It has recently come to my attention that I may have been a little hard on something that has always caused trouble in my life. I have my reasons, believe me, this isn’t something that I have plucked out of thin air. Looking back on my behaviour I am a little ashamed; I suppose everyone makes mistakes and the only way to learn is by making them. That said, how can anyone like 3/4 length trousers?
They’re ridiculous. They look like you tried cutting the trousers to make a pair of shorts and gave up halfway through. They look as though you’re wearing ill-fitting clothes. Who’s bright idea was to sell someone an item of clothing that is missing a part of it? What kind of person does this appeal to?
That was how I used to think, the malice lurking underneath the top soil, the brazen hatred seething through the pork vestibule. It’s not as though my wife ran away with some trousers and I have spent the rest of my life resenting the whole lot of them. Whole lot of them, wow, it’s talk like that that made me sound like a trouser racist.
I am doing my best to move on. This is less a plea for help and more an admission of guilt in the hope that by doing so I can exorcise some of the more harsher criticisms that I have levelled at those so-called “missing trousers”. Human nature is so broad that it can cover a wealth of topics. The only explanation why I shied away from them for so long, that I ranted until hot steam poured out of my ears, is because if I did try to wear them it would expose the tattoo of Pam St Clement (aka Pat Butcher from ‘Eastenders’) at the base of my leg. I don’t want people knowing that I have it; my love is a secret kind of love.
Anyway, thanks for listening. I’m going to omit parts of my name so you don’t know who I am.
It has recently been brought to my attention that the world is not black and white anymore. It is a vibrant, colourful, smorgasbord of everything. I say everything because there are a lot of things now. I do miss the days when there were less things although I am quite happy talking to the small black disc in the corner of the room, especially when she plays me Captain and Tenille songs.
What disappoints me though is that there are no new colours. I want someone to come on the television and announce to the world, “Hey people! If you mix this and that you get a brand new shade! I’m calling it quotium brown!” I would prefer brighter colours though. There must be a new red or orange that somebody can rustle up like cookies from the cooker. We can’t have all the colours now that we’re only ever going to have. Forever. Forever and ever. People get so bored these days that they need new and stimulating things in order to keep them from going mad.
Do you think they are holding back on us? Are there scientists lurking within mountains, swirling ominous solutions in test tubes in the hope of squeezing out a new green?
If not, is there any chance one of you could invent a new colour and send it to me in the post?
Let me start by saying that of all the people in the world, I’ve seen keen. I’ve also seen eager, yearning, longing and a level of impatience that put impatience on the map. The map of keen.
The other day though, well, it’s hard to put into words exactly what happened. There was a press release for the new anti-matter water, the third kind of water, that is due to hit shelves in the next few weeks. The sheer volume of hysterical people hit an all time high. Most of the time the level of keen can be read in the face (eyes, mouth, cheek bones etc.) but as soon as these monkeys saw the article their whole bodies were keen. Have you ever seen a keen elbow? A keen shin? I have and I’m worried that now there is nowhere else for keen to go.
By keeping it primarily in the viso/volto it kept keen under control. This is a whole new set of rules for keen and I don’t think the human race is ready for it.
What on earth should we do?
I’ve got a problem that I can’t tell anyone about. Only the anonymous helping hands of casa de Beans can save me. I am sweating like a scamp just typing these words. I will have to use a fake name so it cannot be traced back to me for FEAR of besmirchment. Besmirching? For the possibility of a bad smirch.
My dog, Lavish Kibbles, passed away a few weeks ago. He choked on a sausage mouse and never recovered. I cried for several days after and eventually I got my stuff together, and sorted him out. In order to save on costs and vets bills I buried him in the back garden. The only thing is after I dug the hole I lost all the mud (I think my neighbour may have stolen it, he’s building his own Hawaiian mud shack) so I needed a substitute. With only my wits about me, I turned to the contents of my kitchen cupboards. Thankfully I’d been to Costco the other day to stock up on essentials and I’d picked up a 600lb bag of Bisto. Using the gravy granules I covered up Lavish Kibbles and retreated to the sanctity of my living room.
The crazy Summer weather conditions continued. A hot rain fell towards the end of the week. With it came the tastiest smell, wafting up from the bottom of my garden. I knew what it was and I knew I needed to control myself in case anyone discovered my disgusting yet mouth-wateringly frugal ways.
From my window I can see a river of gravy starting to flow. In my dreams I’m walking towards it, arms outstretched, a gigantic breadbun in each hand, desperate to dip. I’ve tried making my own as a way of appeasing my tastebuds but it doesn’t smell or taste the same. Only the raw, disturbing aroma emanating from my back yard will quench my thirst.
What should I do; give in to temptation and chow down on my now ex-dog or look the other way?
It has been a whole twenty-one years since I was born. I do not remember being born, however I am told that it was a most awful and harrowing experience for everyone involved. Indeed, there are no photos of my birth because I am reliably informed that to remember such a day one would have to be the largest of sadomasochists possible.
Anyway, the reason for my letter has nothing to do with that; I wanted to proceed with a strong opener. My problem stems from something I have had since birth. It is not something that is easy to talk about so I am hoping that we can keep this between me and you.
I have the most unique hair. It is made out of noodles so I cannot go outside when it is raining. When I try to cry over something emotional, such as the film ‘The Quest’ starring everyone ever, instead of water tears I weep tears made of rice. When I get stabbed by local gang members I bleed tomato sauce, and I get followed home by hungry dogs and cats, licking the floor behind me.
This has stopped me from living a normal life. The last time I went out with someone I woke up one morning to find him nibbling on my forehead, trying to concoct some sort of bizarre tomato sauce noodle breakfast arrangement. In fact I am convinced he was trying to assemble a makeshift Virgin Mary.
My confidence is at an all time low. Can you help?
Camerra Von Plusbeets
It has been several years now, what feels like decades, since I first encountered the love of my life. I met him quite by accident on a train and he captivated me from the beginning. At first I could not believe that I could fall for such a shambolic, messy, misanthropic miser yet how that changed. Through each encounter the more and more I fell until he was all I could think about.
We met up as often as possible. There was a fair amount of ramping, of course, however it was more than that. The ramping led to so much more, more than can be recounted on a half-baked blogging website such as this.
It ended as most things do, with one of us in tears and the other of stout and firm approach. I just wish he hadn’t wept into my purple tweed suit and blown his nose on my antique blanket. I had to end it because, well, when you’re a well-respected Danish lesbian you cannot be seen frolicking with a member of the opposite sex.
Recently I have been reminiscing about the good times and thoughts of him just keep coming back. Do you have any advice? Any coping mechanisms?
It has recently been brought to my attention that most cinemas in the UK and, indeed, the world only show a selection of the most recent movies committed to celluloid. And that’s as far as they go. There are no plans to stretch beyond this very limited approach to mass exposure, that is until I had a brainwave last night.
What the world needs now is a new kind of cinema. What it needs is for someone to bring something fresh to the table. I think you can see where I am coming from yet for those who still need a massive hint look no further than the next paragraph:
Yes, suck deep and bathe on that. It’s the next logical step up from the ‘face updates’ that have started to appear online. You should not have to settle for just a couple of photos of your face, you should be able to display fully three dimension renderings of your viso/volto for everyone to see for a competitive price. In my vision, the multiplexes of the past are replaced with modern technology, one that is activated using face scans to open doors and serve popcorn. You’ll then walk through the corridors to the main rooms where my huge face hangs above you, a towering man-sized face for you to gawp and view with as many pairs of your eyes as you have.
We can even incorporate special events where people spend ludicrous amounts of money to have their own face displayed for a limited time, but the majority of the time it will be my face that will get all the attention.
I think a cool three mil will be enough to get it started. Can you please pass this around and hand me the hat full of cash over the weekend.
James D. Titan
Attorney at Law
No matter how hard I try, no matter what ideas I come up with, all of them are disparate in nature. There is no logical flow or group by which they can populate. Each and every single one of them is a Robinson Crusoe living on their own island away from the others, occasionally waving at them with a disinterested look in their eyes.
Could it be that these formulations in my brain that splurge out onto the website are just like me? Are they all selfish and only care about themselves? Shouldn’t these posts be more empathic?
Perhaps it is more to do with being popular. None of my posts are popular, and so when a Chris post comes floating past the island on a makeshift party boat, with Jacuzzis and champagne flowing from illuminated elephant nostrils balanced on a solid gold davenport, they cannot help but look on with fear and loathing (and a little Las Vegas).
What can I do to emulate this success? How can I get in with the “cool kids”? Please help me.