Monday, 31 October 2016

#NoLimits

There was now no limit to my debauchery. Mum and dad had long since given up on me, but so what - I've been independently wealthy since the age of seventeen, back when McRonald's had me fry up fillet-o-"fish" in their hot vats of bromine. In those days I kissed a mars bar right out of Jenny Smith's mouth, now I'm teaching chicks a course in how to take a tampon out. I don't know when this wild ride will end. Never I hope. I hope this journey never ends. I hope there's a new adult toy around every single future bend, and I hope to god my butthole mends.


Sunday, 30 October 2016

Ironing Vasco's Pyjamas

The secret to being more like Byron is to ditch your stupid iron. Throw that piece of junk through your nearest window, let the birds' song in and feel the wind blow. Own each crease like furrowed wrinkle, embrace the release - wear each crinkle as a symbol. Who cares about clothes, irons, and washing machines, what are we? Testudines? Break away your silly self imposed armor, get out there - become da Gama.

Saturday, 29 October 2016

The Fourth Dimension

At some point, time became my most valuable asset, and I finally understood why someone was willing to pay me for it. No longer was I happy to while away the hours doing meaningless shit, now each second grated, like blinking grit in an eye slit. Each second took me away from the few seconds I had left. Each second moved me towards the end: lonely, demented, and bereft. Living in a home for other sop-headed convicts, reminiscing on days of old, and times when things were perfect. I'd moved on up, to the point that I was paying someone else to do the things that I most wanted to do, I'd given it a lot of thought but couldn't work out how to stop, how to get off, or who to sue.

I was on the brink of breaking, my mind was angrily rotating.

I paid someone else to tidy my yard. to renovate, to clean, to work really hard. I paid someone else to have fun with my kids, enjoy their smiles, milestones and laugh at their fibs. I paid someone else to cook me my food, nothing wholesome, or romantic, just crap that allowed me to keep me on the move. And I built it all up until I couldn't stop earning: how on earth could I afford all these people if I simply quit working?

The stress was the best at keeping me oppressed, I didn't even have time anymore to feel depressed.

And then when you're old, the wheel falls off and the hamster is freed - well, at least, so it seems - for then I can do all the things I've wanted to do, like pay someone to clean up after me and to make me my food. And change my pants when I go to the loo, and push my wheeler to the lounge and to bingo too. Fuck, what a waste, I've been such a fool.


Sunday, 23 October 2016

Japes With Jeb

She looked worse for wear. As if a troll had climbed in there, begun yellowing up her teeth and made her flesh look like well roast beef. I asked him what he'd seen in her, he said that their time together had been a blur, and anyway, he was a well known frotteur - it was her legs that had made him purr.

Roll Credits

Thankyou Jim for resurrecting my writing career. From your lowest point I can eke out some semblance of cheer, some jumbled pile of letters that only theinternetsux can hold dear. Never fear, we'll find someone else to rip into next year.


Deal With Linda

When you said that you wanted me to deal with 'that horrible Irish whore', I nearly couldn't take it any more. Three wives, fifty plus girlfriends, mistresses - maybe a hundred or more? Surely at some point sex becomes a bore? And yet you've never wanted to settle down with someone that you say that you adore? Every advance I've ever made you seem to actively ignore, and yet each time you hook up with someone new I have to watch, and I feel the fire rise inside my core. What's one more... what are personal assistants for, if not for breaking the law? And sure, at least they won't refer to you as 'that stupid autism anti vaxxer guy' no more.


Over Ten Thousand People Say: Rape And Wrongful Infection Is A-OK

Can't you see he's suffered enough? Sure, he put herpes up her muff, but he was really funny in Dumb and Dumber and stuff. Sometimes you've gotta give a guy a pass, girls are just a piece of ass, if they get all butt hurt after we've gotten on and given them a squirt, then they're crazy bitches and deserve chlamydia up their snitches. I know Valentines is a bit of a sacred institution, but how can he possibly be expected to have the constitution to refrain from spreading his seed? This guy is the big mother fucking cheese, he's a fabulously wealthy, white, famous man, and he's probably really big in Japan. (This was not written by Jim - I'm just a really big fan).


Did You See The News Today?

"Jim Carrey's friends fear he'll become suicidal" - like as if he's sitting there innocently reading his bible, and making sure everything he trashes he recycles, whilst fearing absolutely no reprisals, despite condemning his girlfriend to the nitrogen cycle. The jokes on us really in the end, the ridiculous thing is that he still has friends.

Happy Valentines; Now You're Mine

Lately I'd started to silently drown. The endless drudgery of life kept washing over me and I could no longer choke it all down. So I went out in a last hurrah to find me some brown - two high class ebony escorts from the shady end of town. You'd think that a guy like me, would never need to pay, he'd get it all for free - but then, realistically, you have no idea what it's like to be a celebrity. I can't just go out and hook up and not expect a frenzy of complete stupidity, and the videos of me, looking like a cocaine powered freak, ending up adorning the pages of LiveLeak. So the price was right and I came on down, leather swaddled, studded, looking like a clown. The idea of herpes never got me down, in fact it turned my frown completely upside down - fuck this world, let my dick shrivel up and turn brown, I was just a slave and it was time for me to buckle down. They dressed me up in a thrift shop bridal gown, they let me wear a crown whilst they jived in tiny shorts humming my dick motown. Afterwards, as I sponged down, and watched the gore detach and trickle down, I thought about my Irish lass, her beauty, her innocence, her impeccable class. At first I'd thought that I'd leave her alone, break up with her by phone, I never wanted her to watch me raise my own headstone. But now I see the best gift is escape, each day we live is a terrible, terrible mistake. Her life is hanging precarious and it's there for me to take.

I have to do this Cate, all of this is now for your own sake.

Saturday, 15 October 2016

Have You Thought About My Cock Today?

I'll put Linda on the goddamned phone. The weight of you around my neck is like a ten tonne stone. All I wanna do is go out and freely bone, but you just keep sending me texts about the bumps on your erogenous zone. I care about you, that's obvious, that's why I shared with you my enterobius. How would you feel if you were me? I'm glorious, I'll reign victorious, you can go die for all I care you jerk bag whorius. I'll tell 'em that I picked up your funeral fee, I'll look sad and bearded, all their sympathies will be with me. But deep down I'm happy as happy can be, because you were really stressing me - my levels were rising so damned dangerously, it was really gunna have to be - you - you or me.


When Everything Smells

Everything around here still smells like you and your shit, I can't even remember what's mine amongst it. I'll probably just have to start all over again. Burn it all, Dump out all your favourite instant coffee blend. Fuck it, perhaps I'll call you on the phone, speak for just a minute, then join the universe in it's constant expansive drone.


Friday, 14 October 2016

When I Want Candies

My phone died as I caught my hundredth Magikarp, at that point I was the only one left in the park. All the other kids had long since gone, six months odd since the game's novelty had become worn. I decided I didn't need to click evolve. What was that ever going to solve? I clutched my bedimmed device and steeled my resolve. I threw it in the bin so I had nothing left in life on which to hold. My soul was long since parceled out and sold, and here I was with nothing but the time I'd gathered into old. I rubbed my nose and breathed in deeply all the cold.


Being Just Simply Being (Because I've Got No Actual Clue, What else On Earth I'm Supposed To Do)

I'll play your game, world, I'll write my best for that one single 'like'. I'll think of all the stupid things going on in my life, tap the keys angrily until the page is filled with shite. Maybe one day I'll write something without spite, find something inside me verging on polite. But then, do I really want to run the risk of losing my only like?


Agrivated Fola-cles: The Greek God of Vigorus Sex

It's just ten ropes or so, lash it on, lash it on. Ten ropes to hang yourself with. Ten ropes to rip apart your lover. Jim Carrey caught his HIV from the musical career of Donald Glover; they were romping in a hedge whilst being sternly swooped at by a plover. And so the paps snapped away and snapped away at the heels of a shriveled shamrock shover. You might be found not-guilty, but all you're not-guilty of is ever having loved one another.


I Swam From Plymouth To Penzance To Watch My Irish Selkie Dance, But It Turned Out She Died Mid-Prance Due to The Pimples In Jim Carrey's Pants

When I was young everything I loved looked bad if viewed through the eye holes of my dad. And now that I've become him it's really sad - turns out he was right and I've been completely had. Sure, everything is shit now, that much is true. But everything was shit back when I was a kid too. Perhaps it was because I had a limited scope, to scrutinize between what was quality and what was a joke. Perhaps I had a higher tolerance for shit, and now that life drags on I only now realize the truth of it. Because sure Bieber is mad retarded, and the Kardashians leave their brains uncharted, but back when I was five, people thought that Hootie and the Blowfish were all the jive, and I thought it was really cool just running around and being alive.

Jemz's Five Most Succulent Chinese Meals Q3 2016




Sunday, 9 October 2016

Being The One

I was thinking about her the other day, and realized that she wasn't the one that got away. The one that got away was me. My life, my future, my mooring grasp had come loose and my heart had drifted free. She remained as always, standing on the pier, a perch that bridged between the two sides of our sphere. But all that I could make out as I drifted out of here, was that she wasn't calling after me, she seemed relieved to watch me disappear

Thursday, 6 October 2016

I'd Rather Look Down; I Won't Even Look Up To See Where The Bus Stops Next

I don't fear the raising of the dead, not nearly as much as the daily raising of my head.

I don't fear the four horseman, not nearly as much as just one bogan who thinks they're awesome.

I don't fear the revenge of Jesus, not nearly as much as when someone too near to me sneezes.

I don't fear satan's malevolent power, not nearly as much as having to scrub the shower.


God,

I don't mean to be

Unkind

But I just...

I just no longer

Have the

Time.

Image result for sad bus stop

Saturday, 1 October 2016

Laniary

The dog waits all day for her to come home. Even though she's long gone and I'm the only one that brings him his bone. He sits and waits, nose pressed against the flyscreen door, absolutely sure that in a minute she'll be here once more. Of course dogs have next to no concept of cause and effect, they've got no understanding of lies, or betrayal, or self respect. Dogs don't understand the creeping death of youth and the inescapable unyielding rot.

Dogs are faithful, even when you're not. 


Just Swirly Hurly Things

All my latest fevered dreams revolve around a fun sized Meg Ryan. She's an unusually well proportioned midget, and she's casting me cheeky smiles as she opens my refrigerator door. Luckily its the face she bore in the nineteen eighties and not the current one she wears. She says to me "we're out of cream," and I respond to her "who cares?" The only cream or home I need is the cottage I've found between your legs. Her cellulite thighs chunder and thunder and make my innards beg. You're plastic now, but weren't you always Meg?