A reminder

Just a few things, while I have a moment:

Recently, Tom Hanks has managed to fly under my radar and escape almost unscathed. HOWVER. I do not like to be seen as going soft on this shit, so I need to just reach out and bust him every now and then, just to remind TOM HANKS who's boss... cause yes, that would be ME- the one who ISN'T making millions and probably eating huge pots of stew on top of large piles of cash, then taking said cash, wiping the stew from one's mouth and returning the soiled bills (which will eventually become one huge, unhygenic, steaming collection of fermenting currency, flavored with bay leaves)to the heap- but why the fuck does HE care, he's got fucking OODLES of it... SO check yo'self Hanks. This means YOU, GUMPPPPP!



Remember where you came from.

AND, before I go:



1986. This is before shit went to the dogs and Tom Hanks was suddenly next in line for sainthood.

LOOK at that motherfucking soundtrack, y'all! Christopher Cross AND Carly Simon? Fused together by the magic of one odd couple comedic jambalaya? Yes please! I don't even have to mention the genius of the alchemist who put together Thompson Twins and Richard Marx, clearly in a bid to create CINEMA SOUNDTRACK GOLD from the base metal of generic 80's hits.

I can vividly remember gazing at this cover in the video shop of my hometown, transfixed by the enormity of the cigar in Jackie Gleason's mouth. The man is a bulldog. Look at him.

Yet again

I am FORCED to be the one to remind people just how FUCKING MENTAL Donald Sutherland looks.



I know, people. It's old fucking news, but guess what: that does not make it any less real... nor does it make his DEVIL FACE any less scary. My nightmare last night about crows taking over my childhood home is NOTHING in the face of Donald 'Demonic Professor' Sutherland.



What the fuck does he care? Look at the man. He may as well be the INSPIRATION for Ghost Rider, people. But they had to tone that shit DOWN because the real deal was too much for the viewing public. I can just picture him on set, advising Nicholas Cage and eating the tiny hands of little babies like popcorn... tossing back his Scarf of Fear and running his hand through his manic Ghost Mane.

Proof fucking positive that Bealzebub guides this man's hand is his appearance in Aging Comedic Shambles (alternatively titled SPACE COWBOYS).



Rahhh! My face is melting!!!! It's like the first time I dropped acid and the wood grain in my friend's dorm room became Alex Trebek... I am sure Donald was lurking in there somewhere as well and I can only praise Jeebus that he did not appear, cause I KNOW that shit would have put me over the edge.



WHO LET THIS HAPPEN? Who could have brought this unholy terror down on our heads??? Lucifer himself? No, just Clint FUCKING Eastwood,of course. Because how could we be expected to LIVE without CLINT weighing in with some majestic fucktard tale of old men getting it up (or NOT) in space... starring every flaccid paunchy bastard available... (imagine the jowls shaking as they take off- the bags udner Tommy Lee Jones's eyes alone are big enough to carry all the sorrows of the world) EXCEPT for Robert Duvall and Michael Caine, who were perhaps too busy whittling, spitting and drinking moonshine in Secondhand EFFING Lions.

Sigh. I just cannot fucking win. It makes me want to throw in the towel... ESPECIALLY when I see that not ONLY did fucking Space Cowboys get made... but there is also a MAKING OF SPACE COWBOYS. Yes, people. The Making OF. Because every intricate DETAIL of this fucking EPIC space saga MUST be documented. With commentary by Jay Leno.

I have no more words.

The best of a bad bunch

Believe it or not, I am not exactly 100000% happy with the world at the moment. I know: shock horror!!

But it's the freakin weekend, peeps so I am going to bust it out HAPPY STYLE and talk about good things:

1) Bus driver acknowledgement etiquette



I fucking love it when bus drivers wave at each other. It's like primeval beasts bellowing to each other across prehistoric bogs. Even better is when they stop and have a little chat, like cops pulling up next to each other in an abandonded parking lot strewn with crack vials. Class. It's just so heartwarming it makes me get all choked up.

And while on the topic of bus drivers, I would like to give a shout out to one Hawthorne James, the actor who plays Sam the Bus Driver in the film 'Speed.' Say ALL you want to about K Dog Reeves (god knows I have) but do not diss Sam the Man... he's the one who gets shot and then the whole shit just KICKS OFF, Dennis Hopper Crazy style. Sam has the most amazing hair in that film: like a soft brown cape, or Darth vader's helmet. I have tried my DAMNDEST to find an image of him on the internet, to no avail. So you'll just have to trust me on this one: it's just good shit. Take a hit and pass it along.

Errrmm, what else.

2) The shop I pass on my way to work. It is called N.A. Yams Ltd. Do they sell yams and ONLY yams? God I fucking hope so.

Right. Two things. Great. Just for KICKS let's see what happens when I talk about something that I am NOT so fond of:

1) Chocolate fountains


Just LOOK at how nasty that shit is! And the little chubster hand sneaking in from the side, gettin' some chocklit... I can just imagine some nasty finger licking going on and then another dip in the fountain....uuuuuuuuuuuuhhhgggghhhhh.


2) McGruff the Crime Dog



Because seriously, who is he kidding? He is basically in a child molester's uniform. All he needs is a white van and a wispy moutsache and maybe some aviator shades or something. Fuck crime- he will take a bite out of innocence, friends. Sad and scary stuff.

And yet, it feels good to get that off my chest. Thanks,



Thank you for being a friend.

A Few Things

I have spent a few hours this evening contemplating the MASSIVE schnoz that is Gerard Depardieu. I have come to the conclusion that 1) the massive dent in his nose is akin to the craters of the moon and 2) this is where the smurfs were born and where they have built their world- a utopia threatened only by the evil Gargamel and his really naggy cat.


What do you have to say about this, Gerard?



'Qui? Moi? Uuuuuuh, I am not so sure what you are talking about when you talk about SMURVES... they live on my face? But how fabulous. I tell them this: drink and love, my little friends. Sausage wine and melody- as yes, I DO mean wine made from sausages, mon vieux. Romance is key to all monkey happiness. Smoke the cigarette of life as though it were a Gauloise held in the lips of a porpoise. Drink deep from the carafe of life, as if it were the 1/2 price house wine that made you gag the first time you drank as a five year old boy. Sop up the rich sauce of life with the baguette of desire. Tear open the croissant of joy with buttery fingers of anticipation. You are wildflowers, papillions! Merde! But what do I know? I am just a man.'

Yes. you heard that shit here first, peeps. I alone can translate the sheer fucking insanity that spews forth from the mumbling mouth of G. Dep.

Speaking of insanity:




Just another fucking MONDAY over here folks. Me and my shrooms. Handy, as they keep the fucking rain off as well. I'd be one sad-ass soggy mofo without this fab parasol... it may look sunny in this photo, but the storm clouds are gathering and a righteous rain is a-comin'. Good thing I've got these: THE BEST JEANS IN THE WORLD to protect me against these harsh climes. I've managed to siphon some of the acid used in dyeing them to supplement the hallucinogens from this GIANT MUSHROOM I'VE BEEN TRIPPING OFF SINCE EASTER- as a result I will be high as fuck until further notice. Drugs may have changed my appearance, but I am still the same simple, happy soul I have always been.

The Pursuit of fucking Happyness indeed.

Best Movie Ever Made

Controversial topic, yes, but I am CONFIDENT that once you see this trailer you will agree. Elnie knows what I'm talking about...

Okay, are you with me? Good, now we can talk about HOW INSANE ANTHONY HOPKINS'S EYE MAKEUP IS in that shit. What the fuck? He looks like fucking Scarface.



Up in the crib, chillaxing... and yes, I am going to do it:

'SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!!!!'



BWAAAAahahahahaha. I know, unoriginal. It has been done, but I could not resist... which leads me to my next point: how has R. Montalban flown under my radar for so fucking long?



This man has been marauding about, stealing hearts and apparently a fair few nasty ass hair extensions and yet this is the first time I have had cause to bust his ass... and speaking of BUST, peep that nipple sneaking out there. Nassssstteeeee.

Anyway, have I mentioned my new job? It being London and all, welp, I got me a job as a chimney sweep!

Here I am, below.



I earn a few extra coins doing chalk drawings on the 'pavement' (I know, how fucking wrong-headed is that?) and take small children and loose women for mild-blowing, psychedelic tours into new worlds of my own creation and devious design- I fucking KNEW that art degree would come in handy! And if that shit ever gets old (like it EVER will, dude, it is the best gig EVER) I am gonna go for the Sorting Hat job at Hogwarts:



Wahhhhh, check me OUT! I'm all up on your head, telling you where you BELONG. Know your place, young'un. Listen to Freeman the Sorting Hat and know thine own self. I do a bit of beat-boxing as well. The kids fucking LUV it. Oooooga oOOOOga chubba chubba! Fuck yeah.

This could be true...

Guess what:

I am shit-canning this job to embark on a career in film.

I am remaking 'Days of Thunder' (using the original cast, natch- when ELSE am I going to get the chance to work with Randy Quaid? I mean, his ass is booked solid for YEARS... oh, wait...) as it should have been done in the first place:

DAYS OF CHOWDER



Imagine! Here is the plot summary:

'Days of Thunder revolved around a talented, hot-shot auto racing rookie, Cole Trickle (Cruise), who, after trying his hand in the American open wheel ranks, seeks to win on the NASCAR circuit. His mechanic mentor, Harry Hogge (Duvall), acts as his crew chief and Dr. Claire Lewicki (Kidman) is a young brain surgeon who tries to tame Cole.'

Fuck me, it would be brilliant: just subsitute 'chowder' for 'cars' or 'racing'... fucking Tom Cruise stirring a huge pot of steaming chowder, ladling it out to brain surgeon Nicole Kidman, daring her to try some extra black pepper...

Damn I am WASTED on this job. Sigh, if only I were wasted, it would make being SCOLDED FOR WEARING JEANS TO WORK sting a bit less.

PS: How good is the name Harry Hogge? I bet Duvall wrote that shit hismelf... that and the 'Assassination Tango' debacle and the whole 'Secondhand Lions' catastrophe are enough to make him my new nemesis.

Untitled (Tuesday)

I cannot think of a title for this. In fact, all of the titles of allll of these posts are a complete waste of time. I could think of a clever one-liner, but I just ate my lunch and am feeling a bit slow at the momento- like Dom DeLuise after Pasta Monday.

On the other hand, yesterday's little list (I can go so much further, people. Don't try me) of pet peeves left me somewhat invigorated. I find my strength rather sapped these days, due perhaps to the fucking 9 YEAR LONG commute I have to make every morning; travelling back and forth in time, man. I am basically Emmett 'Doc' Brown now, folks... but minus the shock therapy hair and unfortunate waistcoats. Or maybe it is due to the nastophonic water in this city, which I believe has been dosed by the guv'mint to make us slow and lethargic, and soooon they will just start switching water for YooHoo in a nation-wide bid to up Yoo Hoo's fucking consumption tally and produce malformed babies to work in underground caves, turning giant wheels to provide power for the national grid- and who will notice? No-fucking-body, that's who.

Anyway, it being a Tuesday and all, which is usually my worst day of the week, I thought I would stay Positive- like rap in the 90s and try to talk about some things that I like:

1) This. I fucking like this a lot.



Mmmm, lick it up, fool! Mr. T ice cream ain't gettin' on no plane. I pity the fool who tries to take this scoop aboard any aircraft, shit will go LIVE. No messin'. Imagine Mr. T ASTRONAUT ice cream,! No way in HELL, people.


2) Signs involving crabs



Because when are crabs not funny? That's right: never.


3) Giant inflatable effigies of the Monopoly man... hmmm, too bad I didn't have an image of that shit... wait, what?




OH SNAP! Thar she blows. Permission to come aboard, sir? The best part for me is the wink and the tip of the hat. He knows something he's just not saying...



4) Shoes that look like waffles. No, I'm not even fucking with you.



BLAOW!

Now you're all, 'Say WHAT?!' and I'm all, 'I KNOW!' and then you're like, 'Ohhh DIP!' and I'm like, 'I TOLD your ass.'

Fin.

Ach!

I was taking a walk in the park during my lunch today and saw a man with a Doberman Pinscher (or however you spell it) The dog ran away and he was calling its name: ‘Rolf! ROOOOOLLLFFFF’ are people seriously naming German dogs with German names now- is this Lady and the fucking TRAMP here people? If so, I am getting a schnauzer and naming It Goebbels just to fuck with people.

Seriously though, I am having feelings of deep inadequacy here at this new job. I mean, how can I even hope to measure up? My idea of smart casual is a barrel with shoulder straps and a pair of clown shoes. I only DREAM of being able to look so dapper.



Um, and speaking of dapper...




'Hello hello HELLLO! Come in my sweet bean and have a drink. What? Sweet PEA! Oh yes, well no matter. Let me fill your goblet with this rare elixirrrrr I have made... from my own orchards you know... yestthhhh, and then pressed between the thighs of my baldest eunuch yessssthhh, she is delicious, no? What? Hahhhahahahahahaha of course I didn't put anything 'extra' in it, whatever do you mean, my petal? Horse drugs? I know not of what you thspeak, thweet trinket... now, let us quaff carouses, eh? Bottomssssss up, my lovely! Make yourthelf comforrrrrtable and I shall thing you a thweet thonnngggg.'

Hoo hah! What can I say, people. It's been a dog day afternoon. I have alternated between bemoaning the ragged state of my wardrobe and contemplating darker issues:




For some reason this photo reminds me of something. One of my major turn-offs: people who AREN'T really fucking grossed out by the idea of incest. Seriously. Never invite these people to parties. And if you must invite them, don't let them near the savory dips. They be getting their HANDS up in there. It's fucking freaky, I don't get it, but it is just fact. Also never let them put records on, or you'll be listening to the 'Cruel Intentions' sound track on repeat all fucking night.

Which brings me to a few more of my major peeves:

1) Ryan Phillippeeeeeee



a) How the FUNK are you supposed to pronounce his name? b) can the man fucking READ? He sure don't look like he kan. c) I already know he speaks in a complete monotone- seen it on tv, tis true.


2) Squirrels



Especially these fucking show off squirrels. Big fucking deal you can peel a banana. OOOOoooooh we're all soooo impressed. Try holding down a fucking 9 to 5 job, coming home every night tired as a dog, then sitting down to write the great American novel... THEN step to me and MAYBE I'll give you some fucking 'spect. Excet I won't, because you are a nasty little rodent whose forefathers used to throw nuts at me as I waked down the driveway of my high school, years ago. Fuck all y'all.

3) Everyone who is cooler than me. This takes in a huuuuuge section of the population. Including these horses.

Have I Mentioned...

How fucking HUGE this cow is?



It's like Dom DeLuise being led to the abbatoir:



But in Dom's case, the rope that bound him would be made of black licorice (natch) and he would chew through that shit in an INSTANT and be free once more; roaming the land, bellowing like the primeval beast he is, searching high and low for a mate.
I totally feel for him. Black licorice b delishhisssss.

ps: I am at work. and I am brazenly posting this. I am waiting for the shit to hit the fan and for my ass to be tossed out into the rain.

pps: who knew it RAINED here? I though Glasgow was the only place that was allowed to be soggy and ass-nasty. Hmmm, could it be THE WHOLE OF THIS COUNTRY is one sodden sponge, stored under the kitchen sink of the world, giving out putrid fumes of rank dairy and onions? Wish you were here!

My Lover

One of the best parts about going home for Christmas is that I got to indulge my love of pretzels. You peeps in the GB don't understand the pretzel: the depth of flavor, the baked glory and salty majesty of those twisted beasts. Well,

I once made a batch of soft pretzels myself and patented the Triple Twist Bastard: a pretzel with THREE twists in it. Deal with that.

But anyway that's neither here nor there.




FFFFFWahhhhhhtchaaaa! I'm looking THROUGH you, through your pretzel soul. I am the only one who knows your heart.

I know, he's a scary man. He knows things. Ssssh, don't worry, nothing has changed. Somewhere out there, stuffed monkeys are still making moonshine liquor...



... and giant guitars are still featuring heavily in my acid flashbaxxxxxx:



(Um oh my god how fucked up is this troupe of bandits??? It;s like staring at the sun: I close my eyes and they're still there.)

I Am Sorry

I know. I am a slacker, but guess what???? My new life here in the big city is just so full of madness and fucking mayhem that I have not had a gosh-darned minute to dip my nib in (ewwwww) and get writing. Well, EXHALE, bitches because I am ready to expound.

London is a different place. Fucked up shit is happening allll around me:



Crazy meta post-modernist things like tow trucks being towed BY OTHER TOW TRUCKS... I tells ya, man. It's like little tiny daggers of CRAZY.

But what else, you ask? Ummmm, try the fact that EVERY CHILD IS ASSIGNED HIS OR HER OWN ALBINO TOTEM ANIMAL AT BIRTH. I know. It's like an animal ghost town... like the whole city decided to reenact fucking POWDER.



Which basically OBLIGES me to say: OMG, people: POWDER??!!!

Please bust this.



"When sheriff Barnum investigates the death of an elderly rural resident, he discovers a teenage grandson living in the basement. Raised by his grandparents, he has experienced the world only through books, never leaving the family farm. He is sent to a state home for boys where he has trouble fitting in socially. His odd appearance and unusual abilities cause the small town residents to fear and ridicule him. However, not all are afraid. Some begin to view his potential and gifts with wonderment. Written by Robert B. Young {youngb@tastemaker.com}"

Okay. A few things before we proceed.

1) 'He has experienced the world only through books, never leaving the family farm.' HOW does Robert B. Young, erstwhile imdb.com poster KNOW the fucking story of my life??? It's taken a few THOUSAND layers of pancake makeup to wash away the traces of my Powder-esque pallor, yet he KNOWS.

2) And he has helpfully posted his e-mail address so I can GET IN TOUCH to let him know he fucking OUTTED me to the WORLD. Cheers, Robert B. Young... and watch your back. Without my make up I can blend in like an ARCTIC FOX.

3) And of fucking COURSE, Jeff Goldblum is in the film, flying the freak flag for all goodhearted misfits.

Anyway, I can hardly remember what I was going to say, simply due to the fact that my mind is blown by the fact that fucking 'Powder' was even made in the first place (AND the fact that I did not get a piece of that action).

Oh yes, it's all coming back to me now:



Londoners like their bananas, and they like them right up in their grills, lying on their faces, resting flaccidly on their chins like basking walruses, poking them in their ears. Is it dirty? Yes. Tasty? Mmmm, prob'ly not.

I can go no further. The only other thing I have to say is that this past weekend was spent moving all our belongings from Glasgow to London... with the help of our lovely friends. In thanks I have composed an anagram using the first initials of their names... and a few other letters because I don't have that many friends. PSYCHE, I am so fucking sought-after it's not even funny. Get in line.

Anyway, here she is:

BAGS OF MCNADS!!!

Fuck yeaaaaaahhhhh.

bye.

A New Year

Happy Motherfucking New Year, you miserable clambones!

While dragging my sorry ass carcass to work this morning it occurred to me that I have not made any Resolutions this year. I never do, so that is nothing unusual, but I am feeling feisty, so bust THIS. BUT being both keen on efficiency and AMAZINGLY lazy, I have decided to resolve to do things I have either a) already partially achieved b) achieved looong ago. Check that shit OFF the list, foolz.

Thus I beginz:

1) Learn to swim:
Ha! BOO YAH! That shit is SO crossed off... yet, like the bleakly existential son of Richard Dreyfuss in 'What About Bob?" my ass still cannot dive. It's not that I am scared, but as wee Charlie' Siggy' Korsmo so astutely pointed out in WAB: 'We're all gonna die someday why does it matter if I can't fucking dive.' (PS I added the 'fucking' because I am badassssss).

2) Watch the collected works of Charlie Korsmo... again. This is kind of a no fucking brainer man: Hook, Dick Tracy, Can't Hardly Wait, What About Bob? I mean, does the word GOLD mean anything to you???

3) Wear a string of link sausages like a feather boa. This is not really feasible, due mostly to the fact that the thought of raw sausage against my skin gives me the dry heaves, but I love the image. Maybe one of YOU can do it, take a photo and paste my loveable mug over it, thereby helping me cross something off my list... who will make the ultimate sacrifice?

4) Make sure to purchase new chocolate cereal ASAP. It is the only thing that makes it worth waking up in the morning.

Wish me luck!