If You Make It Through This Post Without Cancelling me, You're Better Than 90% Of Dead Beavers
It’s Friday Night, N I’m Grieving again
Grieving for what, Frank? Is it still about Phillip Seymour Hoffman?
Well, yeah, a little. I wonder what that beautiful blonde bastard would be doing if he were still here.
But it ain’t just that.
I gave up coffee — day four of that lark, n I’m pissin’ four times a night like Seabiscuit from the fourteen gallons of Pukka Organic English breakfast tea laced with Bonsoy I suck into my hot red bio-oven daily.
But that ain’t even the real issue.
I got me one of those darn backstreet blood tests from the chemist n pricked my faynger, n it told me that my fasted blood sugar in the morning was 7.1. Seven POINT one.
In case you missed the movie National Lampoon’s Diabetic Vacation, 7.1 means type 2 diabetes or standing on the fence of diabetes, wire cutters in hand, waiting to join the elusive lack of insulin party.
This ghost Doctor Fatfinger who was sitting in the corner of my loungeroom, taunting me by eating satsumas with a spoon, started fuckin screamin like one of those monkeys in pink dresses that yer see sometimes:
“We need to get you to a doctor, Frank arrr arrr arrrr.”
Fuck Doctor Fatfinger. N, no, he ain’t a real doctor. He’s a ghost. Ye canny be both.
I ain’t going to the doctor cos they’ll tell me to lose the bastard weight that I stuck on by snorting rows of M&Ms while writing corporate shmuck for corporate schmucks and engaging in long wanks over Mrs Flapsberry, who is always wearing her orange knickers while pruning the roses on Wednesdays, regardless of the weather.
Aint my fuckin fault, is it? Orange makes me hard.
I don’t need an overworked rich bastard in a flappy white coat to tell me what to do.
Don’t eat fucking carbs or sugar, you fat fuck.
And here we are. Ain’t the loss of coffee that has forced me onto the couch to binge-watch Suits in lieu of being productive.
It’s the lack of carbs.
It’s not like I’m tired physically. I’ve been running every day.
I’m tired mentally. Do you hear me? I’m tired mentally, like Mr Phillips, the local headmaster, after the school’s annual maths orgy.
There’s other stuff
The UK government made protesting illegal. And a mate said,
‘This country needs some good authoritarianism. It’s going to the dogs with the knife crime.’ And no, he ain’t a fucking ninety-two-year-old radioactive World War Three veteran if that’s what yer thinking.
He’s mid-forties. Ex- leftie. Now a fucking Tory voter who worships people like that fucking scumbag Winston Churchill and the current leader of the British Fascist Party, Rishi Sunack — a millionaire gobshite without a single drop of awareness for his family’s African and Indian heritage. He’s bringing good old Fascist values to the party. And the humans, like my friend, campaign for their own demise.
That’s how it happens. We put handcuffs on ourselves. I’ve seen it in the tea leaves.
“Those extinction rebellion bastards were blocking ambulances,” he said. So ban the blocking of ambulances. Don’t ban protests citing public safety, you fucks. It’s an opportunistic fascist power grab, and it sickens me down to the purple and pink parallelogram in my perineum.
Social Media killed my mate. Few of em, actually — turned them into selfish fucks.
Mass computer blindness aside, social conditioning platforms make us angrier than coyotes with yeast infections. It’s fuckin easy, Mate.
Spray turkey atoms into yer bedroom while yer sleep.
If yer lick yer lips, give yer a bit o’ that dry fuckin breast.
If yer like it, give yer a fat turkey leg
If yer eat it, yer on the rainbow turkey train.
N, they don’t give a fuck if yer like it. If yer intrigued by it, they’ll shove a whole fucking turkey down the head of yer cock or up yer vadger or whatever other hole you identify with having. N you’ll love it.
N the next thing yer a bonified turkey fucker.
N ya don’t understand how yer got there. It’s why people purchase sex swings and scrotumless Y-fronts and other erotic items — social conditioning, Motherfucker.
Regarding social conditioning, this so-called Ukraine War didn’t begin when Russia invaded Ukraine.
But ya gonna wet yer knickers n call me Putin’s fuck buddy or whatever you blue and yellow flag-waving conditioned monkeyfucking waxwork models want to call me. But why should I give a fuck anymore?
Aren’t we too close to the end to give a fuck about upsetting the readers, Daniel? Daniel? Who the fuck is Daniel?
It’s frustrating because old Joe Bidet is gonna trigger a nuclear partay, and none of you fuckers care cos yer too busy shakin’ yer rainbow flags and yer gelatinous butts at yer kid’s primary school summer fair. Or havin’ a multi-coloured orgasm cos old Joe put up the jolly flag at the White House.
Sorry to piss on the parade, but it’s called misdirection, Motherfuckers.
Joe doesnt give a flying fuck. He barely knows his own name.
But at least the transcendental population will be free when we all get vaporised. REPEAT: this so-called Ukraine War didn’t begin when Russia invaded Ukraine.
But yer don’t give a fuck that Zelensky’s government had been dropping bombs on the Donbas for not wanting to participate in the NATO party, do ya?
You don’t give a fuck that Putin repeatedly asked them to stop shelling the Donbas.
You think he’s just invading a country cos he needs more space to put his vodka collection.
You don’t know fucking anything.
N ya think once this is over, there will be peace?
Ya probably thought the same about:
Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Iran, Vietnam, Korea, Cambodia, Laos, Indonesia, Lebanon, Cuba, Dominican Republic, Grenada, Libya, Kuwait, Somalia, Bosnia, Haiti, Kosovo, Yemen, Pakistan, Uganda, Nigeria.
Why don’t you go and look up how much Lockheed spent on lobbying the government in the last ten years?
No, don’t bother. I’ll tell ya:
It’s more than the total cost of getting a lifesize 48-carat gold cast made of Shaquille’s cock — a lot more.
And, what do you think those lobbyists yarned about over their bottles of 1953 Don Perenium and their sabred-toothed lobsters bathed in Gisele Bündchen’s fanny juice?
I’ll give yer a clue. It ain’t peace, my brothers n sisters n the others n that.
N if yer still with me, I appreciate it. Yer a bad muthafucka. N, I mean that in the Sam Jackson way.
We’re in a bad, bad place, this human race.
N I sometimes think it’s humans getting reamed on earth But it ain’t. It’s humans reaming humans, animals, absolutely everything.
Sick motherfuckers everywhere.
Sorry to break this, but Bill Gates releases 11 million genetically modified mosquitos every month.But that’s fine cos that fuckers curing malaria, right? He don’t give a fuck about money or power. N he wants to stick vaccines into cows now. What’s that? A vegan diet, you say? I never thought I’d be considering that.
But anyway, none of that matters. The worst shit of all is I can’t eat fucking carbs.
N, if you don’t eat rice n that, your shit goes sticky, so you have to eat forty-two kilos of vegetables each day to get yer fibre.
So, I’m sitting here chewing on briocollinini and pounding out stupid pictures with quotes on Twitter and Instagram like some digital fuck badger.
I hate myself for producing content. Every day I look in the mirror n think, yer fuckin dick. Stop trying to sell books. Just write em and die miserable, you sad weasel.
So I’m trying to rewrite and edit a 70k word manuscript n the whole time, thinking, this isn’t ME.
It’s someone else who wrote this. What about me? What about ME?
N I realise that line is the only source of misery in this world.
N I wonder:
Why am I fuckin writing, holding my skeletal ink feather in these hands ejaculating electric words onto this page to sink into the ether of the internet never to be seen again like the damn horse in the Never Ending Story.
This story ain’t never endin’
So I’m sitting on the mat, honouring tradition, sipping Pukka Organic English Breakfast Tea with Bonsoy, watching the breath come and go for a while, then soaking up the orgasmic white bliss of Vajrasattva and learning some home truths about who the fuck I am, or am not.
Should I grow dreadlocks and rinse off my purple g-string and get out my CD of whales sucking each other off n burn some incense made from the anal flakes of Ghandi n start an Insight Timer account n speak in a Barry White Voice n flash my yellowing teeth to pretend to fuckers that I can’t stop laughing n that it’s for some spiritual reason, not cos I’m fuckin deranged?
Then I can start a cult where I can let women rub macadamia butter on my nipples so they can use me as a vehicle to get closer to God, or Raman or Barry Woodcock or whoever it is that you think created this immensity of slime/clear light.
There will be no carbs, though, in this cult.
But coffee, yes, there will be thick, black, wet, hot, smokey, bitter, expensive, animalistic, passionate, holy coffee made by genetically mogrifried salmon who have arms n legs n wear berets with moustaches n who drink cold brew n eat horse pancreas n ride penny farthings to work each day.
Message me if you want to be among my first students
My subscribers get 5% off joining fees and a priority position in the line to have your anus penetrated by my almighty rod of light every Wednesday at six.
N always remember if I call yer Kid, its cos I luv ya.
Find Vajrasattva. And use it to clear your heart.
In case we blow it tomorrow, Kids.
I love you.
I luv ya.