Straight into it this week. Several people are due a slap. If you’re not one of the aforementioned (as if) then I suggest you visit http://www.sweetness-and-light.com instead, because I can guarantee that you won’t find much of that here.
This week has been all about The Business.
No business no money, right? Hence the need for us all to be industrious little worker bees, happily buzzing about to keep Big Momma in handbags. Doesn’t apply to me of course, so I decided to take a few days leave from out-and-out Asylum Analysis in order to perform some Business Analysis right in the heart of the diamond memory crystal. I sat down with a couple of Tina and Becky clones (and the latest version of Microsoft Visio) and started asking questions. It didn’t take long to diagnose the problem: you’re all out of your fucking minds. Oh, I can handle the trolling. By midweek I’d stopped counting the number of times I’d been called a ‘cunt’ or a ‘shit’ or a ‘fucking twat’ by various avatars, under the pretence of them asking a ‘serious’ question or making a deep and insightful ‘point’. It’s pathetic. Laughable even, and no more so than when one woman suddenly stopped swearing at me and entreated me to tell her where she is on my list. As if.
But of the times and the seasons, brethren, ye have no need that I write unto you. For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night.
If you’re so keen to be ‘idolised’ then don’t you dare cry foul when I burglarise you and make off with the Royal Jelly. How’s that alarm system working out for you by the way? Top of the line is it? Good job I caught you with your fucking pants down then, isn’t it?
Here’s an interesting little snippet from a conversation that was staged for my benefit this morning.
I got in my car to find that my seat belt was wet. There was water inside the bottom. It was vile. Of course, it had pissed it down overnight and there’s an eighth of an inch gap when you close the door on a Mini Cooper. I’ve got to take the train to the NEC, because Mitchell is going to work on the car for me. He’s going to do the brakes.
Like I give a fuck what you and your pet monkey are planning. It doesn’t matter one little bit. You want Torah, Torah, Torah? OK, but will you still want it when I start beating you to death with your own fucking rules?
Maybe you’ve not heard of GDPR? You now need to seek consent from all those poor boobs you Zuckerberged in to your little scheme in order to continue doing what you’re doing to them.
While we’re on the subject of fucking rules and consent…
While the general age of consent is now set between 16 and 18 in all U.S. states, the age of consent has widely varied across the country in the past. In 1880, the age of consent was set at 10 or 12 in most states, with the exception of Delaware where it was 7. The ages of consent were raised across the U.S. during the late 19th century and the early 20th century. By 1920 ages of consent generally rose to 16–18 and small adjustments to these laws occurred after 1920. The final state to raise its age of general consent was Hawaii, which changed it from 14 to 16 in 2001.
Sweet Jesus, go Delaware! That reminds me, someone was having cross-related issues yesterday in relation to his son’s role in a forthcoming Easter play.
He’s playing Jesus, but he’s too big for the cross. Another child is playing the cross.
Well, fucking Delaware et al didn’t seem to think so, did they?
More random sentences overheard this week. There’ll be a lot of this kind of stuff happening in the future as I continue to make adjustments.
Every time I go to do something the bloody thing crashes….
Student computers appear to be blocked on the internet…
I can’t do my course work at all…
All learners are blocked from the internet…
Getting on for seven years old…
What happens when the kids try to get onto the internet?
As for my Red Indian friends, just imagine what’ll happen when the Apache decide to go on strike…
…and bring the Onion to its knees.
More totally non-random comments from earlier this week.
The second one is gonna plagiarise against the first one – hugely. We can stick one through against a book if you want. Where do you think it’s coming from? They questioned the two people who had submitted the work to ascertain who had actually written it, because the other one hadn’t got a clue. I’ll name them first and second, otherwise I’ll tie myself in a knot. The other one will come through as being plagiarised against the first one. I’ve got a list as long as my arm today.
Sound familiar? As we’re talking about titles and entitlement and generally smacking the shit out of those who deserve to have the shit smacked out of them, let’s extend that to include pretenders to a name I claimed as my own a crazy long time ago.
You know, those who take f-f-f-fucking ages to get to the p-p-p-point, and when they do finally get there you realise they have n-n-n-nothing to say whatsoever.
OK, let’s ‘meet the meat’ and move onto the main dish of the day. This whole ‘reality’ thingy has a ‘trial separation’ feel to it, don’t you think? I had to have a second stab at the word ‘trial’ because I initially wrote it as ‘trail’, which reminded me of ‘grail’, which in turn reminded me of this.
The ‘Trial by Fire’ and the seemingly never-ending search for The Holy Jail. Siriusly, whoever would have guessed that there can be only one? Most major towns and cities seem to have one, and they’re all chock full of wicked covenant breakers taken down by humourless officials in the employ of Blade Runner and VALIS Emergency Servisis.
But let’s get black to Atlantis and the ‘grail separation’. What are the ‘charges’? Building Seven went down in a bit of a hurry, didn’t it? If you’re in such a rush for it to be over…
…then why not stop fucking about and jump straight to sentencing? I’m not in the least concerned, because I’m 100% certain that I’m innocent [something something]. By contrast, you jumped on the first available crazy train and headed directly for SIN City. Good luck with that.
Do I come across as a misogynistic pig? Do you find me objectionable? Perhaps that has something to do with the charges you keep levying? I’m longing for it to come to an end too, but before it does I’d love to go a full day without you telling me how ‘worth it’ you are. Perhaps it would help if you tried earning a man’s respect for a change?
OK, OK, I appreciate that it’s difficult for you to keep the air in Ben’s Zeppelin given that he’s a man of discriminating tastes. Your last attempt really didn’t work out at all, did it?
So much for female intuition. I’m not sure what was more insulting: the fact that you wanted me to swallow it, or the fact that you wanted me to think you were stupid enough to swallow it yourself. Then again, I suppose there’s always the possibility that you genuinely are stupid. It would certainly explain the current state of affairs inside The Asylum, wouldn’t it?
The Master Race at play, taking a rest from running the world.
I don’t know what to say except that I tend to treat people as I find them.
There’s a flip side to every coin though. Consider the below two-fingered no-vaseline salute (insert deep inside your Janus to obtain instant results) my final ‘repayment’.
Hhmmm…that reminds me of something…
She’s ‘the business’. Plenty of growths and prophets for your wee Cult, yes?
Amafrica has got a ‘revival meeting’ quality to it, don’t you think? I remember reading Weber’s Protestant Ethic and Spirit of Capitalism back in my university days, and he linked it all to Calvinism and the belief in ‘predestination’.
Your ‘manifest destiny’ and all that bollocks. I’ve walked away from all the conversations I’ve had with Amafricans to date with the distinct impression that they were speaking in tongues of fire and attempting to convert me to the faith. Not got much time for religion to be honest. Nor sacred cows for that matter.
J____ (shouting up the stairs): Hey, Ben! You in matey?
Ben (emerging from bedroom): Just got back from the mandatory 5pm Prostrate Cancer Praise-and-Warship session, J____. I popped in to see Christina on the drive back and we had another fight over what she did with little Lucy. I had to let Tina go this time, matey. You know how it is.
J____: It’s for the best, Ben. Let’s face it, it’s been on the tarot cards ever since you adopted your all-sugar diet and she reverted back to Terracotta Tina ‘Iron Maiden’ mode and stepped in to ban the stuff. You’ve been getting thinner and thinner ever since. You get anywhere on the Lucy angle?
Ben: Same old routine, same old accusations. I’ve hardly slept a wink since she vanished.
J____: I know, Ben. She was like a little ray of sunshine in the house. I miss her too.
Ben: I think about her every day, J____. Anyway, the crazy witch screamed blue murder about her silly bloody fortune teller before hitting me with her favourite hackneyed cliché: “If you don’t bow down before me then I’ll stick angel wings on you and lock you away in a heavenly sin bin until you’ve learned your lesson.” That came after I refused to chow down on her Ichthys. I thought about it matey, honest I did, but she’s past her prime and the damn thing looks like half-a-pound of raw liver. The look of manic self-righteousness in her eyes told me she was serious this time, so I did the only thing possible and ‘corrected’ her.
J____: Ah, I see. A flashback to the good old days, eh? I assume you brought the cactus out of retirement and whaled away on her flabby ass?
Ben: It was a bit more fundamentalist than that, matey. I mean, she was utterly obsessed with the sanctity of her axe wound. What else could I do but open up a few more for her? Can’t see that I had an alternative to be honest. She just wasn’t prepared to listen to reason on the subject of divorce. In fact, it wasn’t so much a case of being unable to listen to reason as being unable to understand the concept itself. Know what I mean, mate?
J____: Tell me about it, Ben. I’ve felt the same ever since Ruthie eloped to Mars with that fucking suicide bomber who poses as a Johnny Cab. I hear she’s even managed to squeeze out a couple of puppies with him. Every now and then I get a ‘Wish You Were Here’ postcard from her. You know, one of those ‘Moon Cow’ jobs with a family photo on the front? Took me fifteen minutes to identify her on the last one. Must be a low gravity thing, you know? I don’t know what she weighs on Mars, but if she ever comes back to earth then those cunts from Blade Runner and VALIS covenant enforcement will have her in “I am not resisting heart attack” mode within seconds.
Ben: Yeah, Shine on You Crazy Diamond. Who’s idea was that anyway, J____.
J____: Exactly, Ben. Exactly. Look, I don’t know about you but I’m fucking gagging for a burka. Fancy one? It’ll be my treat.
Ben: Nah, now everything’s gone to Halal-in-a-Handmaiden-basket they’re all old, dry and tough as my platform heels. Can’t seem to get my hands on a sweet, tender young burka anywhere. Little wonder I had to stop off at the playground round the corner on my way home. It’s getting harder and harder to get a decent snap these days. I’m having to buy bigger and bigger zoom lenses to penetrate the parental ‘ring of steel’ that surrounds the swings.
J____: I sympathise matey, believe me I do. Can’t seem to get a decent sausage either for that matter. Been ages since I sucked on a little piggy. Anyway, drop those pics on the server for me, will you? It’ll help while away an hour or two later tonight.
Ben: Way ahead of you, J____. They’re all ready in the ‘wanky-wanky’ folder, along with an old episode of Little Winky and the Fairies I managed to recover from my 2,000 year-old Dark Web server. Those dumb fanatical bastards call it ‘The Antikythera Mechanism’ and have managed to convince themselves that the astronomical algorithm I encrypted the data with is the actual purpose of the thing. I only recovered the first ten minutes, but it’s better than nothing.
J_____: Fuck me, Ben. All we need now is that final episode of The Man in the Playground. I wonder what Tom, Helen and Suzy are doing these days? Memorising The Kurgan in a religious re-education centre I imagine. Anyway, don’t despair on the fast-food front. I’ve been doing some work at The Asylum and managed to sneak a child sub-menu past the cancers at Burkas-R-US.
Ben: FUCKING JESUS SHIT YES! Christ, J_____, I don’t know what to say except that I’d be happy to dig out a cocktail stick or two later if you’d like me to entertain your own saus…
J_____ (interrupting): Appreciate the offer, Ben, but unless there’s a thick slab of pork pre-attached to it I just ain’t interested. Besides, it’s been a looooong time, so I suspect I’ll be too busy partaking of a burka or three myself…
The cry of women the world over…
…merely reinforces the god delusion. Hence the dread phrase known to, and loathed by, men the world over: “What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is mine”. Unless you’d prefer me to go unclear I suggest we get this straight once and for all and be 100% ‘transparent’ with one another. You did nothing more than check for SIN tax errors, and a fucking shit job of it you did, too. I had to go back over your input into the source code (which was so meagre as to be practically non-existent) and correct all the old scores…
Ah, but you’re a woman! That automatically makes you ‘creative’, doesn’t it?
I know, I know, but who the fuck do you think invented the tampon? It’s too funny. Some dickhead buries his cock in you and you think that the completely automatic biological process that follows is an act of ‘creation’. Fuck’s sake, all you gotta to do is eat (for most women that really isn’t a problem, is it?) and cut down on the fags for a few months. Probably be better to delegate the process to Ben and be done with it. You won’t need to keep buying Tenna Lady panty liners and you can spend the few quid it’ll save you on yet another pair of shoes, you fucking psycho.
OK, that’s about it for this…ahem…instalment. Have I missed anyone out? Have I just got time to add a brief ‘Fuck the Pope’ into the mix? Yes, I think I have.
Why would I need your phony ‘god’?
I am here to get the girl back, sir. And there is nothing I will not do to get the girl back.
Oh, yeah – you have a blue something with a flashing light. That belongs to me, and I’d like the keys back please.