Monday, November 9, 2009

No prophet, it's pathetic.

I've stopped smoking as much.

The partridge is not a peacock, and Alan is not Steven.
Alan Partridge could be dressed as a Peacock or have a penis that resembles a pea.
Alan may also play a character named Steven.

Basic principles and pinnacles of simple fact you'd think, but therein lies the Easter egg. All the while I'm laying peacefully single,
in my double bed.

(What if that dead leg never happened? Why can't people paint their own pictures with the words supplied on the palette?
If I never had a dead leg, I wouldn't of moved to a prone position, hence I cannot see out my window, hence,
You get the drift.)

The butterflies in my stomach are always actually moths, and get burnt by bare bulbs as they brainlessly follow the light.

I finally got published by someone other than myself.
It might only be a paragraph in the local street press,
but I now have a doctorate of some kind.

Obsessions of the moment would have to be playing Mario Kart online on the Wii my flatmate took from a youth centre, my cheese knife, black and white acrylics and
being violently ill for no reason and throwing up into my backyard at random intervals.

And now a monologue from another obsession, while I wear my Dior bathrobe,
Boondock Saints.

Donna: You killed my... my...
Rocco: Your what?
Donna: My...
Rocco: Your fuckin' what? Huh? Your what, bitch?
Donna: ...
Rocco: I'll shoot myself in the head if you can tell me that cat's name! Go ahead! Your what? Your precious, little...
Donna: Skippy! Skippy!
Rocco: Oh, Jesus! What color was it, bitch?
Rayvie: Don't you fucking yell at her like that you prick!
Rocco: Shut your fat ass, Rayvie! I can't buy a pack of smokes without runnin' into nine guys you fucked!

I write scripts like The Shining, but never get no Oscars,
except ones that come in clip seal Glad bags and cost ya.

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