|bored animation||January 23, 2015, 6:31 pm|
yeah. Baby killing simulator.
bored bored bored bored
|epic heroin win.||January 18, 2015, 8:38 pm|
so, I got a job in a pub, which mostly involves me oscillating between beer pumps until someone buys me beer. As jobs go, it could be worse.
Two weeks ago this little European dude walks in and orders half a Guinness. Then he deposits said Guinness on the table and fucks off for a shit in our opulent lavatorium. So far, so good; at least one regular has been banned from shitting in his own house because his ass is so rotten that it makes his wife puke, and so he has to fire his shit down our toilet and hold his butthole to the extractor fan afterwards.
People shit in the toilet is the point I am making here. It is not unusual.
The pub begins to fill up with punters. No one buys me beer, which is fucking irritating. Half an hour later I notice that the half pint of Guinness is still sitting neglected on the table. Not a single fuck was given.
This was the first mistake of the evening. I should have put two and two together at this point. I did not.
Half an hour after that, a big dude with a beard informs me that there is something awry in the toilet. Big dude with beard, another accursed pub-shit doer, cannot enter the cubical to drop a tactical nuke. He has peered beneath cubical door - he has seen someone kneeling unresponsive on the pissy concrete floor, like he is praying to Mecca or some shit.
The landlord gets a screwdriver and removes the lock. Landlord promptly freaks out because this guy looks pretty fucking dead. Living people do not lie in this position. This fucker has ragdolled up against the cubical wall, his neck at a 90 degree angle.
Phone the fucking ambulance.
darknation the pint-puller is suddenly promoted to darknation the corpse-mongler. Our intrepid hero enters the cubical, which is about four-foot square, and ties to check the kneeling body for a pulse. There is a needle still clamped in the body's hand. His hand is freezing cold. His trousers have come down to reveal three-stripe, red-white-yellow boxer shorts. There is vomit, this man has pissed his pants, his last act upon this world was to shit himself. Landlord has phoned for an ambulance and the NHS 24 want to know if this dead dude is breathing. Trying to get to check is a nightmare. His neck is boneless, his head flops about, about a litre of clear liquid has pooled in his mouth and is slithering out like fucking anal lube.
That shit was the grossest part. It fucking got everywhere.
I try to lift him. Impossible, this fucker is a dead weight. His lips are blue. I know I've got to get him out of the cubical and lie him down so I can think about CPR. Then I look at this dead blue bastard and the shit that is coming out of his mouth and I actually hope that he *is* dead so I won't have to pump and french kiss the fucker.
Somehow we get another person into the tiny cubical. Somehow we manage to haul him out of the stall. His trousers fall all the way down as we pull him. Yes, he has definitely shat himself. Yes, this fucker is blue and he is not breathing. No, am I not doing CPR. Fuck that.
Not sure what this post is really meant to be about, but fuck that little European dude for overdosing in my pub toilet and totally ruining my Friday night. What a fucking prick.
|INTERNETS||January 17, 2015, 5:32 am|
|I have some now. Celebrate, for darknation has returned to you.|
|zippers are the work of satan.||April 12, 2014, 6:22 pm|
yeah, so I was drunk the other night and I think I caught my foreskin in my zipper.
It's fucking sore. It looks gross, lightly skinned, still weeping white blood cells. The scab that is forming... well, it's less of a scab, more of a geological formation made of pus, blood and copious pants fluff.
I wish I had worn better coloured pants so the scab would look less like a gangrenous bubo.
|hypothetical||March 26, 2014, 12:19 am|
You walk into the toilet. Your ass is full of shit. You are desperate. The seat is down. The porcelain beckons. You unbuckle your belt and drop your pants. The metal buckle clatters on the cold, unforgiving bathroom floor.
Something is wrong. Very wrong. Sudden dread infuses you on an instinctive level. Your fingers quest across your butt cheeks and into your crack. Your blood curdles in your veins as your index finger reveals the terrible, gut-wrenching truth;
Your asshole has vanished overnight. There is now nothing but a flat piece of inviolate skin in between your quivering buttocks. There will be no release from this torture.
WHAT DO YOU DO NOW?
|tonight I mostly made textures.||February 25, 2014, 11:26 pm|
because MY BALLS, that's why.
|and everything turns to shit||February 18, 2014, 10:36 pm|
Fucking hard post to write, but I guess I better get it out of my system. Went to work a few weeks ago leaving girlfriend in house, prior to her going to her own work. Lah de dah, everything is nice nice. I assume my GF brushed her teeth at some point.
And forgot to switch the tap off.
Now I don't fucking know how a human being can just walk out of a building and leave a tap on. She's diabetic; I assume she was in some sort of walking coma. Regardless, the overflow is fucked and the downstairs flat gets pissed all over.
They phone their landlord, who is on holiday in some third world shithole spending all that hard earned rentz moneys on blow and hookers and shit. He is displeased with the fact that his house is sinking like fucking atlantis. He phones my landlady, who tries to phone me.
I is at work. I is not answering phone.
So, she takes her key and enters my flat. And my flat is a shithole. There is a bountiful mountain of pizza boxes. The carpet is a swamp of split beer and fag ends. The roof, which has been leaking for a month now, has let an interesting genre of fungus colonize one of the walls. Speaking of walls, I have spray-painted the word FRAD on the living room wall for some reason that sounded really hilarious at the time.
She has not been up to visit the flat in five years. And the tap is still pishing water downstairs.
She is displeased.
So I get a rage-phonecall after the event. The plumbing is all fucked anyway, has been for years, but maybe I should have squirted some shit down the pipes occasionally. Whatever, problem solved, phone the plumber when I get off nightshift, just don't use the sink in the bathroom.
Aaaaaand the overflow pipe is also apparently connected to the bathtub. Because I don't know, what sort of retarded plumber does that shit?
I shouldn't be surprised. The flat used to be an attic and the plumbing is the most retarded thing I have ever seen. Big holes cut through floorboard to make the bathtub actually fit in, meaning there is less than 50% floor beneath the bath and any spillage flies directly through my neighbor's ceiling and into their coffee. Oh, and the seal on the toilet burst last year and bored a shit-piss hole straight through their roof into the walk-in cupboard. Fuck your clothes, bitches, I defecate on them with impunity for a week until you notice.
Anyway, latest and greatest travesty against the downstairs neighbors has been decreed to be the Last Straw. I am out of there in T-minus two weeks.
Went to council, who will not help me because I have neither a heroin habit, fifteen kids or a prison record. Also they decree that my notice to quit the property is illegal, so won't help me with a council house until landlady provides a N3545435X form or some shit to say yes, I have kicked this fuckwad's lame ass into the street and he is now living in a bin outside of Tesco.
Basically I am staring into the asshole of oblivion and it has farted in my face. Internets look unlikely. Laugh, by all means, but remember;
I WILL BE BACK.
|tossing off||February 12, 2014, 4:45 pm|
|fannying about on the internet instead of doing work on my book. Need some mojoes. Motivate me.|
|400 words, no fat||February 4, 2014, 10:45 pm|
think I nailed it pretty hard. Of course, I will wake up tomorrow and find it full of fail and delete it.
For posterity then.
|31 years old||January 31, 2014, 4:56 am|
|I am not mellowing with age.|