Tag Archives: Simon Pegg

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.)


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