The Batch is Back

I know, you probably think that was a typo and I meant to write 'bitch', but guess what: you be wrong. I really like the idea of referring to myself as The Batch. Like a batch of muffins, puppies or eels. People in London say it all the time. It's how we roll. My life is the street life, people.

So I know I have not written anything in a long time. This is down to two reasons 1) we have no internet access at our new flat and 2) I have a new job which means that for a FEW weeks I have to try and make a good impression. Never mind the fact that the new job is filled with people who are SO FUCKING STRAIGHT they make me feel like an obese, sweaty man, roving the country side in a white van filled with slightly soiled plush toys. Seriously, this shit is DIRE. I have thus far heard two conversations about new pairs of Ugg boots and one about waiting in line at the butcher shop... and somehow that one DIDN'T end with a dirty punchline. Damn.

They're nice people. I am not. You do the math(s).

Right now I am in New York, waiting for Daniel to get his sorry ass out of the shower so I can get my BAGEL on. So in two days I will be back and then I shall write more. I promise.

Last Day

It is here. At last. My final day here at work.

And what am I doing? WELL... get this. Idea for a fucking amazing pizza place. It will be called Good King Wenceslas and the tag line will be 'Deep and Crisp and Even.'

LOVE IT? I know, me too.

But anyway, what could possibly mess with my good mood on this day of days? Oh, I DON'T KNOW... maybe a little something called THIS SHIT!



How did it come to pass that JIM BELUSHI was able to fucking break into the bizzzzzz and prepetrate such crimes as 'K-9' (saw it in theaters, people. Dark times. WHY is it a Komedy Klassic to have movies about dogs watching people have sex????) and 'Taking Care of Business'??? Wait, who the hell am I kidding? Taking Care of Business fucking ROCKS:

'Jimmy Dworski is a criminal serving the last 48 hours of a jail sentence. He wins a couple of baseball tickets by calling a radio quiz show. With help of other inmates, he escapes to go watch the game. When by chance he finds the filofax of executive Spencer Barns who looses it while traveling on a business weekend. Jimmy finds cash, credit cards and the key to a big mansion. He jumps on the opportunity and starts posing as Barns. While the real Barnes is trying to find his filofax he gets in all sorts of trouble. How will things turn out when the two finally meet? '

I mean, he fucking PULLS it off, dude!




Every time I fucking try to hang ten on the hood of a moving luxury vehicle, I get nasty bruises, but Belushi carries it off with such panache! Not to mention the film features my very favorite grey-skinned man (whatever he touches dies) CHARLES GRODIN. Seriously, how good was he trying to woo Miss Piggy in (the best fucking Muppet film of all) The Great Muppet Caper. It's a heist film... WITH MUPPETS! Muppppppetsssssss.

Oh my god... I am sorry. I have to. My hands are twitching. I can't stop myself:



I know, so wrong. Will you forgive me? Can will still be pals? No? This is really it, eh? Well, I suppose it's for the best. We'd only wind up hating each other in the end.

Never forget, I loved you once.

So Long, SUCKAZ!

Ha! I wanted to have an image of a morbidly obese man running hell-for-leather down a deserted beach, but this eye-popper will have to do!

Yes, me hearties. I am not long for This World. And to ensure I got out in sty-lee, I have LOST MY VOICE! I need a fucking CHALK BOARD around my neck here, people. This is UNACCEPTABLE. I don't even sound sultry and alluring.
I sound like Johnny fucking VEGAS! 'Johnny WHO???' some of you may say:



(he's the one on the left. NOT the monkey in the bathrobe.) Perhaps now you see my problem, eh? EH????

On the plus side, sans voix I can more easily stalk my prey. Here I am with a real BEAUT'!



Shit fire, y'all! Look at the cold gleam in the eye, it's like Chuck Norris as a little girl.





FUCK YOU, Alaskan malamute! You call yourself a motherfucking SLED DOG??? EAT MY KICK!

DAMN! Chuck Norris HATES nature, and yet is more at one with it than any other man I know. Such a conundrum, that man!

Anyhoozles... my time may be otherwise occupied once I get to London and have to Make a Good Impression at my job... that will last 2 months tops. I PROMISE. Then I will be back to my ways of slacking and cursing like a drunken sailor! Heave ho!

I leave you with this image of well known mind-bending 80s coke monkey:




SPADERMAN! A Hero for Our Time.

I Passed The Bar

After going home sick yesterday, sleeping for hours and having creepy ass fever dreams about a wizards' duel, I have had what SOME might call an epiphany:

I think I was Ben Matlock in another life. There I am!



Imagine! I could be a dapper southern gentleman, perhaps kin to Colonel Sanders himself, white suit and all! Look at this description of a classic Matlock episode from Wikipedia:

'Matlock was noted for his thrift and a fondness for hot dogs. (After the series ended, his penchant for hot dogs was explained in the episode Murder Two of the television show Diagnosis: Murder. In it, Matlock blames Dr. Mark Sloan for recommending a disastrous investment in 8-track cartridges. Matlock subsequently invested (and lost) his savings of $5000, while he survived by wearing cheap suits and living on hot dogs.)'

I KNOW! It's like they're reading my fucking DIARY, strumming my pain with their fingers! OMG I have goosebumps.

For real, though. I never should have invested in those fucking 8-tracks. Dr. Mark Sloan fucked me over again... calls himself a FRIEND.
Anyhoo, water under the bridge. But, seeing these two photos below leaves me a bit... stymied:



Okay, there I am, addressing the jury, all blase blase and shit... and here:



What??? How did that slip in there? Yet the similarities are so striking, one cannot ignore them eh? I am beginning to think there is *something* crazy going on. Does this mean that I was not only Ben Matlock, Esq., but also a dubiously groomed giant BEAR???

What else lurks beneath/within/beyond?
Do I dare? Shit YEAH I do!



Here I am at Yankee Stadium, throwing the opening pitch. Check that action. Pure motherfucking STEEL, yo! Like a BEARTRAP! Batter up, fools.



Well, wookie here (bwaaaaahhhh!), tis me and my beloved family. Um, I don't remember which one is me. Man, I was HIGH that night!

Speaking of family, check out this demented band of brothers:



Dude on the left is LOVING it, whatever 'it' is. I have a vague idea, and it's not pretty.

How did it come to this? When will it end?
Folks, I don't have all the answers. At best all I have is a gleam in my eye, a song in my heart and a decent recipe for lasagna. Is that enough? No. In fact, I am tempted to be swindled into sleeping with Robert Redford for a cool mil; ruining my marriage to Woody Harrelson and throwing my own self worth down the shit hole in the process. Let's face it: I could do worse.



Yikes! Where did he pull that 'stache from? A fucking cereal box? Yet another case of facial hair marring an otherwise near-perfect face. If I really were Matlock, this would be Evidence Exhibit A.

The prosecution rests.

Career Path

Do you ever think maybe you have taken a wrong turn somewhere? I know I feel that way on a DAILY BASIS. I have decided there are a few career options I could really sink my teeth into:



Happy butcher! Everyone loves a jolly, rotund butcher, eh? And they have some of the best jokes told about them! I would kick ass as a 'no nonsense but likes a good fucking joke' butcher. Not to mention being able to do some SERIOUS ass-shredding air guitar on a huge fucking joint of beef! DIG ITTTTTT. The only draw back? Sawing into bloody flesh. Not sure I'm quite THERE yet.


Okay, what else?



I could so easily join this troupe of merry pranksters, roving the countryside, most likely sleeping in haylofts, cavorting with farmers' daughters, drinking mead, etc. But what if I didn't fit in? What if- as so often happens- they were all up for some rumpy-pumpy and I just wanted to stay in and play Uno! Talk about a lameass move, man. They would kick me to the curb with the quickness.

For some reason I also *kind* of have the feeling they may be into rrrather kinky shit. Just me? Hmm, that's odd.

It leaves me with one of my final choices:



Serious political pundit. (That's me there in the chicken costume). Shit, just cause I'm a pundit don't mean I can't fucking cut LOOSE now and then! What? I fly first fucking class, I voice my opinions on the current administration on air at least thrice weekly, I mind my OWN, man. Check yourself.

OR I could just THROW IN THE TOWEL and use what the good lord gave me and become a model. Here I am doing 'pensive.'




I also do catalogue work. Call me.

Signs

More signs that I have worn out my welcome in Glasgow: I get on the bus this morning, and the man oppsote me blows a snot rocket- you know: when you hold one nostril closed and then breathe really hard out the other? So nasty. But the 'best' part was, he did it INTO THE NEWSPAPER HE WAS READING and then calmly turned the page, as if nothing had happened! For fuck's sake, people.

Until now my time here has been mixed. I often feel it is akin to being on the bus when someone farts... and there is just NO WAY you can escape, and it is just miserable. Now that I know I am leaving (quite soon), it is more like that same situation, but inseatd of being trapped in silent anguish, you look at the attractive man next to you and share a look of disdain, and maybe roll your eyes. PSYCHE! As if there are EVER any attractive people on the Glasgow bius. Shaaa, right! Seriously, it's a fucking Elephant Man parade over here.

Ha! But anyway, my time here is drawing to a close... life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying MUFFIN!

Bwahhhh! You were all, 'Wow, Sarah is so DEEP,' and then I busted out with the FABULOUS 'signifying muffin' shit and it just brought it allll back home, didn't it?

Okay, before I go I have a fucking bone to pick with you people. WHY the HELL have you been holding out on me? I live in this country for TWO YEARS and it is only NOW I find out about 'Jonathan Creek'????



'Madeline Magellan, an investigative journalist, is the kind of journalist that generally sticks her nose in where it isn't wanted. While writing a story about the murder of a famous Artist she happens across a quiet but brilliant man named Jonathan Creek. Jonathan makes a living inventing magical tricks for Adam Klaus. Adam is a very famous magician but it is Jonathan that is the real genius behind Adam's illusions. Madeline (Maddy) and Jonathan team up to solve the Artist murder and then (for Jonathan with some reluctance) again team up to solve near-impossible cases. Over the stories, we see that Maddy is in love with Jonathan but Jonathan, being a shy person, doesn't show if he knows about Maddy's feeling for him but he loves solving the tricky mysteries that Maddy brings for his mind to solve...'

and he lives in a fucking WINDMILL, people. Talk about living my dream.

So to alllll y'all who KNEW about this show and did not tell me: SHAME ON YOU.

The Future

As I walked to work this morning, just a few hundred yards away from my office, I (literally) stumbled across a 2 foot long shank of crazy old lady hair, LYING IN THE STREET. What kind of way is that to start the week? I swear it was old lady hair, it could not have been anything else. Is it just me or is that a REALLY BAD FUCKING OMEN?

It does not bode well... I mean, you all know how I feel about growing old, right? Yep, pretty FUCKING psyched, and yet... maybe it's not all a bed of roses?



Yipesters! And, lest you think the fucking carnival of crazy has left town, see below:



Imagine running your fingers through that shit. I need a stiff drink and bottle of Nair just thinking about it. But hey, it's not all bad, right? There is still time to live my ultimate dream:



Yes. Re-enacting the film Uncle Buck with myself in the starring role, as inimitable tubby funnyman John Candy.

And so the inevitable descent into madness begins. People, much in the way I KNOW that I will someday be played on film by Danny DeVito, I know that my life and John candy's are inextricably linked. How? Because I SAW HIM in the fucking Brattleboro Public Library THE WEEK AFTER HE DIED... and he fucking WINKED AT ME!!!

I know, I know. You think I'm cray-cray. Well guess what, peeps: it's so fucking real it is making your head spin and... in the IMMORTAL (like J. Candy himeslf, y'all) words of Jack Nicholson in 'A Few Good Men': You can't HANDLE the truth!!!

Besides, I already have my huge drill and huge stinker of a cee-gar all lined up. Now all I need is someone to fill Culkin's role.



Any takers? If you're interested just let me know. I am SURE that when he ehars about this whole development John Candy will come out of hiding and ask for his cut.



Peekaboo!