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Author: pete
You don’t want to fight the final boss guy right at the start, for two reasons.
Firstly, you don’t stand a chance. If you go up against the final boss guy at the start, you will surely lose. You need to play through the game, to collect the big weapons. You need the right tools for the job, in order to maximise the probability of success when you finally do meet him.
Secondly, the final boss guy is exactly that – final. Once you’ve defeated him, you turn the computer off. If you get your satisfaction solely from beating the final boss guy, then that’s fine. But I want the game to be long, rewarding and constantly changing. I don’t necessarily want to discover every secret area, but at least a few of them.
This metaphor for life was brought to you by the same people that brought you Jelly Baby curry.
Things seem ever-so-slightly wrong today. It’s no one thing that I can place my finger on, but more a series of fractional discrepancies. A bunch of tiny little deltas that will cause the entire calculation to be intolerably “off”.
If there’s some major global crisis tomorrow, then consider this to be my “dread feeling of foreboding”.
On a lighter note, aren’t kittens lovely?
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Brain dance
Sidekick and I were in the supermarket, buying supplies. The checkout girl wanted £4.05, so I gave her my five pound note which was in Sidekick’s hand at the time.
Sidekick then said “I may have 5p in here,” and started probing in his pocket. It’s a standard politeness thing to do, and it is also really funny when they then type in £5.05 into the machine to make sure that they don’t accidentally give you the wrong amount of change.
On the word “here”, my brain departed off on a whistle stop tour of the galaxy, swooping in arcs around planets and stars, skipping across dust clouds and asteroid belts, dancing around moons and suns and shooting majestically off across big black voids with pinpoints of distant stars twinkling all around me, before coming in to land at checkout 4, as the word “No!” erupted from my mouth like a slow-motion scene in a movie.
Sidekick just looked at me with pity.
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Toothpaste?
In order to avoid an embarrassment similar to yesterday, I was ultra-special-uber-careful to have a nice clean, smooth shave this morning.
Feeling invincible on my way out, I leant into the bathroom to wish the chick a good day, where I found her brushing her teeth. Some toothpaste was dribbling seductively out of her mouth, so I picked a bit up on my finger and licked it sexily with my poutiest eyes.
My first thought was “Hmmmm. Toothpaste manufacturers seem to be bucking the trend of loading their wares up with oodles of mint, as this one doesn’t taste very minty at all.”
Thought two was “Actually, there’s not even a hint of mint.”
My third thought, the one entitled “This isn’t toothpaste at all, is it?” was duly externalised through my mouth.
She shook her head, rubbed in the rest of her moisturising cream, and continued to brush her teeth.
Halfway up the street I barfed all over a toad ((not really)).
> These products appeal to the kind of person whose favourite birthday present is a Dymo tape machine. Look into their eyes and witness the insecurity! “How will I know what type of brown liquid this is? Yes, of course – a handy reminder!” Don’t stand still in their kitchen for too long (reading all the words on the objects around you, with increasing incredulity), otherwise they’ll be tattooing “PERSON” onto your forehead before you know it.
…is an excerpt from Stuart’s 700 word rant on labelled kitchenware (you know the sort – “TEA”, “COFFEE”, “SUGAR”, “CYANIDE CAPSULES”).
Now would be a good time to tell you about my kitchen. Mugs are kept in two different cupboards. The cling film is kept separate from the food bags which are kept separate from the bin bags. I keep one bowl in the cupboard with the cereal and all the rest on the other side of the room. Crisps are kept at eye-level and plates near to the ankles. Sharp knives are kept with the spaghetti spoon, and wooden spatulas with the cutlery and pizza wheel. Jam shares a cupboard with salt, and pepper shares a cupboard with bread.
Welcome to my kitchen. If it was a movie, the tagline would be “where the only way to the soup is through the mind of a twisted bastard…” (read in gravelly voice)
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Ultimate Card
Our reporter in the field has just spotted a sign in the window of a greetings card shop:
“NEW! The Ultimate Card! 8 Pages of sentiment!”
I’ve been looking for something to keep with my thirty thimbles of introvertedness and my nine mugs of yellow. My epic quest may be over.
My sister is giving me the cold shoulder.
I turned around and saw her holding my diary. I enquired as to whether she had been reading it.
She threw it at me and told me to fuck off. She stormed out of the room.
Yes, she is on the blob ((Yes, it’s not the most politically correct term ever. Stop disturbing me mid-rant with your sensitivities.)). How did you guess?
I’m really looking forward to spending this evening in the pub with her. Much as I look forward to incontinence in my twilight years.
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Who ya gonna call?
One of the soap dispensers in the toilets here seems to have been overfilled, and is currently oozing pink goo into a puddle on the floor.
It’s like a scene from Ghostbusters.
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Washing up
I did the washing up tonight.
Naked.
Wooooo.
I’m still naked now.
Wooooo.