Archive for December, 2009
Normally, New Year’s celebrations are just that- a birthday party for the new year. But last night, for me anyway, it was all about commemorating the demise of the old year. Rocking the tumbrel. Jeering at the gallows. Fuck you 2009, you interminable rat-bastard. I spit in your gravy.
And hello 2010! This year feels better already! Chiefly because I don’t really have a hangover, despite having drank all manner of toxic swill, and smoked all manner of jazz cigarettes until the wee hours.
But even though I feel perkier than a big bag of nipples, I’ll be lying on the couch and watching movies all day.
Happy New Year, sugar-tits, gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying…
and there’s a draft in the pipeline apparently…
Serious. The President is considering a draft if this whole war thing doesn’t simmer down in the next twelve months. Don’t believe me? Don’t think the President would screw you like that? Trust me. He doesn’t care that you flew all the way to Florida just to beg your grandparents to vote for him. He’s running out of front line fodder, and that means you, student-balls. Start saving for kevlar. Did you know that he’s sanction more CIA drone hits in Pakistan (drone hits that kill hundreds of civilians) in the last year than Bush did during his whole presidency? It’s true. Look it up. Bush might have been completely retarded, but Obama is a wolf in a bunny suit, AND he’s sending you off to war. I’d go but I’m a club footed homosexual with one eye.
You’re off to war, buddy! HA!
Anyway, enough of that noise. Politics are a stone drag. Plus they have a habit of dividing people, and we’re all about love, man.
Have a far-out 2010!
Read the rest of this entryStill having a really groovy time on my never ending sabbatical beneath the apricot tree in mother’s backyard. Today I got stoned and watered the lawn. I also took off all my clothes and stood under the hose. I was naked today in my mother’s backyard.
It’s time to come home.
One week to go.
We’ll be returning to our regular daily thing then.
Christmas is killing me. Drinking, eating, steadily augmenting. I’ve even taken up cigarette smoking as a way to punctuate the long hours spent in my mother’s backyard. Horrible. At least I’m getting a tan.
I can’t wait to get home and be done with this overlong furlough. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed convalescing like Gilbert Grape’s mum. But now it’s high-time to rub some ointment on my burgundy, dinner plate sized bed sores and get on with it.
Here’s a video that cleverly merges my yearnings for a smaller waistline, my home in the snow, and a certain skinny blonde girl.
We got this from our very special friend Matt Griffin yesterday. Turns out he’s got some ideas for dust jackets too.
For the record, we don’t think Moby is a dick. In fact, we like him. He says hi to us on the street, even though we once asked him if he’d been with a lady who’s vagina was so big he could stuff his balls in as well (Wooooo#2. On sale now! At the buy stuff page!)
Incidentally, Moby’s real name is Gavin. Gavin Giles. Did you know that? Well, now you do.
It’s that time again where we apologize for not posting every single day… Sorry.
It’s been really hectic over here in the old country! Drinking beer, sunning, eating, drinking beer, occasionally masturbating…
One’s been run off of one’s feet! One’s also been reading too much D.H. Lawrence, by the by.
Well, not that much. I’m halfway through Lady Chatterly’s Lover. I don’t know what all the fuss was about. It’s just not that bawdry. So far there have been a series of “connexions”, but nothing remotely obscene has happened at all. I assumed it would be jam-packed with pearl-necklaces and the like, but no one has so much as put a finger in anyone else’s bum! Ridiculous. And to think it was banned, in it’s original form, for thirty years in both the US and the UK. How absurd. Imagine what would happen if you travelled back in time with a copy of Jackie Collins’ Hollywood Wives! You’d be summarily burnt at the stake. At the tender age of 12 I found and read Jackie’s novel The Stud. Imagine my prepubescent surprise when the protagonist smoked a joint with his Mexican maid, and then did her in the bum. The world fell apart for me then. Nothing was as it seemed. Innocence lost. You can never go home again, etc…
Here’s a picture of Jackie (left), and her better-known sister Joan, being all leathery-yet-alluring in the back of a limo. Imagine yourself crammed between those two saber-tooths. They’d eat you alive.
Jeez, “Imagine this- Imagine that” Shut up, me.
Well, that’s about it really. We’re on vacation, so unless you want to hear about how I spilled coconut oil on the “good” rug, there’s little for me to report. Here’s Iggy singing the soundtrack to my last few days here at mum’s house.
I can’t believe how much work I’ve been getting done since I quit Bookface yesterday. I clicked “Deactivate Account” and instantly, marvelously, regained all my pre-bookface ambition. It was incredible. I literally whirled off like a wonderfully productive, and fairly attractive top. Completing this, achieving that. I got it all done-AND- I even had some time left to redesign a few book covers that sorely needed updating. (segue)
You can’t judge a book by it’s cover- but that doesn’t mean it has to look like shit. To my mind, there’s nothing more inexcusable than poor cover design, and, let’s be honest, there are some absolute abominations on the shelves these days.
I’m not pointing fingers or naming names. That would be both pointless and thoroughly mean spirited. However, I will say that Francis Cugat has been rolling in his grave for far too long, and I’ve had enough.
So, I’ve mocked up a few ideas and sent them off to Penguin. I’ll probably be eating roast swan aboard my coke-yacht by the end of next week.
Anyway, that’s all for today. It’s a sunny Saturday outside and I’ve some loafing to do.
Good day, sir.
…well, nothing really. The sun came up on another beautiful friday in Oceania, and all was well in the world… provided you were in Oceania. I imagine New York is colder than a witch’s tit right now. I also just imagine witch tits. They’re green, but not bad.
Think She-Hulk.
Very little to report, I’m afraid. I’m on an extended xmas vacation back in the old country, and there’s nothing happening much besides reading, eating, sleeping, and crawling up the walls.
What have I been reading? Well, I’m glad you asked.
The Best American Nonrequired Reading 2009.
It started off really funny, and I hoped it’d stay that way, but then there were a couple of serious, bummed-out low points. However, I found it very enjoyable, despite the bumming bits. Matthew Power’s Mississippi Drift was particularly good. In fact, it was brilliant. I read it twice. He should write a book. He’d piss it in.
Age and Guile Beat Youth Innocence and a Bad Haircut.
PJ O’Rourke.
PJ is great. An incredibly astute observer with a nice big pair of cynical balls to boot. Clever man. I have to say I find him more, “smile-to-yourself amusing” than, “laugh-out-loud funny”, but his overall wordsmithery is awesomely convivial. What’s with the whole, “I’m a Republican on drugs”, conservative-libertarian thing though? Little bit bewildering. Whatever. It’s not like I’ll have to sit next to him on a plane anytime soon.
Little Birds.
Anais Nin.
It’s good to remind yourself every now and then that women have filthy minds too. They really do! And Anais Nin is the smuttiest of the lot… the dirty little bitch. The stories collected in Little Birds were originally commissioned by some horny rich dude, way back before www.bookwormbitches.com even existed. Then when Anais choked to death performing a Rusty Trombone (presumably), they were lashed together and published.
Don’t read this little book without taping Admiral Winky to your leg first.
The Old Man and the Sea.
Ernest Hemingway.
This is my second time around with The Old Man and the Sea, and I think I’m starting to dig Ernie’s “Spare” style. Initially, I found his aversion to adjectives very unsettling. I was especially upset by A Farewell To Arms, the story of two young lovers floating to Vienna in a boat… or something… So annoying.
“Are you cold, my love?”
“No, my darling.”
“This boat is good, isn’t it, my queen?”
“It is, my sweet man.”
Blurg. Guess you had to be alive during WW1 to really appreciate that one. Anyway, The Old Man and the Sea. Thumbs up.
Monica Clapcott is our new best friend because she saw that the site was fucked, hollered at us, and then fixed the whole mess in 24 hours.
We’ve never even met her! What an angel. Thanks Monica! There’s no way I can ever show my true appreciation without upsetting my girlfriend (I can get her to write you a detailed description of what she gets every year on her birthday perhaps… is that going too far? Probably. Whatever. I’m a truffle pig).
But then again- no thanks! Now we have to resume creating content for this absurd little bastard of a website… it was nice doing nothing.
We had a celebratory thing this afternoon to celebrate the fact that the website works again. Here we are celebrating.
Anyway, back into it. Here’s our first installment since things went pear shaped last month.
Looky! This is seriously a page from a standard Australian Oxford Dictionary. Can you believe it? We can’t. We’re reeling about the place saying, “We can’t believe it.”
True.
The first time I did acid was good. I stayed up all night with my friends and laughed at everything and anything that appeared on the television until the sun came up. My roommate at the time was “Amy”, a majorly uptight square that worked at Ikea (don’t know what she’s like these days. Maybe normal.). She was freaking out every five minutes, stomping down the hall, bursting into the lounge room and accosting us for making so much noise. Normally I would have been more considerate and sent my friends home, BUT- her little brother had been sleeping on our couch since the day we moved in six months before, so I figured she could go fuck her mindful unselfish self.
This is all old-ass news from the 90′s, so I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I posted up the letter she left under my door the next morning… the letter that gave me my first real taste of total lockjaw. I actually wet my pants a bit when I got to the part about smoking inside. Hilarious.
If you have funny roommate letters please forward them to us so we can post them up.
Me and Sterling did some gay shit for those fag bitches at Vice. Here it is. x
