping out that many of the cat population.
I wonder if there's a huge pile of dead kittens out there somewhere. And how does God kill the kittens? Do they just collapse in the street or do rocks fall from above and split open their little heads? Its an interesting survey. In fact, I reckon that I'll do a test. All I'll need is a kitten and a swear word.
AND AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT...
Aww. Its so damn cute. Look at its little eyes. It's just so iccle and sweet, just begging to be stroked, petted, fed with food, and allowed to grow into a happy and healthy little member of society.
Its just a pity that can't happen.
I know, I know, I'm evil, I'm nasty. I shouldn't be allowed to perform experiments on animals in this matter. I should be locked in a cage and experimented on. But I have to do this, for the good of humanity. If I don't, who knows what sort of crazy shit will happen next? What if our mothers lied to us all along? What if swearing is a good thing? What if, instead of killing kittens, it takes out terrorists? You say the F-word and a hijacker has a heart attack. Or perhaps instead of killing kittens, it SAVES kittens from a nasty fate? We just don't know.
And if they're wrong about this one, what about everything else. Perhaps if the wind changes, our faces WON'T stay like that!
And... God forbid... do you think they were lying about crusts on sandwiches? WHAT IF THE CRUSTS AREN'T GOOD FOR US? What if the crusts are ACTUALLY POISONOUS? CHRIST. WE COULD ALL BE KILLING OURSELVES AS WE CHEW.
So you see, it is my duty as a MAN to do this. I must just see if the mothers were lying to us all along... I'm doing this for the good of humanity. I should... nay, I must... do this. I'm sorry.
Fuck.
Well, what do you know, they were telling the truth. That's a relief. Brave kitten, you died in a good cause.
What delicious snacks do cows enjoy? Moofins.
*Not really. They are both gimps. Fry is fat and Ghandi is thin. I guess if you mixed them together in an industrial cement mixer, you might get a normal sized guy. A homosexual indian spiritual leader/gameshow host with a nice cheery face and a fuckoff bizarre accent called Stephatma Fryndi.
It was after I realised that I actually am the most foul mouthed member of the boat club. Now, this is no mean feat. The boaties are well known for their amazing use of expetives, throwing around the C word left, right, and fuckin' centre.
'OI, GET THE F...ING BALANCE YOU STUPID C...TS!'
'SHUT THE F... UP YOU C...!'
And that's just the teachers. A-ha-ha. The boys are even worse. And god bless us.
We are the most foul mothed of the sports, with effing and blinding being heard literally every minute during a de-rigging session. But I'm pretty sure I still managed to be the most filthy speaking potty mouthed sonofabitch who ever picked up an oar, and I'm pretty proud of that. The spewing forth of that amount of language is a complicated discipline, needing many hours of study, tongue weightlifting, language therapy, and standing on one leg on a post in the 'crane' position, while repeating the three core words over again: 'Fuck... shit... cunt... fuck... shit... cunt... hummmmm.' I did a lot of yen mediation too in a pub full of scousers, so that the foulness of the language could fully permate my entire soul.
It was hard, it was painful, but it was worth it.
But now, I have decided to tone down the ol' language a bit. Why? I'll tell you. As you all know, I have two idols in life: Ghandi and Stephen Fry*. And neither of them swore very much. Um. But for one much more important reason. Something my mother told me on her deathbed. Well, not her deathbed. You never know, she might die on it. I just had a thought. If somebody falls out of a plane (I dunno how, there's a hole in the floor or something), and they fall and they crash into a bed and die, does that bed become their deathbed? What if they crash into a hammock? Is it a death-hammock? Well, if I fall out of a plane, I don't want to end up in a death-hammock. Hammocks are silly and once you get into one, you can't get out without looking stupid. And the one time you don't wanna look stupid is when you're dead; you can't say something witty to get out it.
So, yeah. Something my mother told me on the bed that might be her deathbed, depending on her exact location when she dies:
Every time you swear, God kills a kitten.
Firstly, the actual proverb goes somewhat differently, but my mother is a frail, simple, confused person and I don't think she quite understands the concept of masturbation (which, by the way, Mrs Ogg, your son has been doing INTO THE CAULIFLOWER). Anyway, its now swearing that makes God kill kittens, not masturbation. And when she told me this, I was shocked. I swear so damn much... there must be a mountain of kittens somewhere that are dead JUST because of me. But how many? I did a bit of maths.
On average, I estimate that I swear once every two minutes, which is 30 times an hour (this is about right). If I'm awake for twelve hours a day, and I've been swearing competitively for an average of six years, then...
30 swear-words an hour x 12 hours a day x 365 days a year x 6 years = hahahahhahahhahahhahahaha.
I have sworn roughly 788,400 times over the course of my swearing life. Fuckin' brilliant. That's a LOT of cats. If the average new-born kitten weights 3.5 ounces, then I've taken out 2,759,400 ounces of kitten. THAT'S NEARLY 77 TONNES. DO I RULE OR NOT? That is quite an achievement. I am actually proud of myself for wiping out that many of the cat population.
I wonder if there's a huge pile of dead kittens out there somewhere. And how does God kill the kittens? Do they just collapse in the street or do rocks fall from above and split open their little heads? Its an interesting survey. In fact, I reckon that I'll do a test. All I'll need is a kitten and a swear word.
AND AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT...
Aww. Its so damn cute. Look at its little eyes. It's just so iccle and sweet, just begging to be stroked, petted, fed with food, and allowed to grow into a happy and healthy little member of society.
Its just a pity that can't happen.
I know, I know, I'm evil, I'm nasty. I shouldn't be allowed to perform experiments on animals in this matter. I should be locked in a cage and experimented on. But I have to do this, for the good of humanity. If I don't, who knows what sort of crazy shit will happen next? What if our mothers lied to us all along? What if swearing is a good thing? What if, instead of killing kittens, it takes out terrorists? You say the F-word and a hijacker has a heart attack. Or perhaps instead of killing kittens, it SAVES kittens from a nasty fate? We just don't know.
And if they're wrong about this one, what about everything else. Perhaps if the wind changes, our faces WON'T stay like that!
And... God forbid... do you think they were lying about crusts on sandwiches? WHAT IF THE CRUSTS AREN'T GOOD FOR US? What if the crusts are ACTUALLY POISONOUS? CHRIST. WE COULD ALL BE KILLING OURSELVES AS WE CHEW.
So you see, it is my duty as a MAN to do this. I must just see if the mothers were lying to us all along... I'm doing this for the good of humanity. I should... nay, I must... do this. I'm sorry.
Fuck.
Well, what do you know, they were telling the truth. That's a relief. Brave kitten, you died in a good cause.
What delicious snacks do cows enjoy? Moofins.
*Not really. They are both gimps. Fry is fat and Ghandi is thin. I guess if you mixed them together in an industrial cement mixer, you might get a normal sized guy. A homosexual indian spiritual leader/gameshow host with a nice cheery face and a fuckoff bizarre accent called Stephatma Fryndi.
If you are Ogg's mother, please read this post.
I have recently become aware of the fact that Mrs Ogg, the mother of our dear Ogg, has become rather worried about how her son is turning out; apparently she suspects him of drugs, hanging out with the wrong crowd and all sorts of mischief. And the Ogg's mother/Steve relationship doesn't seem to be getting on as well as it should (although I don't blame her; Steve is just the physical form of that horrified/sickened feeling you get when you see a man with no skin).
However, I don't think that I'd be any sort of a friend if I allowed THAT sort of thing to continue (as you all know, my own mother suspected me of being a homosexual bondage slave for some months, until she found out that I was just frigidly terrified of intimacy and sexual relations, which meant that her plan was going swell), and therefore, I decided to see for myself.
After some months (read: seconds) of careful espionage, stalking, camera and bug placement, false beards, surreptitious midnight rendezvous, and even one occasion when I had to squeeze my body into the shape of a doormat to avoid being detected, I have compiled a full and frank report of Ogg, to see just what's been going on. I call it:
The Ogg Files (It's like the X Files but much more mysterious and disturbing, and with less of David Schwimmer's annoying head. Fucking David Schwimmer. His ONLY good role was in Band of Brothers, and that was just because a: My father worked on it and b: Everyone hated him and took the piss)
I will dissect every part of dear Ogg's life, just to see if there is anything for her to worry about, and whether she should call in social services/an electro shocking machine. So, let's see.
1: Drugs
Apparently, Ogg's parent is convinced that he is a drug guzzling monster, sniffing his collar and interrogating him as to whether he's been smoking cannabis. Well, Mrs Ogg, I have to tell you, you have everything to fear. Ogg is the worst drug junkieman since the Michelin Man (who was originally red) discovered cocaine.
Have you ever seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? It's the film version of the book by the Great, Popified, Hunter S Thompson (nb: Popified is a new word I made up. It means dead) It's about these two guys who drive around Las Vegas getting shitfaced. However, there is one passage, which I need to quote, just to convey to you my point:
We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole multi colored collection of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls.
Think thats bad? Pah. Its Ogg's muthafuckin' SCHOOL BREAK. I have a peanut butter and jam sandwich, he just goes through that lot. All day long, he's a-chewin' at that LSD, a-poppin' those pills and a-knockin' back that tequila. We try, oh we TRY to make him stop. "Stop, Ogg!" I cry, trying to pull the bag of extra-hallucogenic magic mushrooms from his grasp. "Shut up, pussy!" he hisses, shoving me aside before eating the whole bag, then washing it down with one of those water-cooler bottles of Pimms.
You know at home, how your broccoli and cottage cheese lasagna always excites him? It's cos the makeup of his plate is roughly 60% lasagna, 30% mescaline, 10% acid. Yeah, he drinks that acid by the pint glass, none of that blotter stuff for him. He says it makes it more fun. He's already been expelled from Hampton, KGS, LEH, Sir William Perkins's AND Rectory, but due to the vagaries of the British Postal system, the letters have yet to reach you. He now spends his time dealing drugs on the street.
I think he might have a drug problem.
2: Basketball
Well, have you heard the urban legend that basketball is just a codeword for 'violent street gangs who get their kicks from murdering, pillaging, graffiti, car theft, joyriding and wanton jaywalking, vandalism and large scale property destruction'? It's not an urban legend. Its true.
Your dear Ogg is part of a violent backstreet army known only as the 'Wicked Rebel Boyz', who spend their time doing the activities I've just listed. I managed to infiltrate the gang during my investigations by pretending to be a black body-builder called Raphael, and it seems that Ogg has been elected king of this army of vice. Already, they have established dominance on the local graphiti and vandalism front. Mrs Ogg, if you take the time to go outside and check your front wall, you will see that it is no longer there; the Wicked Rebel Boyz stole all the bricks and replaced them with chewing gum wrappers from a raid in Staines.
The Wicked Rebel Boyz are planning a frontal armed war on a rival street gang, the Hampton Jazz Cafe, in three days, and already have stockpiled a cache of guns, ammo and offensive cudgels. I advise you to do something about this NOW. Put a lock on his room (actually, he'll kick down the door. He did it in the British Museum and he'll do it again), chain him to the floor (actually, he'll just break the chains with his teeth, like he did with his handcuffs in Stockholm), or phone the police. Actually, scratch that. DO NOT PHONE THE POLICE if you don't want a political scandal on your hands.
Dear Ogg has slightly gone astray. Perhaps you could call the Supernanny in from Channel 4's 'Supernanny' to sort him out, through positive discipline, rewards, gentle nagging and the naughty step.
3: His friends
Rapscallions, the lot of 'em. Well, two exceptions. They are dear Tommy Pheepps, a chaste non-drinker who in his spare time helps out at charity raffles and saves baby kittens from mines, and dear Mickey Youneese, a black man who spends most of his time either at prayer or painstakingly whittling models of the Cutty Sark out of soap. Those two are ok, trying to steer Ogg out of the path of temptation. But the rest, ooh, I wouldn't trust them for one SECOND near your son. Here's a breakdown of my results:
Oli G: Manwhore, drug addict, cuts down trees in Bushy Park with an axe for fun, also hunts wild dear. And, most disturbingly, is not a vegetarian. Not a nice person.
Paul: Midget, wild and crazy hair denotes a homosexual, stalker, cocaine dealer, wife beater, also likes to set fire to old people. Not a nice person.
Bibby: Christian fundamentalist who also worships the devil, also a pimp, hired goon for the mob, known in specialist circles as 'Black-souled Bibby the Boston Butcher'. Not a nice person.
Marios: Homosexual who is trying to lure your son into the ways of the queer. Also, is an apple scrumper, and five time rapist of old women/young boys/babies/sheep. Not a nice person.
I think we can all agree that he is hanging out with the wrong crowd.
5: His musical tastes
He listens to Eminem and Placebo. Sounds of the Devil. The Devilllllll. He's already into animal sacrifice in his room, and his gang is looking for somebody willing to participate in a human bloodletting. All in all, you should get him back onto classical music QUICK. But not Bach. God help you if he starts listening to Bach again.
6: Girls
Girls! Ha ha. You were right to be worried when he started hanging around with GIRLS. Girls are behind every bad thing to ever happen on the world EVER.
Adam and Eve being thrown out of the Garden of Eden, therefore condemning humanity for all time? Girls.
Indiana Jones being captured by the Nazis, therefore nearly causing the destruction of freedom as we know it, in blockbuster spectacular Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Girls.
Luke nearly being taken over by the dark side and becoming an evil sith because of his nasty, nasty father, Darth Vader? Girls.
The Pope dying? Girls.
So this intrusion of females into dear Ogg's life is nothing short of a catastrophe. Already they have begun to work their wicked ways on him; he's emptied your bank account to buy them perfume, fine silk stockings and lipstick containing real rubies, and has skipped school (not that that matters now) to hang around with them on street corners.
And they aren't simple schoolgirls, as was once assumed. No, they are beer-swigging, coke snorting prostitutes, every one of them (with a single exception), and it was they who first got him into the pimping business. Especially Abi. I don't trust her. So now, all the time he's not spending with the Wicked Rebel Boyz, he's driving around in a pink convertible, wearing a purple suit, topped off with a purple hat with a jay's feather and a solid gold walking stick, drive by shooting other pimps and beating up whores with his posse.
I said there was one exception who wasn't a whore. That exception is the one known as Steve. She isn't his whore. She's his WIFE. They got married in a shotgun (literally) ceremony just outside Staines, and ever since has been doing strange crazy sexual shenanigans all day and all night. Every part of your house has seen them spraying their bodily fluids around; Ogg's bed, your bed, the dining room table, the kitchen surface, the oven, each and every one of the dinner plates and a large proportion of the forks, and they even used several uncooked broccoli sticks as sexual toys. Hint: that wasn't fish in that broccoli and garlic pasta. They both also like latex.
And you were correct. Steve hates you, and is plotting the exact moment when she kidnaps you and throws you into a huge pit before seducing your husband and taking her place at the top of the Ogg family tree. I would be very worried, and possibly call in some protection. I would have suggested John Creasy from Man on Fire, but he dies at the end. Haha, I ruined the end of the film. Oh well, it wasn't that good, really.
Overall
Basically, Mrs Ogg, your son HAS gone totally off the rails. He is an evil rapscallion and you are fully justified in worrying about him. In my humble opinion, the only thing you really can do is to send him away, possibly to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he can sit and think about what hes done, while having many exciting and magical adventures with Harry, Ron, Hermione and the rest of the gang.
(Yes, I know David Schwimmer wasn't in the X Files, you dipshits, it just struck me as amusing.)
Where did Jewish cows go in Nazi Germany? Extermoonation camps.
However, I don't think that I'd be any sort of a friend if I allowed THAT sort of thing to continue (as you all know, my own mother suspected me of being a homosexual bondage slave for some months, until she found out that I was just frigidly terrified of intimacy and sexual relations, which meant that her plan was going swell), and therefore, I decided to see for myself.
After some months (read: seconds) of careful espionage, stalking, camera and bug placement, false beards, surreptitious midnight rendezvous, and even one occasion when I had to squeeze my body into the shape of a doormat to avoid being detected, I have compiled a full and frank report of Ogg, to see just what's been going on. I call it:
The Ogg Files (It's like the X Files but much more mysterious and disturbing, and with less of David Schwimmer's annoying head. Fucking David Schwimmer. His ONLY good role was in Band of Brothers, and that was just because a: My father worked on it and b: Everyone hated him and took the piss)
I will dissect every part of dear Ogg's life, just to see if there is anything for her to worry about, and whether she should call in social services/an electro shocking machine. So, let's see.
1: Drugs
Apparently, Ogg's parent is convinced that he is a drug guzzling monster, sniffing his collar and interrogating him as to whether he's been smoking cannabis. Well, Mrs Ogg, I have to tell you, you have everything to fear. Ogg is the worst drug junkieman since the Michelin Man (who was originally red) discovered cocaine.
Have you ever seen Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? It's the film version of the book by the Great, Popified, Hunter S Thompson (nb: Popified is a new word I made up. It means dead) It's about these two guys who drive around Las Vegas getting shitfaced. However, there is one passage, which I need to quote, just to convey to you my point:
We had two bags of grass, seventy-five pellets of mescaline, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine, and a whole multi colored collection of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, a case of beer, a pint of raw ether, and two dozen amyls.
Think thats bad? Pah. Its Ogg's muthafuckin' SCHOOL BREAK. I have a peanut butter and jam sandwich, he just goes through that lot. All day long, he's a-chewin' at that LSD, a-poppin' those pills and a-knockin' back that tequila. We try, oh we TRY to make him stop. "Stop, Ogg!" I cry, trying to pull the bag of extra-hallucogenic magic mushrooms from his grasp. "Shut up, pussy!" he hisses, shoving me aside before eating the whole bag, then washing it down with one of those water-cooler bottles of Pimms.
You know at home, how your broccoli and cottage cheese lasagna always excites him? It's cos the makeup of his plate is roughly 60% lasagna, 30% mescaline, 10% acid. Yeah, he drinks that acid by the pint glass, none of that blotter stuff for him. He says it makes it more fun. He's already been expelled from Hampton, KGS, LEH, Sir William Perkins's AND Rectory, but due to the vagaries of the British Postal system, the letters have yet to reach you. He now spends his time dealing drugs on the street.
I think he might have a drug problem.
2: Basketball
Well, have you heard the urban legend that basketball is just a codeword for 'violent street gangs who get their kicks from murdering, pillaging, graffiti, car theft, joyriding and wanton jaywalking, vandalism and large scale property destruction'? It's not an urban legend. Its true.
Your dear Ogg is part of a violent backstreet army known only as the 'Wicked Rebel Boyz', who spend their time doing the activities I've just listed. I managed to infiltrate the gang during my investigations by pretending to be a black body-builder called Raphael, and it seems that Ogg has been elected king of this army of vice. Already, they have established dominance on the local graphiti and vandalism front. Mrs Ogg, if you take the time to go outside and check your front wall, you will see that it is no longer there; the Wicked Rebel Boyz stole all the bricks and replaced them with chewing gum wrappers from a raid in Staines.
The Wicked Rebel Boyz are planning a frontal armed war on a rival street gang, the Hampton Jazz Cafe, in three days, and already have stockpiled a cache of guns, ammo and offensive cudgels. I advise you to do something about this NOW. Put a lock on his room (actually, he'll kick down the door. He did it in the British Museum and he'll do it again), chain him to the floor (actually, he'll just break the chains with his teeth, like he did with his handcuffs in Stockholm), or phone the police. Actually, scratch that. DO NOT PHONE THE POLICE if you don't want a political scandal on your hands.
Dear Ogg has slightly gone astray. Perhaps you could call the Supernanny in from Channel 4's 'Supernanny' to sort him out, through positive discipline, rewards, gentle nagging and the naughty step.
3: His friends
Rapscallions, the lot of 'em. Well, two exceptions. They are dear Tommy Pheepps, a chaste non-drinker who in his spare time helps out at charity raffles and saves baby kittens from mines, and dear Mickey Youneese, a black man who spends most of his time either at prayer or painstakingly whittling models of the Cutty Sark out of soap. Those two are ok, trying to steer Ogg out of the path of temptation. But the rest, ooh, I wouldn't trust them for one SECOND near your son. Here's a breakdown of my results:
Oli G: Manwhore, drug addict, cuts down trees in Bushy Park with an axe for fun, also hunts wild dear. And, most disturbingly, is not a vegetarian. Not a nice person.
Paul: Midget, wild and crazy hair denotes a homosexual, stalker, cocaine dealer, wife beater, also likes to set fire to old people. Not a nice person.
Bibby: Christian fundamentalist who also worships the devil, also a pimp, hired goon for the mob, known in specialist circles as 'Black-souled Bibby the Boston Butcher'. Not a nice person.
Marios: Homosexual who is trying to lure your son into the ways of the queer. Also, is an apple scrumper, and five time rapist of old women/young boys/babies/sheep. Not a nice person.
I think we can all agree that he is hanging out with the wrong crowd.
5: His musical tastes
He listens to Eminem and Placebo. Sounds of the Devil. The Devilllllll. He's already into animal sacrifice in his room, and his gang is looking for somebody willing to participate in a human bloodletting. All in all, you should get him back onto classical music QUICK. But not Bach. God help you if he starts listening to Bach again.
6: Girls
Girls! Ha ha. You were right to be worried when he started hanging around with GIRLS. Girls are behind every bad thing to ever happen on the world EVER.
Adam and Eve being thrown out of the Garden of Eden, therefore condemning humanity for all time? Girls.
Indiana Jones being captured by the Nazis, therefore nearly causing the destruction of freedom as we know it, in blockbuster spectacular Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade? Girls.
Luke nearly being taken over by the dark side and becoming an evil sith because of his nasty, nasty father, Darth Vader? Girls.
The Pope dying? Girls.
So this intrusion of females into dear Ogg's life is nothing short of a catastrophe. Already they have begun to work their wicked ways on him; he's emptied your bank account to buy them perfume, fine silk stockings and lipstick containing real rubies, and has skipped school (not that that matters now) to hang around with them on street corners.
And they aren't simple schoolgirls, as was once assumed. No, they are beer-swigging, coke snorting prostitutes, every one of them (with a single exception), and it was they who first got him into the pimping business. Especially Abi. I don't trust her. So now, all the time he's not spending with the Wicked Rebel Boyz, he's driving around in a pink convertible, wearing a purple suit, topped off with a purple hat with a jay's feather and a solid gold walking stick, drive by shooting other pimps and beating up whores with his posse.
I said there was one exception who wasn't a whore. That exception is the one known as Steve. She isn't his whore. She's his WIFE. They got married in a shotgun (literally) ceremony just outside Staines, and ever since has been doing strange crazy sexual shenanigans all day and all night. Every part of your house has seen them spraying their bodily fluids around; Ogg's bed, your bed, the dining room table, the kitchen surface, the oven, each and every one of the dinner plates and a large proportion of the forks, and they even used several uncooked broccoli sticks as sexual toys. Hint: that wasn't fish in that broccoli and garlic pasta. They both also like latex.
And you were correct. Steve hates you, and is plotting the exact moment when she kidnaps you and throws you into a huge pit before seducing your husband and taking her place at the top of the Ogg family tree. I would be very worried, and possibly call in some protection. I would have suggested John Creasy from Man on Fire, but he dies at the end. Haha, I ruined the end of the film. Oh well, it wasn't that good, really.
Overall
Basically, Mrs Ogg, your son HAS gone totally off the rails. He is an evil rapscallion and you are fully justified in worrying about him. In my humble opinion, the only thing you really can do is to send him away, possibly to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he can sit and think about what hes done, while having many exciting and magical adventures with Harry, Ron, Hermione and the rest of the gang.
(Yes, I know David Schwimmer wasn't in the X Files, you dipshits, it just struck me as amusing.)
Where did Jewish cows go in Nazi Germany? Extermoonation camps.
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