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Goatse Alone

I tried to draw this on PaintBrush but then commissioned Pip to do it for me properly. I love him, and I love you, MacGoatse!

P.S. Not safe for work, plus I remembered my mum reads this.

I never new before that I was dumber than a mouse.

I forget things and even when I rite them in my notbook I can't reed my own riting and its very hard. Miss Kinnian says have pashents but I feel sick and tired. And I get headakes all the time. I want to go back to werk in the bakery and not rite progris progress riports any more.

i'm happy, he's happy

Lovely Saturday night courtesy of the gracious and mellifluous Pablo Honey (pictured, right, sharing a joke). Named after Steve Meretzky’s RPG, Hoboken are a smart little faction of do-gooders. User-friendly and highly accessible. Jonathan Carr (pictured, left, wearing a Crimson Tape) leads a respectable League of Ordinary Gentlemen. Engaging Vic Reeves/Mike Patton style wooing, but the in-between banter betrays a disappointing lack of balls.

Client A and Client B have balls. They also have bosoms, pencil skirts and nice Coronation Street accents. I can confirm that they do have heads, handsome painted heads which lament "gnome you sick on the rare Dior". PH points out that the audience is largely made up of non-descript blokes in their early 30s, which I suppose befits an anti-image band.
Client A still isn't very manic but she does the job; I like being borne along on a bit of plain and simple electroplop. Not exactly LadyTron, but when she purrs "Thanks Edinburgh, you've been smashin'" there's not a dry seat in the house.

Things I have learned from Hot Or Not

BOBFOCs* aside, non-descript folk on Hot Or Not get high scores by either wearing a uniform or holding a cute animal or baby. As illustrated by Fig. 1 (left), even I am nowhere near as attractive as Simon Weston in a fireman's helmet holding a puppy (I created his picture for the purposes of this experiment).

Let's have a big hand for Jeremy Beadle! He's "hotter" than me, too. Just ask the vox populi. Looking on the bright side, I'm "hotter" than Maxine Carr, although I do have similar problems with lynch mobs and hair conditioner.

I personally believe I'm 30% hotter when dressed as Jesus and playing a harmonica. I don't have statistical proof of this as they took the photo down. I was dressed as Jesus because I was at a party whose theme was "Sources of Light". My Spanish friend Salva went as a pregnant woman, because the Spanish word for "pregnant" is similar to their word for "light", or something. He didn't bother to shave. He did look kind of hot, but not as hot as me. I was playing "Oh, Susannah", by the way.

* Body Off Baywatch, Face Off Crimewatch

phewlogy

Last night while I was watching Six Feet Under at Harry's house, I got a funny feeling something bad had happened to someone close to me. I presumed that Drinky Crow had finally died of liver failure, on the toilet, and was making his dainty way through the process of autolysis, e.g. soft-soaping, body popping, shitting his insides out and that. Then I got another funny feeling that it was a false alarm, so I stuck my nose back onto the TV screen like a hungry urchin at a sweetshop window. As I set off to go home, I got a text from Air saying that he was in the hopsital having smashed into a lorry and totalled his new wheels. Possibly my funny feeling was indigestion - I had dined that night on prole food - but more probably I'm psychic.

I'm glad Bell is not dead, as I love him and he is a good person. Many people spend a lot of their lives destroying themselves and other people, in petty or more serious ways. The petty ones upset me most as they're not even properly evil, just fucking lazy. At least evil people are proactive and motivated, and stand by their principles, and have suspicious beards.
Bell is good and helps people, like Gamera (pictured, right, helping people), and it would be bad if he died.

In The Cunt

All boys should watch this so that they can find out what girls - especially feminists - want from men. I mean it. Forget nonce-boys like Noah Wyle and Orlando Bloom. I must be gay, though, 'cause the millionth time pug-faced Ruffalo said "pussy" I was praying for Richie Gecko to come and kick fuck out of him. He's not the sensitive brute housewives dream of as they browse for plumbers. The only reason he keeps burying his salty 'tache in Ryan's stringy minge every five fucking minutes is because she looks like a giant chicken wing. Everything looks like it's drenched in sweaty pee, but other than that, it's the same as The Piano. Chocolate box crinoline crowbarred in. Swarthy but tender alpha-male with calloused hands unlocks gazelle-like, educated introvert's moth-eaten chastity belt. Severed Extremities. The murder victims, Ruffalo repeatedly tells us when he's not saying "pussy", have been disarticulated. "What's disarticulated?" Ryan asks, again and again. This fucking film is. P.S. Mark Ruffalo's mate did it.