2003-11-11 - 1:42 p.m.

Children Are Like Puppies.

So Revolutions was lined up down the fucking BLOCK a full fucking HOUR before it started. Fuck The Matrix. Went to the Reverend�s lair.

We smoked a lot of drugs. It�s a fine fucking day out there (I�m only in to warm the hands�I have no gloves as I�ve been holding out for The World�s Best Gloves as per my mind�s design � I might have them made). After a half dozen beer or so I stood on the table at the edge of the Reverend�s high-rise condo patio (reads: small deck � Ikea table, wee Hibachi with wee disposable propane tank) with my assailant jeans around my ankles, looking at the purple boil that�s grown on the end of Hose A. It�s really quite ugly. The welt. Not my cock. I have a great cock. Even with the royal purple blister serving temporary duty as head-gear, it�s a really nice cock.

But I digress.

With a full bladder, I started to think�

We retrieved the Holy Laser Rangefinder and measured the distance from ground to patio rail edge. We calculated the wind speed. We calculated the weight and looked up the density of water and came up with how much a �full-of-beer-bladder piss� might weigh (I KNEW I should have taken the paper home with me).

I know a striking force of 5-10 psi to the skullcap can knock a person tits-up.

See where we�re going with this?

Well, I didn�t do it. There were Veterans down below. But the seed has been planted�

We also came to the conclusion that 4 successive generations of sterility is the only way to �put the paddles� to society in order to jumpstart it�s mung and smeg stuffed chambers. Seriously, think about it. People are all being driven in the same direction, it�s inevitable. We are everything we might hate about society and there�s fuck all we can do about it! But if utter MORTALITY looked society in the eye for a while, I think it�d smarten the fuck up and learn itself some sense and priorities.

Then he starts laughing. I ask what. He reminds me of the unfortunate incident when I was asked and went to North Edge Elementary School to speak about False Imagery in the Media (some sort of proactive, anti-media jamming program that I endorse 100% I�d like to say).

Then he asks why I hate children.

I could be glib and say I don�t hate them. It�s just that I can�t eat a whole one, and so they just a fucking waste to me.

Children are like puppies. They shit on the floor, piss where they like, make terrible screeching noises when you kick 'em in places where you want them to shut the fuck up. Ya can�t get �em to do shit, shy of an electric cattle prod and they suck all of your luxuries and free time. They eat crap even I can�t stomach, listen to music that sounds like they pulled it out of one of those machines we used to get whistles and tattoos and bracelets out of and they eventually grow up to be even more annoying than they were when they couldn�t walk and puked on your face when you hoist them off the mound of dog turd they are shoveling into their mouths.

Other than that, y�know, I�ve no problem. And I really was sorry all those kids pissed themselves.

I was really hoping they would have aneurysms.

Oh, just so you know...

Which Sifl & Olly Show Character Are You?
Brought to you by Fifth Dream Today.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

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2003-11-11 - 10:44 a.m.

OOO MY KNOB.

Jebus Farging Christ. Getting my shit together, cause I gots the day off and am gonna see Revolutions once more. So I gets to the "jeans" part and every last pair looks like I stored them on a string of denim knots. So, standing there butt neked, I give them the ol' "Thwap" to try and unwrinkle them. Yes I fucking know it doesn't work, but neither does automatically looking down 1-way streets.

Only the legs "THWAP" and a cuff catches me right on the end of me knob. OI FUCK that hurts. Now my dick is swelling and I ain't even getting wood. Well, that's sort of a lie. Standing around with a wounded cock, talking online about my swollen cock while neked is making me rail.

But I'm so horny the crack of dawn is a porno to me.

Anyhow, the Lotus Awards are tomorrow night and I'm tring to arrange it so: A) I can wear my Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy tshirt B) I don't have to go to any shmooze aspect of it c) I don't have to sit with my company, d) I can wear this kick ass t-shirt I got. Keeper is dressing up, so looks like I'll have to also. But what's wrong with a cool t-shirt? If anybody is going to catch the obscure Tim Burtonesque reference to Oyster Boy, it's going to be people at the Lotus Awards.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

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2003-11-11 - 12:31 a.m.

I Remembered 11 Times.

Tomorrow�s Remembrance Day here in Canada and for the first time in 30+ odd years (outside my time in the Forces, but more on that later) I live in a place that makes it a statutory day off. I was going to say a statutory day of remembrance but who�m I kidding. See, in most of Canada it�s business as fucking usual and the poppies come off the day after.

Remembrance Day always makes me feel strange. Could be because I got my first kick in the pills on November 11th, 1978. Might be something more.

I�m not gonna get fucking sentimental about all �those who died,� and fucknot, but I wanna write something about it. So here goes.

My Dad was in Beirut when the shells really started flying in 1980. He was attached to the UN Military Police. He used to send hours of tapes of him just talking and I always found it SO goddamned boring except for the gunfire I could hear in the background.

I didn�t take any notice of the fear (or hope) my Mother must have felt listening to that shit, no. I liked the guns.

I have the Canadian flag that was taken off our Embassy as it was closed and all Canadians shipped home. Has fuck-all to do with the price of tea in China, but that�s pretty fucking cool, no?

I can�t remember a single fucking war-story about his time there other than what I picked up eavesdropping. Like the time he hid behind a desk as his hotel suite was sprayed with heavy gunfire. Shit like that.

And that�s what the thing is, I think. I�ve made an concerted effort to try and understand what it is I should be remembering, but nobody every wants to talk about it. And why the fuck would they?

The Gulf War ended a month after my tour left for the Mediterranean. I was a 20 year old Corporal in the Air Force, and signed up to go to war because I heard Gibraltar was one shitstorm of a party.

I never said I was bright as I kid, but I digress.

As a �retired veteran� I am also a member of the Legion. Or at least I was. I haven�t been to one in a fuck of a long time, at any rate. OK. The Canadian Legion is veteran�s club and in every dead dog fuck town in Canada has one of their boozehalls there. And yes, this is venom in my voice because of very poor form shown off by their heads when my father died. But enough of that.

I thought (those 10 or so years ago) that if anywhere, HERE at a LEGION is where I might get a better insight. From the drunk old guys in the berets and year-round poppies. Yeah, that and the beer was $5.50 a pitcher and they had shuffleboard and fucking delicious pickled herring and eggs, but that�s neither here nor there, fact is even in a room of war vets, nobody�s ever talking about war except to yell at the TV when one comes on it�s screen.

My Grand-da was in Italy in WWII and never once mentioned the fact he was a paratrooper.

I remember one statement from that September 11th video by the two French brothers who captured from the get go a fire house entering the towers. You�ve probably seen it. A couple of weeks after the towers collapse and the brothers return to the fire house to follow up, one older guy says of a first-day rookie, �I knew he was an veteran from that day forward. He�d seen things no person should ever have to see. I know he�s a veteran because a rookie talks about these things when a veteran keeps it to himself.�

Or something like that. Message was, if you�ve experienced violent death, you don�t ever want to revisit it. So you never talk about it. Except to Tom Hanks of course.

The older vets are getting older and soon all we�ll have left is Band of Brothers and books. Not a whole lot different than we have now, sure, but sorta sad. So many fucking perfectly writeable stories going to dust.

I know that Remembrance Day is for those vets still kicking too, but what�s a guy gonna do? Go up and hug one? Shake random medal-wearer�s hands with big tears of gratitude in my eyes? I dunno what I�m supposed to do. But I DO have the day off tomorrow and I WILL smoke a fat one, and I will ALSO think for a minute about the guys in my Squadron who were killed on deck as shattered rotor blades from capsized Sea King cut them to red ick.

I�ll remember how fucking scary it is to have a rapid decompression situation in the cabin of a ECW jet, and how that insta-matic-cloud near made me piss my pants. There might have been a dark spot, I�m not sure, I was too busy hooking up my oxygen and the my friend�s as he was too fucking spazzed out to remember not shit in his fucking drawers let alone remember to breath.

I�ll remember the words of one of my training Master Corporals when he wanted to pound a point through to us. Be along the lines of, �If you DO NOT SECURE your ladder, YOU � WILL � DIE!� Fuck that was great. Not soon after that a dumb-ass in my TQ3 course was fucking around and got working hydraulic fluid pourded on his head. That shit was called SKYDROL and that shit was HOT. Burned his scalp and hair right off his head like a wax doll. You don�t forget that shit.

And none of this shit happened in combat, and that�s what makes them easier to talk about I guess. Except for the fact most people can never get past the fact that I was ever in an Organization, let alone the fucking Military.

Welp. That�s it. Fuck off. No moral to this story.

OK. Just one. Don�t beat up old people unless they deserve it.

0 of you fuckers have been accounted for.

old shit. - newer shit.