Status Updates posted by darknation
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Sure. Here's a mock up I made in PSP / 5 minutes to illustrate the concept. It's rough as fuck, but you get the idea.
Fortunately, I studied graphic design in college, so I can get away with this sort of shit by typing a lot of words that turn an offensive concept into something approaching art.
1) I was greatly influenced by Rob Grant (or was it Doug Naylor?), who described a character turning up for a court case "...wearing an M&S Kipper tie, complete with Woman In Birthing Stirrups motif." I read it, laughed my ass off, and then found myself mildly depressed that such a thing did not actually exist in the real world. So, I did what any rational man would do, and made it myself.
2) Sex sells.
3) It actually has something to do with the plot. Tangentially.
4) Someone pointed out that you can't put a vagina on the front cover of your novel, because society is still light years behind me on this front. So, after a bit of careful consideration, I adopted the technique used by British porn mags in the 1980's. You can print pictures of women spread-eagled in the centerfold of your magazine no problem, provided you cover up their genital opening with a little blue dot.
'Tis a true fact. Those of a certain age will remember this phenomenon. You can look it up if you don't believe me.
So, the idea is this; the books are printed (and, because I suck and have no publisher, I will be doing this via some private vanity printer) and mailed to me in a dirty great big box. Then, using blue stickers from crafts section of my local art store, I will apply said stickers in a vagina-covering position upon the offending portion of the image.
And so we come to the great experiment; when presented with the censored vagina, will *you* run a fingernail against the blue dot? Will you peel it off to see what lies beneath?
Will you open Pandora's Crotch?
Heh. The prose is far tamer than my initial expectations, given your DWF posting, but certainly no less vivid. Please do continue with regular updates! I enjoy the ideas you've started to develop here and eagerly wait to see where you take them.
I was greatly influenced by Rob Grant (or was it Doug Naylor?), who described a character turning up for a court case "...wearing an M&S Kipper tie, complete with Woman In Birthing Stirrups motif." I read it, laughed my ass off, and then found myself mildly depressed that such a thing did not actually exist in the real world. So, I did what any rational man would do, and made it myself.
I assume by "made it myself", you mean the wonderful art/motif itself, but not an actual tie, right?*
Finish up the novel, and I'll personally craft you a bespoke necktie featuring a print of your cover art, gratis, should you be interested.
It can be offensively wide and kipper-tastic, and I can attach as many removable blue censorship dots as you want. I love designing/sewing weird projects in my free time, and this would fit the bill on many levels. The offer stands.
*[If I misunderstood, and you've already made up a tie using such a motif, as a textiles/tailoring/garment nerd, I'd love to see photos, haha.]
Do you have a proof-reader yet? I could lend a hand pointing out any errors I notice.
Not as such, no; honestly, when it comes to editing / rewriting, for every error fixed I add another one by accident. There is little point in really going through it with a fine comb until I am completely satisfied that the damn thing is finished.
For example; the biggest current pain in the ass is changing 80'000 words of past-tense into the present-tense. Basically, every single sentence needs to be rewritten and restructured. For example, beta 03 reads: -
The fat man span, pissing all over the place as he went. His trousers were down around his ankles, and they tripped the already unsteady Fatmandu and sent him once more crashing down towards the ground. He battered his head savagely against the toilet on the way, ripping away the already broken pan-lid as he fell. The tiled floor finished the job of knocking Fatmandu unconscious with an eye-watering crack to the skull, a sound that bounced around the bathroom with an oddly hollow resonance.
Which is fine, but tedious. Moving it to present tense provides a sense of urgency. Beta 09 reads;
The fat man spins with the impact, hosing the room as he goes. His trousers are already down around his ankles - his legs become entangled, and the already unsteady Fatmandu is going down, down, down. He batters his head savagely against the toilet, he rips away the pan-lid as he falls.
The marbled tiles of the toilet floor are what finish him, however. Skull and filthy ceramic clatter together, and the sound they make has an oddly hollow resonance to it. It echoes in the bathroom, like a hammer blow falling on a coconut.
Same basic paragraph, but it involved a complete rewrite. Probably more, to be honest, and I'm still not 100% happy with it.
The point is that any fine proof reading will be lost the next time I scream "Fuck it" and move the entire thing into a tense that hasn't even been invented yet. That said, feel free to point out any errors / grammatical fuck ups you find and I'll add them to my bug tracker.
The offer was appreciated.
Mithran Denizen said:
I assume by "made it myself", you mean the wonderful art/motif itself, but not an actual tie, right?*
Yeah, just the graphic, not the tie. I don't think the world is ready for a garment of such magnificence yet.
Mithran Denizen said:
Heh. The prose is far tamer than my initial expectations, given your DWF posting,
There *are* older versions that are considerably more profane. Part of the editing process has been to remove words that were unnecessary and improve the flow of the novel.
Technical: The opening chapters are a prologue, and not necessarily stylistically typical of the whole. What I'm attempting to write is a gothic comedy; words should flow into each other, the tone should be one of a slowly rising dread that either resolves into horror or a laugh. Not knowing which one to expect at any given time should, I hope, make the prose unnerving and turn the gothic aspects of the atmosphere up to 11.
This said, punctuating sentences with fuck or cunt needs to be done for a specific reason; most curse words are guttural and sharp sounding, and if they are used throughout then it's hard to get a good whispering feeling of dread going. It's akin to writing poetry; you need to be aware of where the stresses are and how the sibilants fall.
So, my usual practice of using Fuck every second word is out.
Confession time; - I have done nothing creative for the past year.
This obviously sucks, and frankly I feel poor about it, but at the same time I am a lazy motherfucker and it's easier to fuck about online / irl rather than do anything about it. Used to be I'd spend at least ten hours a week trying to better myself when it came to writing, but these days I doubt I've spent more then ten hours during the whole fucking year doing anything even remotely productive.
It's not good.
I think I pretty much broke myself rewriting my shit novel for two years straight, all the time kidding myself about what a monstrous task I was undertaking. Finally, it set in that I was looking at another two years at least of rewrites before I would be anywhere even close to finishing and, having stupidly spent all that time writing the same fucking thing over and over and over again, I had actually forgotten how to look at a blank page and come up with something new.
Dumb mistake, strangling myself like that, but whatever. Worse, now I look at what I'd been writing for all that time and have a paralyzed "Ugh, fuck that," reaction, close down the word processor and instead go to youtube to veg out.
Thing is, I really need to be working on something to make myself feel viable as a human being; this fucked up laziness, while being the easy option, is beginning to eat away at my self esteem and devaluate my my feelings of worth.
So, trying to figure out what the fuck to do about it. I'm asking how other people deal with being creatively burnt out / being a chronically lazy bastard and what the best road back to recovery is.
I think I good start might be to remove the internet entirely from my work computer, but I'm willing to try other less drastic solutions to the problem first.
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Some good advice, some less good advice. I think the main problem lies in not understanding the actual mechanism that allows me to zone out of reality and enter the headspace needed to start writing.
I have noticed that, as I become more aware of style / become a more technical writer, the harder it becomes to ignore the reality of hammering on a keyboard to make words happen. Hard to explain, really. If my technique for getting into the mindset for writing used to be the equivalent of daydreaming, then what I have to do now to maintain a technical understanding and proficiency is more akin to lucid dreaming. Keeping the imagination flowing whilst simultaneously imposing a strict framework upon it is fucking difficult.
Also, people who write in coffee houses are the lowest form of hipster scum on god's clean earth.
Keeping the imagination flowing whilst simultaneously imposing a strict framework upon it is fucking difficult.
Fuck ya it is, I find it's best personally to try to divy it up, I'v the spots where I'm hardcore day dreaming and times where I take my adderall to work out the workload of it all, I can see that would be really hard as a writer though. Maybie get yourself into a daydreaming state and jot pieces of whats racing through your mind, then take snippits and start working them together when more cordinated? the coffee place was just an example, quite bars are nice as well, grocery cafe'(where all the old people hang out).
An update from Scotchland.
We are fucked.
Brexit has fucked us. Here are the gory details.
Once upon a time, there was a Conservative / Liberal Democrat coalition. This was the Lib Dems first time in government, and to make it there they sold their fucking souls to the devil. Their leader, Nick Clegg, was elected on the promise of doing certain things (like abolishing university tuition fees) and then he promptly reneged on those promises, shat in a pot and told us all it was delicious beef olives, we must eat it.
This went on for four fucking years.
Come the next general election, David Cameron made a cunning plan. His Liberal Democrat partners and he made a pact - the Conservatives *would* stand candidates in Lib Dem held seats, but those candidates would consist solely of swivel-eyed lunatics that no one in their right mind would vote for. Thus the Lib Dems would hold onto their seats, the Conservative party would be rid of their loonies and the coalition would march forth into a bright future of cheerfully fucking the poor over ad infinitum.
Then the Lib Dems lost all their seats, because no one was voting for a bunch of lying, scheming snottery shitbags who would fuck their granny's corpse on live TV for the merest scrapings of power. David Cameron did not see this coming, because David Cameron is a stupid cunt.
Instead, England voted in 50 seats worth of fucking homicidal maniacs. Those very people that Cameron was trying to put out to pasture returned to Westminster in triumph.
Scotland, meanwhile, was busy planning the Hilarious Rape of the Labour Party. You see, we had a little independence referendum all of our own, and we watched in horror as the Labour party combined forces with the Conservatives, much like a shit Captain Planet. And if there is one thing we in Scotland hate more than a fucking Conservative, it's people who willingly consort with Conservatives.
The Independence vote failed narrowly. If we removed those over the age of 65 from the equation, then we would have won. Pensioners fucked us. We don't care. It seemed a simple matter of waiting till those old fucking bastards die and then going for another referendum. This is Scotland, home of the Deep Fried Mars Bar, so it won't take long.
To make time until the elderly totter off into their early graves, we raped Labour, much for the same reasons that England raped the Lib Dems. Gone were all the Scottish Labour MP's, in were 54 seats worth of hilarious ginger Nationalists. And, because we are a spiteful race of pure bastards, we invested Alex Salmond with his new title of 'Fucker of the English' and sent the whole fucking busload of them down to Westminster.
Labour promptly imploded.
Tony 'speak anywhere but the fucking Hague' Blair's loathsome little homunculii were deposed in favour of a geography teacher. The homunculii went REEEEEEE and spent the next fucking year trying to stab the geography teacher in the back, missing, and stabbing themselves in the face instead. Repeatedly. The Conservatives also went batshit insane, the right wing uniting under Boris Fucking Johnson. David Cameron did not see this coming, because David Cameron is a stupid cunt.
And then Brexit.
The term being bandied about is 'Post-Truth Politics', a nice way of saying 'everybody lies.' And it's not like they were even being subtle about it. Voting is easy when one side is clearly lying their fucking arses off; it becomes rather more difficult when both sides are actually clinically fucking insane. It's not so much a case of voting for the lesser of two evils; it's a case of voting for either a man who looks he uses his hair to wipe sperm from the faces of bukakke actresses or voting for a man who actually fucked a pig.
For the record, Scotland was 62% in favour of staying in Europe. I assume this means that we had a harsh winter and the old pensioner bastards are dying off quicker than expected. England, being apparently retarded as well as racist, voted out. Wales also disgraced themselves. Ireland joined Scotland in the sanity club, which means that even a bunch of alcoholic celtic maniacs who enclose pipebombs with their voting slips managed to fuck things up less than the rest of you fucking assholes.
None of this matters, because what England says goes. Scotland will be dragged out of Europe against our wishes. Or will be, once this latest bout of internecine party warfare finally expires. No sooner was the Brexit vote confirmed than the entire of Westminster collectively went Caligula. David Cameron rage-quit like a autistic counterstrike player. Gove stabbed Boris. The Blarite homunculii tried to depose Corbyn for the 177th time this year, and stabbed themselves in the fucking face again. Someone found Margaret Thatcher's head in cold storage and reanimated the cunt in a satanic ritual. Nu-Thatcher swooped in to save Boris, made him Foreign Secretary (da fuk?) and Boris performed what can only be described as a political falcon punch straight back into Gove's tiny, hairless little bollocks.
Oh, yes. Nu-Thatcher. Theresa fucking May, a woman so fucking foul that every time a poor person dies her vagina dentata clatter in delight and whisper ALLL IISSSS DUST on winds that reek like an open grave. The Scottish LOVED Thatcher, this clotted fucking revenant will be SURE to save the fucking union.
And so we come to the present day. There is probably a moral to this story somewhere, but fucked if I can see it. Maybe, when you see your next door neighbor wandering around in blackface screaming about how the Polish have stolen all his jobs and erecting a burning cross in his front garden, you should run like fuck whilst you have the chance.
Or maybe I should have pulled a Shipman when I worked in the nursing home and killed all those old bastards what fucked us in the first place.
The benefit of hindsight, I guess.
Ngaz represent Blogs 4 life yo
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I've never been banned but I've been branded with a warning with my custom title. At least I see it as a warning because I Was Typing Like This in reply to someone that typed like that. It was a subtle form of shitposting but it's still shitposting.
I love how people remember you from the custom title and the skeleton thread but not from the time you ended up with an impossible postcount so long ago.
Never been kicked off of anything, but this may be because I don't post if I don't have anything worthwhile to contribute to a topic. Usually I follow this guideline and stay out of the dumb crap entirely because lord knows what'll happen/who'll respond to me if I join in there. If anything, I'm incredibly paranoid about my own posting.
has been declared. Two enter, only one will leave.
I have three mates; Jock, Paul and Shaun. Both Paul and Shaun own property right next door to each other. This is ironic and slightly tragic, because they fucking loathe each other.
Jock, Paul and I are in the pub getting minkit. Shaun is not in the pub, because he is banned again for twatting somebody during a particularly aggressive karaoke competition. Everyone is pished.
Jock and Paul go home together, and because Paul is stuck in the 90's, decides to start blaring Happy Hardcore on his stereo at one o'clock in the morning. This irritates Shaun, who proceeds to Paul's doorstep and has the mother of all chimpouts allover his welcome mat. Paul and Jock answer door and threats are made; things are said that cannot be unsaid. Shaun threatens to do Jock in, so Jock punches him in the face.
The police are summoned. Jock makes his escape out of a second floor window and flees into the night, a wanted man who is still, as far as I know, at large. Paul declares his innocence of the assault; as he is only guilty of terrible taste in music and not of actual assault, the police leave him be with a simple caution.
Fast forward half an hour after the police have left. Paul sits in his living room in a coma. He is rudely awakened by the brick that comes sailing through his front window. Clean through. There is no note attached to the brick, because Shaun has a bit more class than that. Paul rushes to his door to confront his attacker, but of Shaun there is no sign. Instead, he sees that someone has spent his half-hour productively, and has carved the word DICK nine inches high into his door with some sort of cutting instrument.
I fucking love my mates. But they are probably going to kill each other at some point this week.
No reason, other than I felt like sharing a quote that has been bouncing around inside my skull for the past decade. I will quote, and then you will add a quote, and we will all revel in some awful heathen quotation gangbang and look less spastic by association.
“There is a common emotion we all recognize and have not yet named -- the happy anticipation of being able to feel contempt.”
- Thomas Harris
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“You are not you--you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream--your dream, a creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me.
In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever—for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!
Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago—centuries, ages, eons, ago!—for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities.
"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream—a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought—a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!”
― Mark Twain, The Mysterious Stranger
I must share this, else I will go mad.
I have a friend. He is an idiot, but I try not to discriminate. Said friend has two dogs; they shit mountains.
The council introduced "Garden Waste" bins about three years ago. They are for stuff that is clearly meant to be fertilizer; old plants, grass clippings, etc. And, indeed, dog shit. Dog shit is apparently A-OK with this scheme. I imagine it is full of nitrates and worms.
Now, picture this if you will - My friend is no gardener. He owns two dogs. He has a brown topped, eco-friendly bin for garden waste. He has put a year's worth of dog shit into said bin. A pound of dog shit, no more, no less, only dog shit, multiplied by two and multiplied further for every day of the year. This bin is made of dog shit. It is an epic dog shit bin.
Out he wheels it onto the street during the designated day. The deed is done.
Now, the council bin collectors are well trained. Verily, they expect people to try to sneak toasters and broken electronics into their Garden Waste bin. They check before they recycle shit into their bin lorry. They give all offerings an eyeball before they add it to the pile.
They find the dog shit worthy. The little green polystyrene bags that the dog shit is contained in, however, are not bio-degradeable.
They refuse to lift the bin and depart, chortling, for new horizons.
My friend, my dumb, stupid, mentally retarded friend, now has 240 litres of dog shit to separate from bags by hand. Or, alternatively, he has 240 litres of dog shit to fly-tip somewhere out in the country. A tricky task, because my friend is also a massive spastic, and has only one functioning arm and a gammy leg and only one hemisphere of his brain works at any given time.
The bin is full. The dogs keep shitting. Wedging the bin lid down will only work for so long. And I don't think I have ever laughed so hard in my entire fucking life.
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Ironically, dogshit is really...shitty when it comes to fertilizing properties:
I was quite amused by that. I actually pictured you standing on the street when he tells you all this and you literally falling over just laughing your ass off.
Can he not try to dispose of the bagged shit by depositing a group of bags into his regular waste bin each week, eventually whittling it back down?
Or are the dogs shitting JUST that much?
yes! I have been introduced to dwarf fortress by an utter wanker and thus have lost my life until next year. So, to keep me company until spring, I need MP3's, because I am now fed up of the DF soundtrack.
Specifics: old video game sound tracks. Made of Metal, preferably. If not, at least orchestrated. Anything from the NES - PS1 era will do nicely. Already jamming to the Stemmage Metroid remixes, so there's the watermark. Still looking for a good version of FF VII's JENOVA, so points for that if at all possible.
Straight to the MP3 if you please. No Youtube shit, unless accompanied by a direct download link. Not fucking about here, this needs to keep my ears well wanked until April. Unleash your finest. No doubt other people on the forum are looking for similar, so we can make this a SPAM MUSIC THREAD.
I think I'm gonna give DF another try. Game is for smart people, though. I'm almost smart. :-/ The Quake soundtrack is good. Or this:
DF seems a bit more intuitive than I remember it. It also seems different than I remember it, I guess they keep updating the game and making changes so that shouldn't be much surprise. Even though I haven't played the game in years I feel like I remember much of the premise/strategy (the little that I had learned which wasn't much). We'll see. Maintaining sanity among my tribe will be one of my high priorities.
Well, it seems I've chosen a good plot of land to start my adventure. I got no warnings, I have access to water, vegetation and minerals. How hard could this be?
Apparently I drink an average of 44 units of beer in a week. This is considered to be a bad thing.
Compiling a high score board of DW regulars. Be honest.
And now, I'm off to the pub to drink until I'm retarded.
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^ He supposedly died of respiratory depression from opiate they gave him during rehab, which is contraindicated with GABA acting sedatives like ethanole. It wasn't alcohol that did him in.
Yeah I looked into that and I think you're right. Poor bastard didn't really have much of a chance to make it through rehabilitation anyway.
So, I called the police a bunch of fascist pigs about a month ago. Many lulz were had.
HOW TO ARREST A BITCH: STEP ONE
Approach from the rear as the insanely handsome criminal is walking away. Stick your foot in in the back of his knee, causing him to fall face down on the pavement. Revel in the torrent of muffled abuse that comes forth as darknation eats concrete.
Sit on him to restrain said perp, like the victory hump you give a corpse in Halo multiplayer. Apply handcuffs. Make sure that they are good and tight; if his wrists aren't fucked for the next two weeks then you are doing it wrong.
STEP TWO: ENTER THE PARTY VAN
It is an irony that the police will fuck you for not wearing a seatbelt. And yet, the first thing you will notice upon entering the party van, is that there are no fucking seatbelts.
It is difficult to hang on when you have been handcuffed and hogtied. Expect the party van to lurch wildly on cunted suspension. Expect further damage to your fine facial features as you smash headfirst into the metal bench opposite.
STEP THREE: PROCESSING
They strip searched me. I shit you not. My clothes were confiscated after PC Homo was finished staring at my cock and arsehole. I was presented with my new jail uniform; a pair of blue shorts made out of some weird form of piss-proof kevlar. The t-shirt is a luminous abomination.
Think of the world's worst football kit and you'd not be far off.
STEP FOUR: JAIL
It is cold. You have no socks. There is no sheet on the bed, which is three inches off the concrete floor and bolted to the wall. The mattress is made of weird blue plastic. The urinal has no seat and weird rubber around the rim. Shitting presents a problem.
STEP FIVE: THE CREEPY OLD GUY STARING AT YOU THROUGH THE CATFLAP
There is a creepy old guy who opens the perv-hole in the door once every two hours to make sure you aren't Shawshanking your way out of this dump. The creepy old guy does not speak. The creepy old guy has bug-eyes. He likes to watch you poop.
STEP SIX: GETTING KICKED OUT
There is no breakfast. There is no coffee. Clothes will be returned. Officer Homo has gone home and has been replaced by Officer Acne. Wallet is presented with money intact; this was done with great and serious joviality, the implication being that We, the Police, would not stoop to stealing the money out of your pocket.
And then you get a forty pound fine for being drunk and disorderly and calling the police a bunch of fascist fucking pigs. If you do not pay it within the month then the fine doubles and warrants for arrest will be issued again. Suck the dark cock of justice.
STEP SEVEN: NEED NICOTINE
There is, conveniently, a garage next to the police station. Fags can be bought and smoked in profusion.
STEP EIGHT: TRIUMPHANT RETURN
I am now three hours late for work. I have not washed, my palms of my hands are bloody as fuck from the decking I got upon arrest. I have a million missed calls on my mobile. Pub greets me with the proper amount of respect upon my eventual resumption of bar duties. Cool old dude with a beard, so impressed with my heroism in the face of the anti-lulz, gives me forty quid to pay my fine and buys me a pint.
STEP NINE: REFLECTION ON LESSONS LEARNED
yeah. Baby killing simulator.
bored bored bored bored
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.
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.
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this should quite clearly have been a poll. Ah well, live and learn.
Any circumcised men ever caught their wanger in their zip? Because as much as the bloody urinal cake on the end of my knob hurts, I can only imagine that being a hundred times worse.
I've never been stupid enough or drunk enough to do such a thing.
Hah I knew what this thread was gonna be about before I clicked on it. This has never happened to me, as I don't reckless yank that miniature guillotine up when I'm exposed. I think I did pinch it on the zipper once by accident but the terrifying jolt of pain warned me before I did any damage.
yeah how do you manage this though? I mean, when I piss, I usually pull the waistband under than feed through the little opening in the boxers. I'd never zip up before putting it back in. I don't really have any gruesome penis stories don't think. Be good to it and it'll be good to you.
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?
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.
fannying about on the internet instead of doing work on my book. Need some mojoes. Motivate me.
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alright, let's play a game. I am attempting to describe the passage of years and the ravages that time inflicts upon the body of a chronic alcoholic. The best I can come up with is;-
"...and the years kept piling on and on, like niggers at a gangbang."
Now, I like it, but it needs less niggers. Publishers will not like the niggers. I need something other than niggers that also likes gangbanging. Thesaurus.com has less nigger synonyms that I'd like so I come to you, the denizens of blogs, to help me out here.
Wrong - it needs FEWER niggers.
I am surprised that you took me to be recommending that you opt for a metaphor rather than a simile, as if these these were the only two options. In general I find that when writers rely too heavily on either of these devices, the upshot is prose that is forced and leaden, and which - with the superaddition of often convoluted abstractions - serves only to divert the reader's attention away from the situation that's supposedly being described (especially where the simile or metaphor is mindbogglingly strained).
So, what I should have said was that I recommend describing the situation by, you know, describing it, without resorting to either simile or metaphor (no doubt this is more difficult).
I have this occasionally recurring nightmare where life is like a train crash, but an incredibly slow motion train crash, one that takes place over decades, and as you watch, you can see the start of every metal shear, the slow onset of every stress fracture, the deep groan of metal being bent under immense pressure, and the slow horrible dawning of utter inevitability.
Sometimes my waking life literally feels like this. Thankfully only sometimes.
I hope me sharing this helps to kick off some mojo.
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.
Decided to keep a blog of updates, plans, ideas etc. Find it helps to get me in the writing mood.
So, what have I been doing for the past two months? The short answer is not much; the long answer is that fixing the first segue (The Man who will be Gambit) and the opening chapter (Fabulous Gambit DJ Disco Shed) has been a massive pain in the ass.
The main problem is the amount of information that has to be given in each; there are about ten characters to introduce, three of them major ones. There is explaining the locale, which is a complex set piece in itself.
I had originally tried to simplify things by removing one of the major characters (Ziggie) from the action, introducing her at the end of chapter 2 instead. This, unfortunately, fucked the narrative and just seemed utterly artificial.
So I went to plan B – open the novel with TWO segues, one for Gambit, one for Ziggie, two short stories that illustrate exactly where their massive psychological and emotional retardation comes from. There was a lot of clever foreshadowing going on (esp. in Ziggie’s story) and I was pretty pleased with it.
And then I had a brilliant idea, which means that I am now going to have to delete them both.
Gambit’s segue begins in a church; so does Ziggie’s. Combining the two segues into one is basically a no-brainer, creating a singular event that is the forefather of all the other disasters to come. Gambit, returning home from church is hit by a car. Ziggie’s story begins with the funeral of her father. Gambit, now returning from the funeral of Ziggie’s father, is hit by a car.
It seems really simple and very obvious now that I have thought of it. I imagine the implementation of it will be nothing but.
And so I start again on the 15th fucking draft of the opening chapter. Which doesn’t include the other twelve drafts of the original, Olympic Gambit opening.
I have rewritten the opening of this book a grand total of 26 times. Which might give you an idea of why this fucking thing is taking so fucking long.
and I cannot stop laughing. Help me.
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Encyclopedia Dramatica probably has the best article on him.
Wow. I don't know what to say about this guy. I never knew anyone could be such a loser, such a parasite, such a worthless shitbag of a human being. Humiliating his friend girl with pornographic "fan art" of her. Having the drawing skills of a 4 year old and then reacting with vile anger to criticism. Posting a video of himself downing a shot of his own cum. Randomly capitalizing half of the words he writes.
He's fat, autistic, poor, ugly, talentless, stupid, mean, and now homeless. I've literally never seen a person with such little going for him. The most incredible part is that he's such a horrible person that you can't even feel sorry for him. He truly deserves his lot in life.
A-LOGGING is normally one of the first stages of knowing CWC exists.
friday night: work's night out in hotel. Free Bar (eventual tab: 300+ quids). Behaved semi-reasonably by all accounts.
saturday night: woke up at 6pm and met up with old school friends. Forgot to eat before drinking. Got totally smashed on cheap beer before heading out for expensive beer. Might have had some (microwaved) stovies when I got home, evidence inconclusive.
sunday night: woke up feeling like a deep fried turd. throw clothes on, got on train to Glasgow. Cannot physically force myself to eat. Beer o'clock is 12 o'clock (afternoon). Got steaming minced ruined. Discover a 32% (ish) ale called a Tactical Nuclear Penguin and proceed to new heights of total destruction. Get into an argument with a Big Issue seller. Went to the O2 to watch Gogol Bordello. Amount of gig I can remember: none. Alcohol bill for weekend = two hundred quid and still rising. Return to youth hostel and experience extremely vivid nightmare about murdering the Queen of England. Awake at 4am and run around hostel room screaming about dead Queen (suspected alcohol induced psychotic break lol) with no clothes on. Other occupants of room (2 female) rather unimpressed with said behavior. Smoke cigarette through closed window to calm self down. Go to someone elses' bed still not wearing any pants.
monday night: liver in a state of severe distress. Finally ate a cheese sandwich. Bank account hanging in tatters. Still no idea if I like the new Gogol Bordello album or not.
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Maybe it could look better if one frame had the knee bent more. 2nd frame for the "behind" leg and 4th frame for the "front" leg? (more bending for the behind leg)
And also it can help to make frames 1 and 3, and 2 and 4 have somewhat non symmetrical positions for the arms and legs. If you made it with 6-8 frames, then the steps could be symmetrical (but that amount probably annoying to do with sprites).