Tag Archives: Humor

Passing precipitation ‘n’ ponderment.

If the cousin to contentment, twice removed, had a love affair with the Byron of boredom, their offspring would be akin to my current mood.

Moments of contentment flash by, like the brilliant white of lightning, before the ever familiar rumble of thunder follows. Sometimes. I have such a feeling of calm that it feels as if all my tangles are merely a cryptic crossword waiting to be unlocked and understood.

The feeling is beautiful yet mercurial, like Emma Stone at a red carpet event.

Maybe happiness isn’t knowledge and acceptance built over time, but more like the tides … pulled to and fro with the whimsy of the moon and its gravitational garter. Maybe you need only faith and the flow of the sea to reap the grande jubilee. And like global warming, over time, my core temperature will rise, slowly toasting my cockles, crusty and choleric.

Sure, the proverbial polar is done for. But what is this? Reality?

Or maybe the best way to view one’s life is through a collage of casements – one for each moment you care to call upon continuously – and they can be framed in such a way as pose your plot any way you choose. Poetic for an epoch. Moving and mosaic for a minuet. Maybe.

the wuc bytes – the switch

I’m feeling particularly bipolar, just thought you should know.

Today, I subsist on the upward swell of a wayward zephyr – with spring poking its salty nose out, sniffing the air like a groundhog, deciding whether it’ll grant me my yenned renaissance.

Yesterday, winter was in full force, wedging my emotional undies right up into the butt crack of au fait accompli. Confused? So was I, dear friends. So was I.

What can I tell you? I am simultaneously devoid of art and yet feel an intense need to create. To be recreated. To stop the endless cycle that is the laundry of my dirty psyche. I could mark this spot where I stand in defeat and exhaustion as if it were new, but I been here many times before. Each time, I stuck stick in that wheel like a grubby kid, determined to trip the cycle … only for it to reinvent itself rather than me. Alas in augura, amici.

I want to fuck that cycle right up. Take it out back and beat the crap out of it. To release the guns, Tito and Sally Field upon it. I wanna moontag that puppy in front of its girl crush and rub its spokes in the dirt. Kick it and shout, you’ll never be a BMX!

The crux is work, as per. The foundations I rest upon are being eroded like a sandcastle built at high tide. It’s as if someone cast a handful of spaghetti high into the air and I can only watch as the once-unified mass splits apart in slow-mo, scattering in separate directions, before plummeting down, down. Dust. Yes, along with my working brethren, I am the pitiful pasta in this scenario; though I can’t decide if my boss is the hand that tossed it or merely the hand in absentia, which could’ve outstretched ‘n’ snared us. But instead, let us fall.

Details will be forthcoming when I can rest them from my mind box, where they lie entangled in vine and whine. Until then, I look to the groundhog, wood chuck-chuckers. For whilst he’s an ugly little mother who drives angry, he holds spring in the palm of his claw. And if I can’t rest my thoughts from me, I’ll surely rest possibility from he – imaginary little bedfellow.

And, now. To all the beady-eyed little man boys out there, this one’s for you.

If you’re tempted to rise above this movie, thwart the tempt. For you’d miss out on the genius of Goldblum and brilliance of Bateman. They make me happy in my finespun bone. Peptone.

“It was like a Tourette-style truth serum, and I was caught right in the cross hairs.”

Initiative comes to thems that wait.

Holy shit box, it’s August.

With a new month, comes new expectations. None that I’ll rise to, but still.

In other news, did I mention that I’m learning Latin? Also known as the language of love (or armor inopiae) (lack thereof). When I imparted this in passing to the dubious fuckers who populate my working life, they responded thus:

  1. You’re such a random geek.
  2. Quôcumque, collega. (Whatever, dude.)
  3. Wow, I’m impressed! (aka I thought you were stupid?)

My teacher is a sweet fuddy-duddy of a man with a little-boy haircut slicked in gel and grey. Wrapped in scarves and soliloquy, steeped in comprehension and corduroy, he is the typical product of university … where time crawls and knowledge is fermented to become fruitful at a later date. I imagine he’s been corked and lain on his side for a decade, and now is a ‘good year’ ready to be drunk in. He speaks like Lemony Snicket’s Stephano and runs off on so many tangents as to leave your ear panting for punctuation.

Somewhere, he’s still finishing his sentence.

To be said like the cured cop in Kill Bill.

As for my classmates, it’s like a director carefully cast a reverse group of oddballs to star in an ensemble drama. Or like Judy Blume with wrinkles. And a staunch lack of eye contact. I like to think I’m the well-adjusted one and they’re simply scholastic serial-killers.

Meanwhile, I prematurely bonded with one guy, it prematurely became awkward and now I prematurely plan to avoid him at future classes. Such is my example of how to follow the arc of a relationship whilst skipping over the relationship itself entirely. My theory, either I’m too susceptible to and therefore sunken by subtext, or I’m a romantic athlete – shaving off the seconds it takes to get from intro to veto. (Roughly the time it takes to exhale on a sigh.)

If nothing else, ’tis indeed lovely to languish in language. To bathe in brogue … washing my neck with words of whimsy … scrubbing ‘twixt my toes with declensions and clause.

I’d like to think I won’t become one of those wankers who quote Latin at parties and correct your sneezes for grammatical errors, but I can’t promise anything. If it helps, there are fully fledged wankers at the ready, so consider me merely an understudy in the LA of life.

Tick. Tick, tick, tick … BOOM!

So I’ve been getting my Ace of Base on. In special needs repeat.

This brings joo-joo joy because:

  1. I’m special needs
  2. I’m ooold (to be said like Joey Tribbiani)
  3. I’m instantly transported back to being 17 years old

I’d just moved outta home into a stu-stu-studio with stained-glass windows and kitsch kitchen. Still in high school, I was the same Wuc you almost know today – freckled and forthright, with a penchant for daggy music and eveready dancin’. My mates’d tell tale of hanging at houses with parental sentinel, then camp out at mine – clubbing til dawn under the beats of Boyz II Men, Kris Kross and Marky Mark & The Drunky Bunch.

Good (illegal) (yet strangely innocent) times.

In those days (voice tilts like old codger with one hand on his testicle, the other on his toast), ID was easier to fake. Armed only with dark hair, red lips and a bogus birth certificate (via typewriter and a minimally-criminal brother) … BOOM! Shake the room! I was in.

‘Twas also in my seventeenth year that my love of movies brought its first tradge and lamentable lesson: never know thy neighbours.

Sure, it may seem a wonderbar situation – a beauteous community of possible beaus, barbecues and perennial cups of sugar. In truth, living abreast of you at any given time is a salty sea of schizos and a crackin’ lack of sweetness (proverbial or otherwise).

My first neighbour (cuckoo) dropped by one dog day afternoon as I was hanging washing, my little kitchen watching over me like a white ‘n’ wide grandmother nearby. Baggy in boob and balance, Heretic Hippy paused to borrow some food of iconic import and instantly, puffs of possibility floated above my head as it dawned: I’m living in a real movie moment!

Thus. Taking my lead from every lead in a motion picture, I accepted her invite for coffee and entered her flat (aka Hotel California) with filmic faith.

So began a siege of Pacino proportions. Our camaraderie cooling with our coffees, she came at me like a Jodie Foster film, friends. In minutes I was whisked down the rabbit hole of her youth, a tragic tumult of trauma and abuse. Then onto boyfriends of bulimic past and bash-full present. As she talked, one arm lay over her head like a halted hula, exposing in earnest her left armpit. A bush of hair charged forth as if freshly freed from a turban and, in rhythm to repartee, her free hand serially strummed said frizz like a frenetic harp.

Work the armpit. Work, work the armpit.

Hours passed. The sun and my hope retreated behind a darkened skyline … and each edging towards exit was met with new reasons to stay. Stuck in the Swamp of Sadness, there would be no Artax to take the fall. Beverage turned to bolognaise, dinner to dessert, and talk to Miss America. She waxed loony lyrical on how revolutionary and intelligent the women were. Sufferin’ suffragettes (to be said like Sylvester). Then. At midnight.

“I have to leave sometime, you know.”
“You don’t, actually. You could sleep over there.”

You know the dolly zoom in Jaws, just before the kid bites it? When she pointed to a dark ‘n’ defeated divan in the crusty corner of her consciousness – I felt it in real time, Brody baby.

You can check out, but you can never leave.

I’m Fred. I like tacos and ’71 Cabernet.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I hate it when movies purposefully pluck my heartstrings. Like fucking Beaches, with Hershey slowly succumbing at the fucken seashore. Pluck elsewhere, people.

I made a new acquaintance today. He was bald and sweet, with a naïve view of the world. [Disclaimer: it was not a newborn baby.]

Do you ever crump to ad jingles on TV? [Coughs] Yeah, neither do I.

Jealousy seems the Heidi Klum of emotions … tall and exotic, dressed in Halloween habiliments of hurt, anger and superiority.

Is it possible to find morality in others without also finding judgement?

Once upon a brain fart, I had a crush on David Caruso. It only last ten minutes but in the ninth minute, my brother found out. Lived with it. ever. since.

Is it just me or does the word ‘predilection’ seem reserved for serial killers?

What’s with people who ask how you are, then turn away before you can answer? Some fraudulent interest wouldn’t go astray. You started it.

If I were rich, I’d teach puppies to tap dance. Unhushed puppies.

I have a tendency to talk to myself at inopportune moments … such as in dressing rooms of department stores: “that does not look good”.

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