Metaphoric Hate....Coroneus, Wake.

Friday, November 28, 2003

Fall-Winter fashion. The trendsetters are out again....the new, the cool, the bold, the sexy, the awe-inspiring, the va-va-vooming. And if Miss Teen Preen Queen's choice-of-the-season is any indication of what's in (and how would I ever doubt that?? ), then it's definitely two week arm stubble. Thick luscious dark locks from elbow to wrist add that wonderful coarse, yet silky finishing touch that most female patrons of 'Gillette La Femme' lack. Yes, Miss Teen Preen Queen(of the beady red eye and shiny sharp tooth and chandilier earring), every time your sleeve slides up a fraction to expose that fascinating tattoo of two leaves on a stalk on your watch-less left wrist, my eyes I'm afraid do not give it the respect it would otherwise command on a deforested arm. Instead, I shamelessly admit, mine eyne rove further northward - powerless in the face of a hypnotic half-nelson - towards the hidden treasures of tropical vegetation on skin. Maybe little people have set up a large community in there. Elected a chief, no two chiefs, fought wars, looted, pillaged, plundered, multiplied, set up more colonies, more wars, sophisticated the art of murder. Who can ever tell? This wondorous civilization in all probablilty is lost to the rest of mankind. And only because you shunned the razor. Noble indeed. Very, very noble. If to wax is vain then you don't wane in vain. I admire you. It is this sort of strict adherence to one's aesthetic values that has made Fall-Winter fashion the institution it is today. Good luck Miss Teen Preen Queen, you're a blinder.


Thursday, November 27, 2003

Ok Kids....it's your favourite time of the day. It's BEDTIMESTORYTIMEFROMMYCHILDHOODTIME!!!


Once upon a time, when analog pulse dialing was still in vogue, a stream of electrons encoded at source and decoded at destination by an obsolete linear block code algorithm, made frequent tos and fros - pingpongpingpongpingpong - between the instruments of Little Miss Muffette and Silly Mr. Toughett. They carried much, without saying too much at all. Little pi-clouds without personality, but each carrying information, carrying thoughts, semantics, expressions, pathy, antipathy, sympathy emotionsfeelingspainremorseloveangeranguishdespair....loss. Encoded at source, decoded at destination. Little Miss Muffette and Silly Mr. Toughett could not meet. COULD NOT MEET. And so they relied on technology to communicate. They were slaves to an analog monarch. Blind in faith in their sub atomic messengers, trusting them, pleading with them not to lie. For months they were faithfully served by the little men - pingpongpingpongpingpong. Saying so much without saying anything at all. Because nothing could be said. Because Silly Mr. Toughett was a loser. He had no spine, no legs, no heart, no mind....."Oh please Miss Muffette, I'd just want you to know that.....uh...nothing" And Miss Muffette? What about her? Nothing. Her thoughts were veiled.

Then along came a Spydre.

Octal arms-and-legs-and-encoding-algorithm, sssspinning it's wwweb - zeronezeronezerozerozerone. It spread it grew, it fissioned, it fusioned, procreated, copulated, masturbated, procrastinated, haemmorhaged, fucked, fucked, fucked. Little Miss Muffette.....Little Miss Muffette in veils and veils and veils, instrument in hand, sensuous lips, erotic smile, sensuous lips swaying hips fingertips lips fingertips. Digitdigitdigit. Giddy. Digitdigit. Where'd the instrument go? Where did the instrument go? WHERE THE FUCK DID THE INSTRUMENT GO!!!!!!!!!!????

And swept Miss Muffette away.

Ah yes....Silly Mr. Toughett. Silly Silly Silly Mr. Toughett, instrument in hand, coarse lips, parched throat, bloodshotbloodshot eyes, snotgreen aura, breathe in heavy heavier heavy heavy. STATIC!!!!!!FUCKING STATIC!!!!!.....there was no fro.......just to-to-to-to. No Miss Muffette, just to-to-to-to.

Once upon a time, there were electron messengers which went pingpongpingpongpingpong. They were a bridge between two worlds - encoded at source, decoded at destination.

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

A few years ago, noted anthropologist and new age philosopher Marcus E. Callaghan published his third non-fiction novel (which emulated it's predecessors and went on to become an international bestseller in the next few weeks). Unlike the first two, this one didn't deal with lace underwear and satin drapes. This was called "Man as a sexual being: When instinct overrides intellect". In one of the more famous passages, the 'protagonist' Harold Bernstein - a successful Psychology professor and vigilant policeman - is asked by a congregation of Neo-Respiressionist Anglistians he was addressing, to underline the main difference in his opinion between the male and female psyche. His succinct, but richly insightful reply was, "If Man is a repressed sexual volcano waiting to explode, then Woman is zucchini augratin."

Which is so bloody true. I was eating the very dish at Tom's D the other day and the only thing I could say after flicking the last bit of gravy off the plate with a nifty fork maneuver was, "Damn, I swear this stuff tastes exactly like Sarah Jessica-Parker"

Kids, kids, pteradactyls....please. Let me speak my mind here for a bit:

The time has come
To concede
That I have been stymied.
My world is in peril
And
There is nothing left for me to do,
Except,
Retire into private life
And wash hogs.

Monday, November 24, 2003

Shleap as usual....farkin' earlie. Godsdamme, whay is 't so farkin' borrin, dhis lyief? Daze roll bie and no farkin' acction. Maibie thets whay Eye created this shite. Yeach and ev'ry daze the farkin' sameoldsameoldsameold emashculashun overanoveranover egen. Muhahaha......yew wer ston'd ashleap Missta Finn. Hoppyer Finnegan. Wake.