I know

Peeps, I have been all types of off my game lately. I have nobody to blame but myself... and this guy:

WHAT?!?

'For real, yo! There I was, just minding my own in this wacky wilderness-themed meth lab I got goin' on and BOO YAH! Some apeshit moose creeps the fuck up on me, tryna, like pick my POCKET with its fucking mooselips or some shit. So I thought, like, WHATVER MAN and I sparked a bowl and the rest is, like, history. HAD to get a good snap of me and the moose, man. Ya know... that shit is GOLD.'

Sigh. What if, right?

Anyway, I haven't been exactly busy lately, just preoccupied, but the things I've SEEN:

1) a burger van outside London Bridge station, all closed up and on the outside of the little door somebody has scrawled 'Open up you cunt!'

2) A remarkable graffiti rendering of Val Kilmer just by the Peckham Rye station. I am sure it's Val- either that or some dude is enamoured of a bloated and dissipated thespian who is keen on mirrored shades and popped collars.

3) an old man eating an ice cream cone... not that unsual, it just freaked me out.

Sorry.

My Density

Hello my lovelies. I don't want to BOAST, but I have finally found my true calling:

Yes, dressing up as a wild-haired, Renaissance Fayre version of Joe Pesci and SWALLOWING FIRE. Gadzooks, I just don't know WHY it has taken me so long to find myself, y'all. 

Maybe it's cause these fucking BUM RUNES have been steering me wrong for YEARS. Fucking YEARS wasted.

Ummm maybe it's because they are not so much runes as teeth pulled from the head of a drunken giant and scrawled upon by that self-same drunken giant's idiot child. Fucking duped again. 

Seriously though, WHEN will I finally find my true calling? I've been doing this same shit for years now... but what is my destiny?

I have a few thoughts.

1) Working at locations that serve basically no other purpose than providing a much-needed phallic symbol on the horizon:

Teeeeeeee! It's a massive... SILO! 

Errrrrm, it's not rocket science people. BWAAAhaahahahahahaha! 

2) Let's be serious. I got pretty much caught up with that last one. Things have not gone any further. But if pushed... racist singing telegram man:

I've got the suit already, it's just a matter of putting my name out there, ya know? Call me for your next big event!

Glutton

Yes, I am talking about myself again people (DUHsville, what did you THINK I was going to talk about?). I am a glutton for fucking punishment. I am just testing my mettle by searching for photos of old men enjoying their hobbies (dirty), and came up with this dapper fellow and his fabulous flyer.

9.5 out of 10, people. He only gets that .5 taken off because I can't see his pearly whites, and I KNOW he must have quite a pair of choppers.

Why is such a pleasant pastime so torturous for me? Oh, maybe because MY restless soul shall never be so content. I mean, LOOK at how fucking chuffed he is with his finely crafted flying machine!  In the words of Lili Taylor in 'Say Anything' when she went TOTALLY off the hanger at that party and sang all those songs about JOE (who was fugs anywyay with his long, stringy-ass hair. Don't shed a single tear over that loserphone, Lili), 'That'll NEVER be ME! That'll NEVER be me!' 

God, I have such music in my heart! It's a shame I cannot simply turn back the clock, completely change my past and start a family band.

Is it just me or does it seem like that giant bass fiddle gave birth to them all in a corn field, then just laid the fuck back, ate a ham sandwich and watched it all happen? Maybe it's just wishful thinking, because if there was ever a group of people who should have a bizarre string section creation myth, rather than subject ANYONE to the mental image of them DOING IT, it's these bozos. My ad line might be: 'Never before has one family abused denim in so many ways!' Look at the psycho munchkin in the middle! Maybe HE is the puppetmaster of the whole operation. Pulling the strings! haw haw!!!!!!

Anyway, speaking of being doomed to life sans the loving touch of another human being:

Bwooooommmphhh! Ooops, that was the sound of the Love Trumpet (ew) that dude on the left UNdoubtedly has patented and keeps in his deep, dark closet of shame... along with some- oh, never mind. I can't even troll those depths.

I am Rain Man

Yes people. It is true. I swear it is written somewhere that Tom Cruise and I shall descend an escalator in Vegas, dressed in identical grey suits before I count the SHIT out of some cards, french my bro's girlfriend in the elevator and generally get my swerve on while secretly wishing I was up watching Wheel of Fortune with my juicebox. 

Why do I thus compare myself to old Ray Babbit? OHHHH maybe because of the tres Rain Man interaction I had with a PERFECT STRANGER at the bus stop this morning. She asked, 'Excuse me, Does this bus stop at Shoreditch (or some such place)?' MY (fucking freakish) answer? 

'THREE!' 

What a freak. 

I was just, you know, COUNTING THE AMOUNT OF BEEPS the little green man crossing sign had made at that particular moment. It really flustered me and I think it scared the shit out of her.

So to hide from my shame I am taking to the wilderness, eating roots and berries and just going where the day takes me.

Shitting hell, I love the bounder's life! The downside? The fresh air makes me eat like a horse, hence the rather uncomfy fit of my biking trousers. Does not leave much to the imagination, eh dear friends?

But lest we get carried away by the joy of the open road and the feel of taut fabric, let us turn to the eye-scalding shit storm below... aka my new besties:

Y'all jealous yet? They serenade me at night, which is lovely, but when they're done they stick around and just watch me sleep, while stroking their mad quiffs (whoa, even dirtier than I thought it would be), which frankly scares the shit out of me.

Nightmares in the making, people. 

Back

Yip, c'est moi! I am back and rejuvenated after a short jaunt to sunny Glasgow. 

Travelling, eh? So good for the soul. I felt like a plump, cigar-smoking, drill-wielding, fur hat-wearing John Candy as Uncle Buck: vaguely unhinged, driving through the night to see to my estranged brother's children, against the wishes of his prudish, conservative wife. But despite the best attempts of the young Macauly Culkin to derail my good intentions, I charm them in the end with my giant pancakes, sassy saxophone music, badass attitude and general bonhomie... and I prevent my rather sour niece from making The Biggest Mistake of Her Life with some nastophone named BUG.

God I fucking love that film. If only because the complexion of old Buck's tru luv resembles a grade of sharkskin sandpaper SO CLOSELY as to always make my mind turn to home repairs and the fashioning of spice racks when I watch it. For real, peeps. Have a look. That shit could scar a diamond.

Erm, anyhoodles... what did I do on my travels? Ate my weight in curry, skipped along a jellyfish strewn beach and dipped my dainty toes in the briny sea, as I watched a small dog try to have sex with a seagull. Note to self: when the inevitable happens and I have my very own Doc Moreau isle of hybrid freak manimals, NEVER contemplate a seagull/Jack Russell mix. Twould be an unhappy beast with a passion for theft and fish and chips (they go hand in hand), a fun-loving heart and a high-pitched yip that would shatter glass.

Welp, that's it. Did you miss me? Seems I've bee gone for YEARS. Have you forgotten what I looked like? Well here's a recent snap from my holiday:

Bwwwaaaaahhhhahahaha! Just kidding! I know, Bat Boy is a pretty easy target, eh? God bless him and his filed molars, double chin and snappy black turtlenecks. Like a angry stand-up comedian doing a bit about sitting in traffic... and it's falling flat as a pancake. Fucking shit audience. Nobody GETS me.

Love,

Me

Off

I'm away to Glasgow tomorrow for the weekend, people. I know, you never thought I would return. Nor did I, but the siren song of curry is calling.

that and it's the only place I can get a fucking decent beard trim these day!

Bwaaahahaha! ROFL times 1billion!!!!!!!!!

For realz though, this shit needs the bid-niz and NOW. It's totally impinging on the fabulosity of my crisp white suit. What I really need is 1) a twin who ALSO has a penchant for flashy dress and major beard action 2) a stage on which to strut my stuff and 3) a sudden flare for musical genius. Shazam!

Hey, is that two guys with one beard or one guy with two beards?  Bwaaahhhhh!

Okay. C'est tout! I am spent. You know how talk of beards exhausts me. I shall be back soon... miss me.

It's true

I have realized a few things lately, people.

1) I may NEVER be President of the United States. EVER. I KNOW! I can't believe it either. I might as well be some fucking monkey with a snuffbox here, people.

Monkey with a snuffbox. Mmmmm hmm. 

Anyway... should I ever get into the running for Prez I TRUST that none of you mugs will blow my effing cover. Fair warning. 

2) I may never be elected Mayor of Baltimore either. This comes as a huge blow. I have taken to my bed.

Pity me.

Fever

DANCE fever that is, folks. Don't know why, but this weekend's debauchery made me want to return to a simpler time. The time when I would spend ALL evening in front of the mirror, gussying up and looking my best. If only my best were anywhere close to fucking mediocre, man:

Which one am I? CLEARLY the smoky greaser on the left, heir to James Dean's throne of cool... OH who the fuck am I kidding? I am the Jolly Green fucking Giant on the right, destined to be weeping into my massive DR. Who scarf at the end of the night because some effing BOZO did not realize the beauty WITHIN... motherfuckers. I'll make them pay. I'll make them all pay.

SIGH. Seriously though, despite the deep, deep emotional scars, how good are school dances? WHEN ELSE might you possibly get into a really awkward and inappropriate sexual situation with YOUR OWN MOTHER when she was a teen in Hill Valley in 1955, hot for your bod despite your squirrely looks and high voice? It's a young boy's dream, isn't it? Um... is it? No. Don't tell me.

AND the music kicks fucking ass as well, nevermind Biff Tannen and his 3D glasses wearing chums trying to tell you that Pat Boone is 'the berries' or whatever the fuck people said in the 50s... naw, really bold sax is where it's at.

SPEAKING OF WHICH:

Holy shitting HELL! That's the scariest example of jazz hands I have ever seen... barring this of course:

Whoooaaa man, slow your roll and let DJ Big Daddy smoove shit out with some basic trax:

Bip! Uggghhh, I'm exhausted. I'm going to quit now. lest I inadvertently get carried away and hire G Daddy for my next big event. I'm out.

Countdown

Yay! Less than a month until I go home to the States for a little holiday. Best to celebrate this countdown with some joyful images of hilarious property damage:



Fan-fucking-tastic. I finally get my license, after YEARS of looking like a total LOSERTRONIC, driving around with my DAD and his fucking argyle sweater vests and loafers with no socks and then THIS act of fucking GOD happens. Thanks. Fucking thanks.

Muffin damage (Dirty? Yes.) can happen to the best of us. Which is why I am taking shit to the streets:

This tasty costume is a damning indictment of how baked goods are ruining our lives and the lives of people we love... why, I'd rather some ominous looking bald man with a way too mythological looking bow and arrow aimed that shit at my HEAD... and did I mention that I am Stevie Nicks?

Cause I am, and it's TOTALLY FREAKING ME OUT. I don't know whether to wind my ass or scratch my watch! Wait. CLEARLY the ass-winding is first on the list, am I right or am I right?

Seriously though, I am having trouble coping with the FLOOD of gypsy skirts that tumbled out of my closet (which is a BIT like a mystical hermit's cave, btw) this morning.

Once I sorted that shit out and put magenta with magenta, puce with puce and fuschia with fuschia- and I KNOW you're saying 'Aren't they all just fucking PINK, Stevie?' Well no, no they're not and I'll thank you not to disrupt my chakras like that- I smoked about a MILLION bowls and drank some hawk blood from a hollowed out wolf's fang I felt a bit more on top of shit, ya know? But now the fringed leather VESTS have to be dealt with, and then I've just noticed this ENTIRE FUCKING ROOM OF CANDLES that I basically forgot about since '78 and now they're all melty and some of the incense has gone rancid... and don't EVEN get me started on the HATS! The fucking HATS, people!!! Ya know, fuck it. Just fuck it.

Sorry, things got a bit beyond my control there. It happens. I'm not omnipotent here, people. For example: I am prepared to swear on a stack of pancakes that the guy next to me on the tube was listening to Hootie and the Blowfish. HOOTIE AND THE BLOWFISH. In 2008. And there wasn't a whole lot I could do about it, aside from trying my DAMNDEST to vomit on command right onto his chinos. I just had to sit quietly and take it.

Curses.

Dear Diary

It's me, your old friend. Been feelin' pretty bad about myself lately... down in the dumps. Maybe it's the weather or maybe it's the hellaciously gruesome visage that stares back at me every morning in the mirror!

YIKES!!!! Note to self, lay off the horse drugs. It can only come to no good. Damn. If only they didn't feel so RIGHT.

But innyhoo, more about my lingering sense of malaise. Not even kicking back at the bayou's classiest casino can help lift my spirits.

Durn it! Not even doublin' down on deuce-tastic hand can turn this frown upside down (does what I just said even make sense? I have no fucking clue. Damn horse pills.) Yet I am slightly gladdened by how fucking svelte I look in this picture. Those Ryvita crisps are really doing the trick. You go girl!

And it's no thanks to this gentleman here.

Best part is, when I first saw this I thought that the sausage was massive, but upon closer inspection (with my Sherlock Holmes magnifying glass- you bastards see, but you do not OBSERVE) I see that the man is in fact TINY!!! Even better! It's like The Borrowers and this bastard is making away with my last fucking sausage! STANDING on my plate, brazen as all get out! Off with his head! How handy is it that he has a butcher's outfit, though. Bet he 'borrowed' that shit as well... or MAYBE he stumbled in Rick Moranis's miniaturizing machine and done got shrunk! WHO CARES, despite his thieving ways, he is my new hero. Shine on, you crazy diamond!

And with that, I'm off! Latah playazzzzzzz!

Oh!

Oh, hewwow! I did not see you there. I was too busy hypnotising unsuspecting customers with my fucking mind-blowing array of cheese curd snacks.

I think the fact that I also HAPPEN to be fucking GANDALF helps when trying to convince people to partake of my curds (DIRteeee)... but I'm not sweatin' it. It doesn't take a wizard to know that these shitz b delicious. 

What? Oh sorry, my attention drifted, perhaps due to the CUP size on this effing bulldog. Bitch is STACKED!  Get it??? 'Bitch'? Bwaaaaaahhahahah.

Hooooo! Delightful! Like a glass of cold iced tea on a hot day, or the fucking nutso fingerless gloves this tweaked out, rather apathetic Santa is wearing... and I won't even TALK about the MUG on fricking WILLIS. I could play a game of fucking HOPSCOTCH on that lower lip. Tuck that shit in, Bruce.

Okay, so this may be the laziest and least coherent post ever, but let's GO with it, okay... it may be the only way to calm the beast within. I mean, I admit, I've been pretty off my game lately... been thinking a lot about the past, the old days... back when I was a devil-may-care kid with five dollars in my pocket and not a care in the world. Here I am in the middle below in '82, tripping balls and wrestling fish in the Connecticut River. Fucking best summer I ever had, despite the impending baldness.

Yeah, a young Harrison Ford I wasn't, but I had my share of kicks; riding high on the competitive eating circuit...

Shit yeah! Just peep that knowingly arched eyebrow. I had it ALL. But then it all went so wrong... I suppose I flew too close to the sun and now here I am, the empty shell of a man you see before you today.

Haaaaaaaaaa! PSYCHE! I so had you going, didn't I?  Me? I'm no hero. Nah, I'm just a humble cowboy, wandering the range, drumming up trade for my best ever invention:

Now excuse me, while I kiss the SKY!

It's time

... to stop fucking around, people. Here is THE idea that will make me those millions.

a coffee shop/family law office called Grounds for Divorce

OR

Espress Your Love for Your Children via a Hallmark Card, Fool Cause Your Ass Is Never Getting Visitation Rights

OR

Bean Lax With Your Child Support Payments

Done and done. Why don't I just fucking pitch a TENT up in that crazy old attic they call The Dragons' Den? For real. I can hook up a Bunsen burner and get my mac and CHEESE on and then it wouldn't be such a fucking hassle getting there everytime I have a DOOZY of an idea... which is like every other millisecond, right? I know.

It's so amazing being me.

Shit, I even LOUNGE better than y'all.

Ps

OMG! Can y'alls believe it's June already? MmmmIKNOW, right? Time's a-passin'. I'm feeling itchy all over.

Mmmm, anyone care to join me for a celebratory backscratch and then a nice tall stack of pancakes? Me too!

I missed you

Did you miss me? I know you did. It's been, like, A BAZILLION YEARS since my last post, right?

What have I been up to? Ohhh, ya know, the usual:

Frying shit up in my MASSIVE PAN, being told TO MY FACE by certain people (ahem) that my blog is absurd and makes no sense. ABSURD? Well, if THAT'S how you feel, I'll just get on the LOBSTER PHONE to my butler, hop on my sparkly doughnut, fly away and spend the rest of my life on an eagle's nest pruning mannequins.

Get it? Cause that shit is totes absurd. Except not, it's just another fucking Tuesday in my book, peeps.

But how effing BORING would it be if I did just write about Mi Vida Loca, eh? EH?

None of the good stuff:

Hideous trolls sculpted from butter (eating really nasty looking corn on the cob), par exemple.

Pics of me and my my best friend Mick 'Crocodile' Dundee on walkabout with our fucking hellaciously amazing giant bunny slippers...

I don't know about you, but I would miss that shit.

PS: I am accepting donations toward Mick's bail. He was thrown in the clink after fishing in a rather unorthodox way in the East River... bwaaahahahahahahaha. Just kidding! Me and Donk actually busted him out of jail by tunneling underground using a portable bidet. Messy, but effective.

Bidet, mate!