Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Happy Christmas Your Arse

Morning.

Sorry for the prolonged absence. I'm sure you've felt that void in your lives because a strange, English man hasn't let you know that his son told him he has an octopus penis (that was Friday) or that his daughter pointed out that she thought it was odd that there isn't a dog food flavor based on whatever it is they lick off their own balls and anus seeing as they seem to like it so much (Saturday morning). I know I've certainly missed the catharsis of sharing the random shit that is fizzing about in my brain. I've not had the chance to mention that I taught my kids last weekend - after seeing it on television - that when an ice cream van plays music that it means they've run out (that's bloody genius on my part, that is). Nor that the worst Christmas present I can think of this year were to be if Piers Morgan released a scent for his one, adoring fan to cack all over themselves ("you too can smell like a smug, vapid twat....").

Anyway - I have been moving house to somewhere where there wasn't anything. No furniture, no accumulate shit and no little things that make a house a home. That drawer we all have that you bung any old crap in? I haven't got one of those. So when I'm fiddling about for batteries, or a pen, or antiseptic wipes to get whatever that sticky stuff is off the bathroom window I've discovered that I have to go buy that stuff. Taken me longer than I expected to get all the basic stuff done. Add I'm working now. So that gaping, portion of time in the day when everyone else used to drive off to offices and abattoirs I think those are the only two options anyway) and I stayed home with the kids, has gone. So now I get the joy of sitting in a cube, surrounded by recycled air and trying to avoid that one weirdo in the building who I think I saw gnawing off the verruca on their foot in the back seat of their car in the parking lot.

Also (and more valid for this whole blogging thing) I have no internet service. That is bar the tiny, faint whiff of it I can get from stealing it from the neighbor. And then only if I sit at the end of my driveway near where the bins are. Add to make me feel like I live in the UK (and not the customer-service haven that the US thinks it is) I'm being repeatedly told by internet providers here that I already have service. Which I transparently don't. Yet amusingly I'm being told that I will need to pay an early disconnection fee and the remainder of the old bill before getting any new service. No amount of, "if I already have service then why am I calling you?" seems to be making a dent. I have also tried, "you can all go fuck yourselves you shower of Chegwins" - but that hasn't seemed to make a mark either.

Anyhoo - being as it's Christmas I wanted to say I hope all of you feel something in the way of joy this year. And, that even if you feel sunk within the mire of life - knee-deep in shit - that you sense that everything is always more or less alright in the end. Life is made up circumstances and other people. But happiness - whatever that concept means - is entirely up to you.

So Merry Christmas and enjoy the Winter Solstice. And if you can figure out what the point of the below decoration is supposed to be then please let me know.

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Monday, December 9, 2013

The Pork Cheerio

I feel like I've been dipping my anus in bleach.


I used to own a cat that was so depraved that it genuinely bothered me. It did all the normal cat things that you'd expect. Especially that thing where when you stroke it in a particular fashion it would raise it's arse way up into the air in a slightly-too sexual manner. But worse was that every morning when I woke I would find it hovering in front of me - tail raised - winking it's disturbing, pink anus at me in the hope that something very unpleasant might happen. I never became comfortable with it. Good lord the thing looked like a pork Cheerio.

Anyhoo that horrifying image came to mind this past weekend after the kids and I got back from a local restaurant and they instantly began churning out that sour, stinging, diarrhea we all love so much. And considering that I and my girlfriend have spent the weekend getting crippling cramps and taking annoyingly frequent trips to the bathroom I've decided to blame it on the restaurant. It may be a stomach bug of sorts but considering the food wasn't particularly tasty anyway I'm more inclined to blame the oddly, greasy pulled-pork for the fact my ringpiece feels like I've been dousing it with Dettol (I haven't, by the way).

Carrying on in a similar theme my ex-wife was introducing the kids to her new other-half on Sunday. Which can be an awkward and odd thing to do. Especially on this occasion as the moment he did so he'd also meet his girlfriend's ex-husband in her house. Bit odd then. Obviously I'm not a turnip so I made every effort to make it all smooth and pleasant. After all if they're happy our whole family is happy. Add the ex and my girlfriend have got on very well indeed because quite simply there's no need for it to be weird once you've divorced on amicable terms. So - my job yesterday was basically to not have the kids bouncing around naked to techno, deranged and mental when they arrived.

Amusingly though my son had been taught that a really fun game is to jump on a stomp-rocket whilst pointed at, "the enemy" (which had been me all Saturday, for what it's worth). And when they walked through the door his gift to them was to twat them in the chops with that. A nice mood breaker I thought. Of course more amusing to me was that for some random reason I thought it'd be funny to teach them to pretend to be skunks all morning. Which entailed them crawling about pretending to spray everything with their arses for hours on end whilst listening to the rather marvelous Swastika Eyes by Primal Scream. Which they proudly carried out as I was leaving. I took some quality videos of it myself in the morning. The first one I debated putting up purely because as funny as it is it does wander somewhat down Savile territory. I'm well aware that innocent stupidness can be seen by some in an entirely different, evil light. But fuck them - it's hilarious. And the second video is a must purely because it's not often you see two skunk-children attempting to spray into each others arses.

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Tuesday, December 3, 2013

The Eardrum Blade and The Stinky Mistake

Son: Daddy you're a stinky mistake.


It's been snowing like a twat over the last week or so. Which I hated last winter. This year though my son is far more mobile and delighted to be out in it - so I've liked the week or so of it so far. He pretty much just wanders off into the woods, finds a spot he likes and then pokes around in the ground like an arctic truffle pig. Add he's still only three - so he's shit at throwing snowballs at me, so I always win that game. That is until five minutes in when I can tell he's getting annoyed at being battered with snowballs and I have to lie down while he forcibly shoves fistfuls of ice down the neck of my coat.


Being the third day of December means having to endure wall-to-wall Christmas songs. Every parent knows the horror. I like Christmas songs. There is something innocent and breezy about most of it. Christmas songs in moderation are pretty nice actually. But hearing Dominic and his stupid fucking donkey every ten minutes is mental torture. Now my son is three he's got his own list of must-repeat favorites as well. Primarily I'm Gettin' Nuttin For Christmas. At least at his age it's still cute how hilarious he thinks it is. I do recall years back my old mother-in-law repeatedly playing a steel-drum novelty CD on repeat of Christmas favorites. I couldn't tell any of the songs apart at all - it all sounding like an utter mess of white noise. At least though with my kids replaying the same bloody seven or eight songs I don't have to endure the turgid, shit of Bruce Springsteen's horribly out-of-tune grunting, or the utter mind fuck that is The Christmas Shoes that was beautifully dismantled by Patton Oswalt.

What isn't hilarious is what a little fucking demon he's been. He's such a good boy. But when he loses it he goes full bore. It doesn't help that his favorite toy of late is a plastic sword and his favorite activity is stabbing people. Although I admit it was fun when he filled with rage and told his mother, "I'm gonna cut your eardrum." But of course being three means he's emotionally demented, so after she asked him what on earth he was banging on about he carefully explained that he'd been going to a, "rice cutting class" and just wanted to demonstrate that. But on her eardrums - which he'd just learned about on a Cat In The Hat episode.

Still - this is infinitely better than when he started screaming, "my penis is blue!" down the stairs after his bath yesterday. I assumed it wasn't. After all it hadn't been filled with orange juice, hadn't eaten a meatball nor had it magically turned into a mushroom - all of which he's yelled indiscriminately lately. I did have a fleeting worry that either he'd got some localized hypothermia or been rubbing his bits on the weird people in Avatar.

His sister is equally as marvelous lately too. On the plus side she came top of her class for all the metrics. Her reading is astounding. As in she can read everything without skipping a beat to think about it. She's also frighteningly good at maths. Still - I did have to watch her pick up a meatball covered in sauce with a spoon yesterday, before plunging it into her glass of milk and then happily drinking her, "lumpy milk" with glee. More importantly though she turned the television on yesterday morning and it was on a weird channel that was showing a religious show called Mass For Shut-Ins. She took one look at it and then asked over her shoulder, "Daddy - what's wrong with them?" I responded that it was hard to diagnose from this distance, but I think it's called Catholicism. I did quickly turn it over before I got to uppity when she started loudly laughing at one of the people on stage she thought was a wizard.


Over the weekend my kids saw Santa twice. Once in Old Forge and once at the fire hall down the street. They were not only impressed with how quickly he could get about, but also at the astounding weight gain he'd managed in just twenty four hours. Which is a bit odd because he doesn't look particularly portly in any way. Which presumably means the Santa they saw with their mother was disturbingly thin.



Helpfully my son also remarked that, "Santa smells different." There's all kinds of awfulness I could assume with that, but instead I just sat and watched my kids stuff their fat, little faces with donut-dots while other kids tried not to sniff Santa too much.


And of course I'm biased but every time I look at this photo of my daughter with a rogue polar bear that broke in to Santa's grotto I can't help but laugh. She's not convinced at all.


Right - I'm off to snarf chocolate mini eggs before anyone notices that I bought them.