Please circle what you believe to be the most amusing punchline.
Have you ever noticed that when you eat a corn on the cob it comes out as sweetcorn? But when you eat sweetcorn . . .
a)- . . . no, she went of her own accord.
b)- . . . it never comes out as corn on the cob.
c)- . . . dear Christ, has it come to this? What have I done with my life?
Answers below.
About a week or so ago I either dreamt or someone actually did ask me if I was a racist. It wasn’t part of a recruitment drive or anything, but due to either dream logic or extreme intoxication on my part I made some kind of a joke of the thing before pointing out that I tried not to be. Hilarious, I’m sure you’ll agree (my sides, my sides), but a couple of days later I found myself again intoscicated, but this time most definitely conscious. At some point during the course of the evening I found myself using the word ‘wigga’ to describe the fans of needlessly popular rap chap Eminem. The table fell not entirely silent, but certainly backed off at what had been perceived as a faux pas on my part. At first I failed to connect the incidents, but retrospect has set my mind wondering. The first time that I heard the word in use conversationally, it’s user had prefixed it with a short warning (no really – I know people who give verbal warnings about their vocabulary! I use the word prefix so it can’t come as much of a shock). I suppose it is racially prejudicial in some ways, if not all. I could argue that as I was mocking one of my own race that it’s okay, with the obvious counter argument that the fact that I was mocking them for emulating someone of a different caste was inherently racist in itself. So I shan’t attempt too. I have neither the cultural or linguistic skill to defend of prosecute a word properly, leaving it (in my mind at least) in the patchy no man’s land between completely unacceptable and being childishly allowed. I shall try not to use it in public again, unless I’m describing myself to Klansmen. That’ll confuse ‘em.
a)- 0 points – surrealistic twists do not observations make.
b)- 0 points – dear Christ has it come to this? What have you done with your life?
c)- 5 points – you have achieved the zen crux of the observational comic and realized that you’re observations are worthless. You know what to do now. Fetch the razors.
So, I’ve been simultaneously busy, lazy, apathetic and without working technology for a little while now, so here’s a double post to brighten your inevitably bleak day (it was going to be a triple, but I’m far too tired to try and finish that one now). Today I decided to attempt a couple of things. Firstly, having run out of tobacco, I decided to attempt to stop smoking again. I’ve cut down an awful lot over the past month and have spent the odd day without a weed in my gob at all, so thought I might as well have another go. Doubt it’ll last, but hey, you’ve got to have a go every now and then. The other thing I attempted was cutting my hair. This is something I’ve done a few times using clippers, but having been too apathetic to try and borrow any and being utterly sick of looking like a Bon Jovi roadie, enough was enough and I reached for my scissors. I spent about half an hour hacking away at my bonce, remarkably missing all major arteries and, for the most part, my scalp. I’d had visions of my trying to phone for an ambulance with two severed ears, the operator uncomprehending and me unable to hear them. To my surprise, not a drop of blood was spilt. The hair meanwhile, had something of a patchy outcome. Literally in a few places. It’s hard to operate on the back of one’s head with scissors in one hand, a mirror in the other and a severe lack of nicotine coursing through one’s veins. At least it’ll grow back, I suppose, but for the first time in a while I have no idea if I resemble anyone. I’m sure someone’ll tell me before the week is out.
I was wandering off to see some chums last night, when I noticed a copy of Escort lying in the middle of my road. To the casual observer this would probably seem like nothing, but I was quite surprised as it was the first piece of discarded urban pornography that I’d seen since moving into the city. Of course I’m not counting copies of the Star or Sport, which seem to litter our cities highways and byways, but actual rhythm publications bought from a newsagent’s top shelf. Growing up as a country lad there were certain places that you could often find ‘left jazz’ – lay-bys, ditches, woods. I seem to remember there was an Armstrong & Miller sketch about the men who left porn in woods, my own recognition of which amused me and seemed to prove that I wasn’t the only one who had noticed this at an early age. Of course this had been helped by the amount of time I spent in woods and ditches – more often for the adventures to be had than for nudie books I hasten to add. But it had left me wondering where the city dwelling nipper might find such things lying around. An off hand comment about railway sidings in an episode of Spaced had always stuck with me, but the compulsion to find out had never overcome my desire not to be hit by a train, so I’d never looked. But there it was in front of me on the pavement. It was opposite a building site, which almost certainly explained it’s appearance, but the mystery of the city pornographer was that little less mysterious. And if hadn’t been raining I’d have probably picked it up. I’m very lonely, but that can hardly come as a shock. It had gone by the time I returned home, so at least there are lonelier souls in the recent vicinity.
I seem to be developing a fondness for small children that I never seemed to have before. Not in a filthy pediatrician’s kind of a way I hasten to add, but in an “Aww, look at the liddle fella” kind of a way. This is anathema to me, for I’ve spent many years training my brain to loathe the little swine. Yet I’ve found myself pulling faces at two of them in the past couple of days, in the vague hope of getting a smile. Not ludicrous gurning you understand, I was in public at the time and didn’t want the parent screaming “AAARGH! PEDIATRICIAN!”* at me or anyone I knew to walk by and see me being nice to a bairn. Perhaps it’s because on both occasions I noticed the ween staring at me first, which I don’t think happens that often. It might be because my hair is at its most androgynous length in a long time and the little mites were just experiencing their first bouts of gender confusion. Neither of them did smile at me though. Hope they get croup.
* Yes, I know I’ve used the pediatrician gag twice, but I really like it. Okay? Good.
Today I was caught out by a fire alarm. They’re not that unusual an occurance really; once or twice a year someone’ll burn some toast or a workman will do some over-zealous angle grinding, that sort of thing. Oddly, this time it was an actual fire, which is what caught me. You see, when the fire brigade get called out to for a non burning reason, they have a look in the building, whinge a bit, charge an extortionate amount, then let everyone back in. However, as I discovered to my cost, if it’s a real fire they have to do the extinguishing bit, followed by a series of safety checks. All well and good. Except that the alarm sounded two minutes before I’d planned to go home and, having paid proper attention during drills (like a fool), I made my way out of the building as soon as I heard it, leaving all of my posessions where they were with the expectation that I’d be back in in under ten minutes. This turned out to be about an hour.
The main problem stems from the fact that I’m unable to function during fire alarms. I don’t start throwing a fit or anything like that, but am never able to deal with that many of my associates from the building all being in one place at the same time. I’m not that keen on crowds generally, but can deal with them so long as they’re made up of strangers. Crowds that I recognise every face of freak me out – especially if they mainly belong to folk who are little more than casual acquaintances. Functioning as I do as a ’self-governing-autonomous-department-of-one’, I’m stuck out on the road on my own to begin with – moreso because I’ve been instructed to ‘assemble’ down the road from everyone else in the building, filling me with a sense of social leprosy from the offset. Being trapped out there, my bag almost within sight of the door (after I’d finally edged my way back up the road to where the masses had assembled), surrounded by people I see near enough daily but unable to speak to any of them in case someone else was watching. Pathetic really isn’t it. Just thought I’d share.
I must get more bookshelves. If not that, then I must move my stereo to a point where it’s unlikely to get crushed under piles of plummeting paperbacks. If I’m unable to play CDs (which might just be the case), I might cry.
I love cataloguing stuff. It’s sad, anal, deeply antisocial and I imagine that you would all find it interminably tedious. But I always find it enjoyable, not to mention oddly comforting. Admittedly it only really perks me up if it’s my own stuff, but no one’s ever asked me to catalogue anything of their’s so I’m not actually able to draw that comparison accurately. So that’s what I’ve been doing all evening. Bet I had more fun than you.
So, football, eh. I could do that. Easy. Kicking a ball in a net? Piece of piss. Dribbling? Been doing it since I was a baby. Shooting? My speciality since I done started workin’ for Big Carl. Heading? Err, well, that’s just doing stuff wiv yer head, isn’ it? No trouble. A game? What, now? Naah, I’ve hurt me toe . . .
