But is it arson?

Possibly!

My blog update on Nick

Hello everyone, man and woman that reads this blog sometime.

Today I am going to talk about my friend Nick, because I think it will be fab.

Okay so this is Nick. I drew a picture of him too. But Nick does not really look like an anencephalic circle. He just looks that way because I can't draw. I am very sorry Nick. You might wonder why Nick is not smiling, because circles drawn in MS Paint smile usually. If you want me to be very honest I don't know either.



Smile, Nick!



As you can see, Nick loves to smile! Like really, I shit you not.

Nick sometimes like to tell people that they smell. This is very weird because some of them don't smell at all! I'm really serious about this. I smelled them myself. Also I wash every day so I don't smell either. So sometimes I wonder if Nick is just smelling things.



Here is a picture of Nick telling people that they smell. Nick doesn't really say "LOL", by the way. I just thought it would look nice. Also I don't think he says "u" with a letter u. But you can never be sure with Nick.



Nick smells special. You can usually smell it from two meters away. The smell is hard to describe. It is like old laundry and sunshine and deodorant, except without the deodorant sometimes. It is a nice smell. I am not the only one who thinks this!!! in case anyone out there thinks I am a weirdo or like fun-smelling people because I am a fetishist. Amber also thinks that the smell is very nice. Amber looks like a kitten. Amber is adorable and I wish they made plushies of her so I could buy one and dress it up in my old grey socks. They are good grey socks in case you might think I am cheap.

Nick has a twin brother. His name is Timothy. They look similar but not like the same or anything. Timothy also smells special. It is nice.



Nick and Tim take turns smelling like laundry and sunshine.



Nick likes to be on the computer. I drew him sitting on top of the computer because that's being on the computer too. Ha ha ha. GET IT? What, you think that is not very funny? Well you suck dongs too, meanie.



A lot of people say that Nick looks like a bunny. This is true. Nick looks like a bunny only with not so much fur and no ears and no tail and he would look strange on the cover of Playboy. On the picture you might think you are seeing two Nicks or maybe Nick and Tim, and you might be suprised! Don't worry, you are not drunk or dying or anything. That's just Amber behind Nick giving him bunny ears. I am sorry for the inconvenience or if you think that Nick looks more like an alarm clock there.



Sometimes when I want to mess up Nick's hair it doesn't work because Nick wears gel and it gets hard. Do you know what else is hard? Yes you are correct. A calculus test is very hard too.



Here is Nick with Jeremy. They are BFF. No BFF does not mean Big French Faggots. It means Best Friends Forever...Frank. I don't know where Frank comes from but you can be very sure that Frank has a handlebar moustache and doesn't mow his lawn very often. As you can see Jeremy is the only one smiling in the picture because cool people usually smile like that. But if you look very carefully you can see that Nick is smiling inside.

Nick's other BFF is his left hand. Naughty Nick.

Nick is also a compulsive liar.



But Nick is still awesome and love.

Sometimes Google spits in my meal

I'll be looking for pictures on Google ImageSearch, and there will be a result that is so explosively irrelevant that it makes me question what kind of sick freak likes to label their fruitbowl photos with tags like "College School Sluts".

Here is a result for 'hot lesbian cop'.



It just looks like a County board meeting to me. Where is my hot lesbian cop? I don't see it!

Maybe I'm just not as perceptive as some. Maybe the lesbian cop is hidden somewhere in this picture, in the disturbingly shiny table. Maybe she is seeking refuge behind the pasty posterior of Master Jim and his receding hairline. The guy second to the left looks like his incognito disguise is slowly sinking into his big doughy face, while he can do nothing but resign to his fate of many chins and looking like a Jewish bagel.

The best thing about this image is probably the checkerboard tie. It looks so debonair, so out of place in this dismal scene of conservative shareholders and laser hair surgery candidates.

What about 'hunky men in hammer and sickle attire'? I wish to soothe my eyes with images of sexy virile males who like to indulge in the healthy sexual liberation that comes with donning communistic paraphernalia.



Thanks Google. Way to remind me that women sometimes like to carry their offspring on their back, slung inside what looks to be a gigantic tablecloth.

This is a result for 'quantum physics'.



I'm not sure as to the significance of this one. Perhaps quantum physics is somehow required to explain the need to hoist his sizable goods up in a socially apprehensive fashion. Maybe science isn't really the answer to everything and what we see here is just God holding his string-bikini together in a desperate bid to prevent his crotch from leaking out and beginning the reign of the Beast.

I used to want to be a marine biologist. That was until I realized it was a thankless profession, anchovy reek and nauseating seasickness aside. Looking at National Geographic, being too lazy to change the channel and subjecting myself to many a dolphin documentary, it occurred to me that there must be a lot more 'unhappy marine biologist's than the world lets on.



What part of "UNHAPPY" don't you understand, ImageSearch? Screw you. Now I have a headache.

'will ferrell with his eyes far apart'. I think he'd look a lot better that way.



It looks like Will won't need his eyes far apart any longer. Hawaiian Hillbilly and his man-eating guitar got to him first.

'treehouses that are painted red'



As you can tell, I'm very lazy with this 'blog update' thing. They just sort of trail off into nothingness as I feel it steadily less necessary to move my fingers in a meaningful fashion.

Hey guys, A road trip!

Take this turn!

The conflicting internal observations of Carl Reuters

I do not muse. I simply drawl from between my thighs and hope that my audience is unable to tell the difference. In my case, the fact that the writer is the sole reader defeats the purpose of my small cultural rebellion.

I blame inanimate objects for my marital troubles, simply because they seem to be the only manifestations of this wretched physical world men have not thought of to use as scapegoats. In the grand scheme of things, this is of small consequence. But to me, the overwhelming logical sensibilitly of the notion is enough to keep my mind occupied for days on end.

The day Carrie filed for divorce, I was less than surprised. After all, the mundane routine that all marriages are susceptible to have finally taken their toll and formed tired rings around her ankles (housesocks have been reknowned for comfort, but in this case even they can become bothersome). I said to her, "You can keep the furniture, and the children, and my red diary. No, not the one covered in leather. The other one."

“Joke some more, Carl.”

She replied that we do not have children, and that I do not have a diary other than the one covered in red leather. Her failure to mention the furniture confirmed my suspicions that they are indeed the objects of her desire. My wood had become obsolete.

I will continue calling Carrie 'dear' and 'love' and 'sweetheart', not because I mean it - but because like a tap unable to control the rancid droplets falling from its maw, I cannot stop them spilling from my lips. I soothe the awkwardness by smiling in a whimsical manner.

"You'll miss me," I mumble impishly.

"Will I?"

Self-sufficient wench. She will miss the smell of ink as I sprawl my notebook on the kitchen table to dry. She will miss the taste of scotch and tobacco on my collarbone. She will no longer experience the same anxious thrill as I lock myself in the master bedroom to reshuffle my priorities. What has the old pleather sofa to offer, that I do not? It cannot reveal her amorous nothings for what they truly are, though granted she whispers them no longer.

_

I found this document in my school flash disk required for IT class. This is the reason why my marks are so low.

Monday

Dear Diary,

I am sad, so I bought you.

Tuesday

Dear Diary,

I don't feel like writing about why I am sad.

Wednesday

Dear Diary,

Today I saw an assortment of peculiarly-coloured airplanes.

Thursday

Dear Diary,

Today I wasted five minutes of my life videotaping a dog jumping over a fence.

Friday

Dear Diary,

I realized a large chunk of my soul is missing, thanks to the internet.

Saturday

Dear Diary,

Today I briefly entertained what life would be like if I manually amputated my left arm.

Sunday

Dear Diary,

My neck has seized up from my attempts to make sleeping seem like deep thinking.

Monday

Dear Diary,

Today I felt ashamed for laughing at Bob Sagget's name.

Tuesday

Dear Diary,

Today I experienced Writer's Block before I started writing.

Wednesday

Dear Diary,

Thanks to a laundry mishap, I am forced to wear odd socks.

Thursday

Dear Diary,

Today's attempt to tan the undersides of my arms ended in disaster.

Friday

Dear Diary,

Will I receive the same love if I were a burn victim?

Saturday

Dear Diary,

Today I felt a need to calculate the time I would save if I bypassed all my daily hygienic routines.

Sunday

Today I overestimated my ability to fly.

Some think smoking is abhorrent.

To whom it may concern

I was shaving at a convoluted angle when I received a call from one of your telemarketers informing me that I had won ownership over a small (thought thoughtfully-shaped) rock in the South Pacific. This call rendered me suitably irate as I had gotten the cord tangled around my nose, which, I am not ashamed to admit, resembles the beak of a toucan. This, however, is not the reason for my addressing you in this heartfelt letter filled to the brim with my blind anguish.

After the initial congratulatory news, I noticed that the man speaking (introduced by himself as 'Bradford') seemed to have a slight ashen lilt to his tone; akin to that of a man who makes it his habit to chainsmoke 40 cigarettes a day. He sounded as if he were about to dissolve into profuse coughing any moment, which put me on guard as being stranded on the phone with a man hacking out his respiratory organs is an awkward social situation indeed. Then, infuriatingly, I thought I could hear the faint sound of flint, striking against each other in the background. Because I am a gentleman, I will refrain from voicing my speculations as to what was happening at that moment. However, I can assure you that if I were correct about his actions, he would have been doing something both pitiful and hideously obscene.

I cannot believe that you would let your employees smoke so much. It is irresponsible on your part as the owner of your treacherous audiophilic business to allow for your callers to disturb and frighten clients with threats of dying of lung cancer. You could be losing customers, revenue, and hundreds of lives. I hope you think about that very carefully. From my brief 2-minute exposure to Bradford's auditory persona, I am able to deduce that he is of the very scourge of society; a man who would not think twice about kicking a blind man in the money tray, a felon who does not hesitate taking that extra pump of the Steers' excellent mustard sauce; a tramp who inserts his business into other peoples' toilet towel cardboard tubes. Please speak to Bradford about his tobacco-addiction, and if he fails to remedy his nicotine problem, I'm afraid you'll have to kill his wife.

Thank you.

Regards,

Baldrick von Staten

Ewan's leatheresque pants antics

This morning I was engaging in a dream in which a small paraplegic dwarf took residence on my face, gradually inserting both legs into my nostrils before jacking himself off vigorously once he was sure his stiletto heels had been successfully planted deep in my olfactory tissues.

Unceremoniously, I was awoken by my dad watering his garden, generating a sound that I previously only possible via the ejection of whale semen. I resigned myself to fate, and being secrectly angry as I burrowed my head into my blankets and attempted to fall asleep again. This endeavour was unsuccessful, partly because my sinuses felt like I had been snorting crystallized acid, and partly because my dad had taken to loudly conversing with a neighbour living two blocks away.

By then I was more than moderately pissed off as I hoisted myself into an upright position and discovered that my head must've shattered into 37 seperate pieces while I'd been sleeping. I made a mental note to thwart any future 'elevator dreams' I may have the misfortune to dream about in the future.

I decided the only way to take control of my current predicament was to walk to McDonald's and buy myself a pound of lard to scoff. I made no effort to look good, chalking it up to the fact that I wanted to at least blame something on my cold before it evaporated.

Surprise! I was served by a gangly, misshapen man with a nametag that spelled out "EWAN" in Times New Roman. I have had many experiences with Ewan, most of them revolving around Chicken McNuggets, missing sauce and his perilously tight pants.

A friend and I have complained on the 'Customer Satisfaction Surveys' about the nature of Ewan's demon trousers: Aside from being grievously underwashed, they also wrap around his bow-shaped legs like clingfilm on a block of rancid, stained cheese, leaving little to the imagination and displaying his sizeable package for the world to see. However I don't think they took us seriously enough. The next week I returned as a regular customer to see Ewan's pants as tight as ever with what looked like a small codpiece adorning his nethers.

So I stood there, barely able to keep my eyes open and thinking "I really don't have time for his distracing body-hugging shenanigans", when I accidentally looked down and discovered that his pants were...LOOSER. I was so happy I would have cried right there except it may have been embarrassing to do so.

Of course, there was a catch.

When I returned home and looked into my bag of hotcakes, there was no syrup.

Aaaaaaaagh.

The dance of the Predatory Flagpole

Q: Dear Jim

My brother has recently started to eat nachos with tomato sauce, despite my best efforts at convincing him that doing so is a symbol of homosexuality. Can this be helped?

desperate - Dan, Gauteng

A: Dear Dan

No.

Q: Dear Jim

I just started my period. Can you help me?

lost - George, Nelspruit

A: Dear George

Your dick is bleeding. Seek medical help immediately. And remember not to zip up too quickly next time.

Q: Dear Jim

Quite recently, I bought a magnificent leopard-spotted leotard. But yesterday while wearing this new outfit, I found a ticket on the ground that said "Do Not Machine Wash". I hesitated on keeping it, since it was my moral duty to return a lost ticket that had been bought by someone else. But I was too lazy to find out whose it was. So I kept it. Later on that day, it started to rain - and despite the packing on my garment clearly stating it was "98 Waterproof", I developed a big wet patch on my back. What is the meaning of this? Should I got for a refund?

angry - Marcus, Cape Town

A: Dear Marcus

What you found was not a ticket. Your washing tag fell off. This, in turn, created a sizeable hole on your back that will widen at thrice the pace a lunchline lengthens in prison. In fact, by the time this reaches you, you should already be naked. There is nothing you can do about this. And if it says Made in China on the packaging, you cannot hope to get a refund. So light a few Cuban cigars and be happy Marcus.

Q: Dear Jim

Why does everyone say I'm a criminal? I'm a good boy. I go to bed at eight o' clock every night I promise.

sad - Fred, Nelspruit

A: Dear Fred

That studded belt your uncle Holiday gave to you for your 31st birthday does not belong around your ankle. There are several other appealing alternatives on which to wear it. You could put it on your hips. Or if you're feeling really naughty, you could put it on your waist.

Uncle Jim's Advice Column for the Blunted

Dear Jim

Q: The thin brown strings on my head are always getting long. Not only that, but the brown strands in my no-no places are also lengthening. I'm really worried because I've had this disease since birth, and all the doctors I've been to say that they have no cure for me. What is wrong with me? Am I dying? Please help!

anxious, Brent - Pietermaritzburg

Dear Brent

You are not alone so don't worry. The brown strings prevalent on your head are called hairs. What they have been doing all these years is growing. The shocking statistics are that up to 100% of all humans experience hair growth at some point in their lives. In fact, it is so overwhelmingly normal that it leads me to suspect that the doctors who have no cure for you are referring to defects of the brain inside your head as opposed to its brown stringy packaging. You are not dying. So stop being a drama queen and be grateful you're not bald like me.

Dear Jim

Q: Yesterday, out of the blue, I stopped breathing. I then attempted to buy a doghnut from the corner cafe but the till attendant ignored me in favour of a short fat farmer. Today, for some unknown reason, my family threw a party in which all the attendants cried and ate asparagus from plates. They also seemed to bow down to and offer their utmost respect to a rock on the ground. I have bowed to it and found it redeeming. Is this a new religious cult? Can I join? What do I have to do for initiation? What are the laws and customs?

eager, John - Grahamstowm

Dear John

Q: From your above letter I am able to discern that a) you are dead and b) you haven't noticed. Apparently the people around you have. You may be stupid. Crying at parties can be fun for the individual but can be a real mood-ruiner. And minus points to you for not inviting me to the reception - asparagus happens to be my favourite food. I am guessing you died from an overdose of hallucinogenic drugs, as you have obviously mistaken your own gravestone as a religious deity. Keep worshipping that rock with your name on it, you self-loving fuck.

PS: Try walking through a wall. You may find it fun.

Dear Jim

Q: I have a pet goldfish called Lucius Malfoy. Lucius is gold and white. He is a good fish. He is my soulmate and I keep him on a leash when I take him for walkies around our block. But today he stopped moving and he wouldn't jump through his favourite hoop. What can I do to help him?

lovingly worried, Jarrod - East London

Dear Jarrod

If I were in your shoes I would also be worried about little Lucius - if I hadn't paid attention to the 'walkies around our block' part of your adventures with him. Lucius the fish has gone to a happier place, one where he does not have to develop lungs to be able to live. Left with his small fishy carcass, you have little leeway for extravagance in your dealing of this matter. A viable option is to flame-grill him for a nutritious, light supper. Or, if it is the motionless bit of the deal that you are worried about, you can drop him from an elevated place in order to induce some movement (you may have to repeat this). Don't stop dropping 'lil Lucius, now - he might stop moving again.

I have addiction problems.

It took me some time to come to terms with it. It was not willingly, nor do I intend to do anything drastic to remedy it. But I feel a need to vent, because it is so embarrassing that I trust posting it on the Internet would be a better option than, say, screaming it to every blonde person I walk into at the local friendly grocer.

From the day I was conceived the notion that the Internet is the number choice for confessing shameful, sordid secrets, from chewing used gum or unrolling 2-ply toilet paper, separating the layers and re-rolling it to make two rolls to having disturbing dreams about Lysol or crying to outdated Martin Luther King footage. Who could possibly find the motive and the means to ridicule it? As you're all aware of, the World Wide Web is full of charming, sensible, articulate and courteous people who respect each others' opinions, and any person who is rude or outrageously insensitive would be arrested and chucked into an internet prison filled with text-only documentations on how to make 60 prawn souffles in 50 minutes or how to dress like Liam Neeson or some or other horrendous crap like that.

But I digress. I guess I'm too shit scared to type this out aloud for fear of your collective actions (even if you are all charming, sensible, articulate and courteous), so I'm unconsciously trying to delay the process. But the time has come.

...I'm addicted to Solitaire.

Now, this is no 'Every day I think about Solitaire and have an unexplained desire to play it when I am exposed to certain foods'. We're talking HARD CORE SOLITAIRE INFATUATION. We're talking 'Every minute of my existence feels empty if I do not have the means to stack red and black cards on top of each other to create an even bigger pile of cards that, depending on the position of Sagittarius tonight, may or may not vomit bouncing simulated monstrosities when I finally win'.

I admit - I love Solitaire. It has seen me through the dullest of days; in sickness and in health, in wealth and in poverty, in trouble and out.

In fact, I once had a dream that I was in the act of moving the red Queen Of Diamonds onto the black King of Spades, and the Queen spoke to me and told me she did not want to be moved because she was racist. Also that she didn't want to sit next to him on the taxi home.

Then there was that other time in which I had to choose between living, dying, and being printed into a card with that awesome old-school rose pattern at the back. Natually I chose living, but it was a close call. Dying sounded much too exciting for me to contemplate not choosing.

Then again, if my sole purpose in life was to drag cards in an endless nightmarish train of red and black, I'd be contemplating suicide too.

...wait, what?

Jack and the Beanstalk (without the Jack, and possibly without the beanstalk.)

We are growing plants in lasagne-trays in biology.

We had to divide into groups of 8, which didn't sound like such an ardous task until the back group realized we were only 7. Anyway, no one else wanted to join our group because our group consisted of 7 cellphone-wielding alcoholics, including the resident stoner, someone with a prison record, one unstable partygoer, the insane borderline adult, a pseudo-goth, someone really apathetic and one part-time student -- the worst recipe for success available. The part-time student was really a last resort.

"Oi, that group over there, you have to have 8 people before I'll give you the stuff. Otherwise you'll get no marks."

"Shit, how many people are in our group?"

"Six, if you count him."

"We still need another two..."

"Quick, who's absent?!"

"Tjad...and that scary girl from Botswana -"

"Okay, Tjad's in our group. He's never here anyway; we don't even need to tell him what's going on."

(He did, however, get his revenge several days later when he finally pitched up:

"Tjad, stop moving our radish shoots into the upperclass-motherfuckers' tray!"

"I refuse. It looks so empty..."

"But...why? You're in our group!"

"...I am?")


So, the biology teacher, who really doesn't like us as a result of that one time when we laughed pointedly at his sock tan, refused to give us seeds or a lasagne until we had 8 members. We couldn't find any. Eventually the general consensus was, "Fuck it, we'll bring our own fucking beans, and our own damn lasagne tray."

This adamance lasted until two more people decided to migrate to our group. To tell the truth, we tackled this assignment with the same fervent, unwavering enthusiasm we would a colonoscopy. It was heartening when a few days later our tray was the fastest to grow though, and the straight-A-overachiever-bourgeoise-motherfuckers with their damn upper-class haircuts group had a tray that was so waterlogged their beans rotted.

In other news, I officially sound like a self-help book. I believe I have finally merged with my well-worn copy of Toxic Parents to become one big walking, life-changing cliche. I can't help it. It worked.

That Lazali guy

As I am sitting typing this, my head is still reeling from an awesome and admittedly slightly traumatizing event that happened today. I was initially shocked and stunned by the memory, but as it came worming back to my consciousness like some sort of cat burglar, I felt I had to put it down in text for me to scoff and perhaps vomit at a few years down the line from now.

Aimee and I went to the mall after school today to pick up her cellphone which had gone in for repairs. We were in our brown school uniforms, creating that much desired special effect of looking beautifully generic. I digress.

This was all well and good, and even the operation was more complicated than I anticipated (they couldn't fix her phone so they gave her a new one - she was initially upset about it ["It's just not the saaaaaaaaame!"] but after discovering it had bluetooth on it things became of the 'up and up' variety), it got better after we had a couple of double-cream frozen yoghurts. Incidentally I also wanted to vomit but I was too ashamed to admit it.

The apparent normalcy ended shortly after we acquired the phone and started walking around. Below is what happened in script format because I am too lazy to narrate this post and failing to inject painless humour into it like some kind of awkward reverse-liposuction deal.

Me: I'm damn bored.
Aimee: Ja well...MY PHONE HAS BLUETOOTH ON IT!
Me: NO WAY!
Aimee: YEAH IT TOTALLY DOES!
Me: WHOA!
Aimee: Hey, Craig sent me airtime.
Me: Oh no!
Aimee: Look they do piercing at that shop there! Come with me to go have a look -
Me: Haha, oh shit, I thought you were joking about getting your nipple pierced.
Aimee: Meh, you need to be 18 and have an ID...
Me: Well, that's a pity. Hey look, it says you can get your shaft pierced here! Does that mean -
Aimee: Mary, shut up, you're embarrassing us!
Me: Oh come on! You don't just come across this kind of thing every day!
CREEPY STORE CLERK WHO MAY OR MAY NOT BE ON INTERPOL'S MOST WANTED LIST: Oh, no, no, that isn't penis piercing.
Aimee&Me: ?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: It's not on the penis, it's actually by one's ear, here *motions to ears in borderline comical manner*
Me: Oh, I see! Whoops, I thought it was, you know...
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Yeah, it's a common mistake
Me: *looks sad*
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: *perks up* But I have a piercing on my penis!
Me: Is that so?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Yes! As a matter of fact, I did it myself!
Me: Wow, wasn't it sore?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Yes it was! I did it myself, in fact. I don't know what it's called, but there is one that goes THROUGH THE URETHRA, it's called a Prince Alber -
Me: What about didoes?
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Well, I've never actually heard about them...
Me: Really? They're quite common, it's those ones around the glans *motions with hands*
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Oh, I may have to check that one out. But with the Prince Albert, you have to sit down when you urinate, like a girl, because the urine seems to splash everywhere -
Aimee: ...
Me: ...
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Goodness, I think we're embarrassing your friend here.
Me: *turns to Aimee, who has suddenly become bright red*
Aimee: *laughs nervously* Well, I wouldn't get my penis pierced, but I was sort of checking out the nipple piercing; I want to get mine done...
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Oh, nipple piercing! You'll need and ID for that.
Aimee: Yeah...:(
CSCWMOMNBOIMWL: Or you could just bring a guardian or consenting parent; I'm sure it'll be fine. I actually have a piercing on my nipple too *touches nipple area*, but I've let it close now. I only pierced my nipple to get closer to God...
Me: I'm starting to realise the ramifications of standing here and listening to this crazy dude.
Aimee: Let's go?
Me: Yeah.

And that was the end of that.