Archive | August, 2011

Follow me or perish, sweater monkeys.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I dreamt that Stephen Fry asked me to live with him, to make pale British love and give heterosexuality a red-hot go. It was a confusing time. For both of us, baby.

Why were the seventies so goddamn brown? Anyone?

I once had some dude travel an hour to my party, only to knock on my door and tell me that he wouldn’t be able to make it.

My mortality kept me awake last night.

If I were rich, I’d build a Bill Murray theme park in my backyard: with every ride a different movie and entry counting on congruent quotes. There’d be Murray mandy floss, a Ghostbusters haunted house and a Punxsutawney Pit Stop. Good times.

I hate people who say goodbye five minutes before they leave, then turn to you expectantly (like Lassie about to lead you to the well where Timmy lies) hoping for another round. Umbilical cord, much? Fuck off already.

Noah Wyle’s nostrils are simply ridiculous.

I hate it when I go to the loo and accidentally pick the stall of the chick at the sink, her flush still hanging in the air. It’s a lucky dip with a warm ass-print as my prize.

I preferred Simon Pegg when he was English. (You’ve got red on you.)

the wuc bytes – burglar

Note to self: do not drop a dry-roasted soy bean down your cleavage. Especially when your boss is sitting be-side you.

Like a pinball boomeranging between two goal posts (mounds de mammilla), it paused above the cleave and then dove forth, with the intrepid spirit of an Olympic diver. And as I sat there in soy soliloquy (shall I dive in after it on a rescue mish the likes of which Hasselhoff has never seen?), my boss turns to me in righteous repose and strikes up a conversation.

That’s right, folks. With the renegade bean nestled betwixt my bosom like Benny Hill on a Saturday night, I nodded professionally and took notes. Mmmm. Uh huh. I like what you’ve done here. And here. And … for the love of almighty Cher, give it up already!

Finally, after he’d killed my will to live with a barrage of Elmer Fudd Rs (or should I say, bawwage) (for weals, yo) and with everyone thusly averted, I surreptitiously scrounged among my bazookas for the bean that Jack forgot. But alas. It was … gone?

I can only assume the gnome took it as a peace offering.

“Oh! NO! I don’t wanna upset you.”

Do that voodoo you do so well.

I feel happy today. Like a jelly bean after a lavish spa treatment. It aint a Disney day, understand. But my undies are nevertheless alive with the sound of Cusack.

The factors to my blissful briefs (aka the pantaloon union) are thus:

  • they’re clean
  • Gay Prince is in da hizzie (whoop whoop)
  • I’ve been offered a job

Yes, they’re always clean (I aint no motherlovin’ grundie miscreant) but it bears heralding. Yeah baby, GP is scrum I’d-like-to-diddle-his umptious and yielding a tropic Travolta vibe today (night diva, night diva). And I doompahdee might have a new job! I’m negotiating the salary much like Hugh Hefner negotiates stairs – hopefully yet with some trepidation.

So! Like a pimp, allow me to headline the pros: the new gig is with my current company, but at a different office. Which means a transition smoother than an exfoliated Clooney and (like Shriver upon the morn of meaning) fare-thee-well Schwarzenegger. Most importantly?

No more Cult Boy, no more kooks. No more gunslingers, dirty looks!

Boo-fucken-whoop-whoop-yar.

I’d still be working with the mental crew but from a distance (à la Better Midler) (with hula hands and a song in my heart). And. Four days a week. Motherfucken, and. In the same bedazzled building as, drrrumroll … that fabled fabio of hetero hotness, Gay Prince.

It’s as if George Michael finally heard my prayers. (Wham wucs.)

In pointiest of fact, I’d be working for his boss’s boss. Wuccadoodies. GP dropped by my desk today, paused for bing grin and inquired after my employment health. Then, upon learning this malodorous morsel, backed away slowly (like James Cagney at having a tommy gun pitched in his gut). Aww-kward (to be sung like my little brother) (macho falsetto, yo).

This could be considered a con. Also: no more Coffee Guy. But then, I suspect his lattes are hotter than he. And he looks weary of late. As if our imaginary courtship is taking its toll.

It’s Howdy Doody time.

And she’s back in the game!

(Gallops onto stage with mop and cowboy hat) (Bad Boy Bubby of the executive set). Howdy y’all (tip of the hat) and wassup mutherfuckers (to the roughians in the back).

Apols for the satellite delay. I’ve been in a cult boy / gunslinger meltdown from which it took a fortnight to recover (the time it takes for one to fly over the cuckoo’s nest). Their collective psychosis was like 20 tonnes of water pressure on the tiny cabin of my mind. Ipso rectum: totally stressin’ me out, yo (to be said like damsel in distress, hip-hop hand to forehead).

You may be wondering, what does an extended foetal look like? Well, Barry. It’s a cocktail of broken-down autistic robot, primo PMT and the Six Million Dollar Man at 2am. In short: the kind of wild ride only Pamela Anderson is trained for (she’s got airbags, Barry).

I was exiting my confounded cocoon this morn, when Cult Boy happily told me that the world will END in September. Like, total bummer man (to be said like Keanu token-the Reeves).

CB and his fantastical followers will be okay (whistle phew), but all others will be smidged. Smited. Would you believe, smote? New Yorkers are the first to go (holds clipboard and looks apologetic) and after that (looks to assistant, inquiringly), shall we go with a clockwise decimation?

Now, apart from the obvious concerns (should I delay my tax return to October?) (will I ever see Gay Prince in the nudey?) (for all of us, baby), there’s this nougat nugget: this is Chump in Charge of the 5 Year Strategic Plan for the business. (Can I get an x-men?)

In fact, he’s spent months diligently planning the budget, drafting a prescient pitch and is due to present to the Board in … anyone? Bueller? That’s right Barry: Sep-tem-ber.

He is the Walrus. Cuckoo ca choo.

I wish to make tutu of irony, to dance with drivel in the pale moonlight (to be said in Russian accent) because something tells me this aint covered in his weekly 1:1 meetings with Schwarzenegger. I’ve seen his Q4 objectives and “end of days” is conspicuously absent.

The festy de résistance is that, come the Morose Month, Hymey starts working part-time. What’s he gonna do with the spare time, you hesitantly hask? My money’s on crazy old-man undies, a sign declaring ‘THE END IS NIGH’ and a clanging bell to signify the Ark is boarding.


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