I was transcribing something today and as an experiment I thought I’d actually keep my fingers on the home keys. I’m really trying to train myself to type with both hands, as opposed to Lefty having a snooze while Righty dances his clickety crab-like jig. So guess how much I got done in a little over two hours of that malarky? One and one quarter pages.
These days, in schools around the world, learning to type is like learning to tie your shoe. But when I was a nipper, typing was something you elected to do, like wood shop, home economics or pottery. Of course I chose pottery as one of my electives, because I like putting clay through a garlic press more than anything in the world. If I could find a job turning lumps of earth into spools of
mud-pubes I would do it and do it well.

Monkey’s spend a great deal of time masturbating up trees, and, prior to the age around 28, young men are basically monkeys. So why would you let a little wanking monkey decide what he wants to do? And exactly how many people grow up to be professional potters anyway? I mean real Pro-potters who can support a family and hold their head high in the check-out que? I’ll wager very few.
Besides, it’s long been known that Pottery is a racket fiendishly monopolized by an elite group of high-power pottery-lesbians. Newcomers to the calling are routinely intimidated with vile gestures and name calling. I wouldn’t stand a chance even I wanted to be a career potter.
I wish I’d been forced to type from a very young age. Perhaps then I’d have typed this blog entry up in less than the 45 minutes it’s taken so far. Old Lefty likes it this way though, it’s another activity where he doesn’t have to do shit. Lefty. Occasionally he’ll attend to an itch if Righty’s preoccupied with a whisk or something, but generally he just hangs heavy and limp at my side, like one of those long snake-like things that stop a breeze coming under the door at Grandma’s house.
Anyway, I’m learning how to type like a real person now. All thanks to this website I found called bbc.letstypeokrighton.com.uk
It’s basically an online typing school for kids and learning impaired adults, like yours truly.
A troop of hilarious cartoon animals take you through the basics while singing songs about finger positioning and posture . Which sounds heavily retarded now that I’ve said it, but I don’t care, I have to learn. I’m particularly fond of the Jamaican camel. He’s cool and likes to do the limbo.

You know what I was just thinking? How funny is it when people say “Rock ‘n Roll”? Like, “Okay bro, see you tomorrow. Rock ‘n Roll.”
Not only is it supernaturally gay- but it also makes no sense!
It’s a music genre, not an expression of agreement. What if I turned around and started saying ‘Reggae’ at the end of stuff?
Like, what if I said, “Hey man, I’ll see you tomorrow! Reggae!”
How fucking lame would that be? I hate reggae. The only thing worse than the people that make reggae are the ones pretending to like it. I can tolerate almost any kind of inane torture when I’m ripped off my head on bongs, but reggae makes me feel bilious. Horses for courses I guess.
Now before you start writing me a complaint on an old paper cup you found under the couch, rasta-balls, let me just say that I and I are just having a laugh.
I love reggae! Best music in the world! And I would never, NEVER, insult a Jamaican. I know how utterly bananas you fuckers are, and I like my pancreas on the inside of my body, not on the end of a stick.. that’s poking out my ass.
I feel an insanely random song coming on! Tumblweed! Enjoy!

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