What do you do when you get a crush on someone?
Submitted by Desi.
I go home and have a big wank.
Am I alone in finding the corporate cliché “low hanging fruit” more than a little obscene? Whenever I run into it I must gird my mind against the image of pendulous bollocks, sweaty from encasement in cheap or expensive suits.
And then there’s the sordid meaning of the phrase - basically, an easy lay, a slut-cost, just begging to be plucked.
I went to a concert on Saturday and I was sat next to a grumpy-looking chap, about my age, with ginger hair and sideburns, who was reading the very hefty “The Origin of the Species” at quiet moments, who stoically refused to applaud - even for an excellent performance of Chopin’s piano concerto #1. He stumbled upon me at the interval as I was gulping down my two glasses of wine, and scowled - the irredeemable cunt!
There is a bloke here in the Alaska lounge at LA airport wandering around snapping flash photographs while I am trying to blog. I would like to ram his big silly camera up his uncouth nose and take a photo of the inside of his head.
Keep the hygiene and proper use of this restroom. Please do not throw papers or any other elements in these artefacts.
Last night Fernando took me to his favourite Mexican restaurant, where he sang boisterously along with the mariachi while I poured tequila down my throat and smiled idiotically. I asked Fernando what the best kind of pisco was and he said the only criterion for good pisco was its proof, i.e. the proof of the pisco is in the proof. Then we got into Fernando’s truck and drove to a nightspot called Brooklyn’s English Pub, where I drank 46% pisco and munched on popcorn while we waited for the band to come on. The band came on at midnight, by which time the place had filled up quite a bit, and opened bizarrely with Radiohead’s ¨Karma Police¨, before giving it large with the Chilean rock classics, and of course a U2 song, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme. We were sitting right in front of the band; the bassist could have pissed in my pisco. But I don’t think he did.
I am whizzing round hairpins in a truck driven by my host, Fernando. Fernando’s son has put together a mix CD of his favourite gravel-voiced crooners, which mingles cacophonously with the pained squealing of the tires. ¡Manejes rápido, Fernando!, I say. You drive fast!
You think I drive fast? I see trees of green, red roses too You must see me five years ago. I was crazy man! I see them bloom for me and you I drived - drive-ed? - faster than everyone! And I think to myself, what a wonderful world But after I kill the burro I say “enough”. I see skies of blue and clouds of white I kill a horse, too, and goats - many goats. The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night But after the burro - how you say? - I change my ways. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world I was going one hundred fifty kilometers per hour. The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky My friend shout “burro!” It was 20 metres away! Are also on the faces of people going by You know burros - they don’t move! I turn the wheel fast! I see friends shakin’ hands, sayin’ “How do you do?” I hit the burro on the side - it spin round and round! They’re really saying “I love you” I thought I was dead man! I hear babies cryin’, I watch them grow When I get out of the truck - my legs they were wet, you know? They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know I had piss-ed my pants! And I think to myself, what a wonderful world (singing) and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
I am in Chile for a couple of weeks, surrounded by cacti and stray dogs.
The other night I went for a stroll just after sundown and noticed two stray dogs frolicking amorously on the otherwise deserted beach, as the moon, just past full, hung low over the hills to the east.
No se puede vivir sin amar - I’ve been reading Under the Volcano.
Behooded thug on bus, talking into cellphone: What's your location? [Pause] What is your location? [Pause] What's y- Where are you?
Which popular slang expression drives you nuts?
This is not a bad question but instead of answering it I'm going to write something that happened to me recently. In the basement of the building where I work is a food court with a wide array of appaling eateries offering thrice-debased versions of various cuisines. A couple of weeks ago I was walking through this food court on my way to somewhere else when I noticed that a portion of the seating had been cleared and a series of booths set up; it was to do with an "International Food Fair", according to the signs. I took a large cardboard plate and walked past each booth collecting samples of the outlandish delicacies on offer. When I sat down I had some amazing things on my plate - fried jellyfish with tapioca, gazelle's heart (that was delicious, pure and dark and soft), a kind of latke with water chestnuts in it - and I set to animatedly. But at length I came to an enormous beetle, fully three inches long and two wide, which although apparently dead didn't seem to have been cooked at all. It was warm. I looked questioningly at a woman sitting near me and she said "it's OK. It's microwaved." Then she took a big bite of her own beetle, crunching through the abdomen with hyperreal Canadian teeth. I copied her and to my surprise found that the texture was smooth and creamy, like fondant, not at all crunchy, and the taste was bitter and invigorating. Lustily, I bit again, but this time a liquid gushed out in my mouth and a sweet, putrid sensation spread through my tongue and gums, followed by a stinging rush which made me clutch my jaw in agony. The woman said disinterestedly: "did you eat the thorax? You must have hit a venom sac." I stood up and reeled through the food court, eyes watering with pain. It felt as though the left side of my face, my cheek and the corner of my mouth, were being seared with hot pins. Gradually the pain ebbed and subsided from the excruciating to the merely intense; by this time I had found my way to the washroom and was trying to fit my face under the tap. After some time in this pose I looked in the mirror and noticed three blemishes on my left cheek: two close together, near the corner of my mouth, and one about an inch further out. They were small, red indentations with minuscule white barbs stuck at the centre.
At the medical clinic the doctor asked me if I had a match. Eventually we found someone in the waiting room who had a lighter, and the doc managed to burn away the three blemishes. I still have a numbness where the marks were but they tell me that ought to go away in a couple of weeks.
