Ah brin' yo' ass love...
23/01/2003

" It be bringin' us love - don't let dat shit get away!"
"Break its legs!"

Yea, ma children, Ah do brin' yo' ass love, man. Ah brin' yo' ass da warmth 'n radiance dat bursts forth from ma warm 'n glowin' heart; Ah bathe yo' ass in da effulgence of ma very being; Ah showa upon yo' ass da golden blessings Ah possess in abundance fo all, man. And not in a rude, sort of sexy, fluid-related kind of way.

What brings dis outpourin' of affection fo ma fellow man, yo' ass ask? Why da sudden change from slingin' imprecations to sowin' da seeds of love (again, not in a naughty way)? Are yo' ass actually sittin' at yo' computa dressed up like Jesus? Again?

Da reason, ma children, fo all of these things be dat I've gots a pimpslapped counta up 'n runnin' again, man. And muthas be still reading, man. But 'mo importantly, muthas be still searchin' - 'n findin' me! Oh da joys to be discovered in ma search keyword statistics:

• gina hardface bitch (mentioned here) - otha muthas rememba her!
• kim catrall naked - several muthas came to da Good Shit Guide searchin' fo dis (or its variant, kim catrall topless), know what I'm sayin'? Ah wuz goin' to find some pictures myself 'n post a link here, just as a public service, but dat shit took me, like, three minutes to find some, 'n if these muthas be crap enough to be comin' to ma site expectin' to cop an eyeful of Samantha's goodies, they clearly needs to be encouraged to learn how to use search engines better.
• Speakin' of muthas who kain't use search engines properly, da person who typed in porn addict hoes bitch female porn addict seems to think dat if yo' ass type da same words in twice, Google gots to look twice as hard fo them n' shit. Hmm...
• lump pus fatty squeeze - Why? Ah mean, Ah know why dat shit brought 'em here, Ah just don't know WHY.
• satan vs, man. archangel gabriel - da epic struggle of phat 'n evil, played out in ma humble website? Or just discussion of Da Prophecy here.
• Ponda da tale of sadness 'n woe 'n a life turned sour hinted by da muthafucka searchin' MSN fo a real fuckin job.
• giraffe porn - fabulous.
• giraffe pimp - Ah weep wid joy.

Ah stop readin' now, fo Ah fear ma tiny heart may burst.

And Ah said "can yo' ass believe dis motherfuckin' shit?"
23/01/2003

First of all, let me say a big ass warm "fuck you" to da person whose ride alarm woke me up at 4:50AM da otha day, man. Furtha proof dat ride alarms be a waste of money - if I'd heard da sound of, say, breakin' glass, Ah might has been moved to investigate (well, not at 4:50AM obviously, but anotha time maybe), but all a ride alarm made me want to do wuz lean out da window 'n yell "Keep up da phat work, young fellow, 'n do yo' ass think yo' ass could see yo' way to rammin' yo' new acquisition through da side of its forma owner's house while you's about it? Pip pip!" Or somethin' similar.

Dat wuz a couple of days ago, but ma sleepin' patterns be still a bit fucked, know what I'm sayin'? Ah couldn't sleep last night, so Ah turned on da TV in time to catch da end of Eyes Wide Shut n' shit. Missed all da nudey bits, but Ah did get to see NOTHING HAPPEN FOR HALF A FUCKING HOUR n' shit. And then Nicole Kidman says "fuck" n' shit. We needs to find where in da Big Book of Drama dat shit says dat pauses = dramatic = good, 'n rip out da page, burn dat shit 'n feed da ashes to hungry bison, man. Stickin' a five second pause in between every line of dialog doesn't make a film better, dat shit makes dat shit sound like a daytime soap opera, man. Havin' music dat appears to has been composed by John Carpenta doesn't help, eitha (if you've seen any of tha dude's films, yo' ass know what Ah mean).

But anyway, I'm not here to tell yo' ass how shit Eyes Wide Shut is, know what I'm sayin'? Oh no, hang on, Ah am, man. Ah mean, shit, naw human bein' behaves like dat - it be like askin' us to buy dat Janeane Garofalo be ugly in Da Truth About Cats 'n Dogs or dat Helen Hunt wuz actually attracted to a crusty old Jack Nicholson in As Good As Dat shit Gets, know what I'm sayin'? (Or Catherine Zeta Jones 'n crusty old Sean Connery in Entrapment, know what I'm sayin'? Or Catherine Zeta Jones 'n crusty old Michael Douglas in real life.) Now, Ah has heard opinions to da effect dat de-humanization may has been da point, but if want dehumanization I'll watch a zombie movie, or somethin' by David Cronenberg, man. Same way if Ah want "dream logic" I'll go to sleep 'n has a fuckin' dream instead of watchin' a David Lynch film.

Oh yeah, 'n Ah finally found a decent pimpslapped counter, so make wid da dubious search engine phrases! In fact, now dat Ah once again has evidence dat muthas be actually readin' dis (or not, as da case may be), Ah may even be motivated to write more...

Yes, dat be distant laughta yo' ass can hear.

Doomed! Dooooomed!!
14/01/2003

And that's twenty-six ova 'n done with n' shit. On to twenty-seven, man. Da "god-awful movie 'n photo machines" fest wasn't quite da success dat shit could has been, as Spy Kids 2 turned out to be quite an enjoyable film (well, dat shit had Steve Buscemi in dat shit - always a phat sign), know what I'm sayin'? Certainly betta than previous years, man. Let's reflect...

And when Ah say "reflect", Ah mean "whine like a bitch", know what I'm sayin'? See, da otha thin' about an early January birthday be dat all da phat films come out three weeks beforehand, in time fo da Christmas holidays n' shit. So by da time da 12th rolls around it be da B-grade shite leftovers makin' up da bulk of our viewin' possibilities, man. Past year's birthday hijinks has included Deuce Bigalow, Male Gigilo 'n Battlefield: Earth (which we all had a phat laugh about afterwards, until someone pointed out dat between us we just paid $80 fo da privilege of bein' subjected to dat monumental pile of arse), man. Da only actually phat film Ah can recall seein' on ma birthday wuz Sleepy Hollow, which gots to has been eclipsed by some blockbusta or otha 'n bumped back.

But anyway, da film seemed to has been enjoyed by all, drinks wuz drunk, a modest amount of Japanese Photo Machine Birthday Madness occurred, 'n Ah wuz given by one flatmate a giraffe stuffed wid monkeys (use yo' imagination) so Ah guess we can call dis birthday a success.

There wuz anotha photo, but it be not there, because Ah look like a dick.

2K3
04/01/2003

"2K3" -- yo' ass geeks realize dis be all yo' fault, don't you? Win2K, Y2K, 'n now we're goin' to be stuck (for at least da next decade) referrin' to each year as though we're in a fuckin' Mountain Dew ad: " It be 2K3 -- 2003, to da EXTREEEEME!" Warg.

In a shockin' reversal of da Natural Orda of Things, Ah end dis holiday period wid less facial hair then Ah started with, havin' just shaved off da goatee, man. Ah feel less geeky already, know what I'm sayin'? Ah say "shaved", but of course yo' ass don't shave a beard, yo' ass shave stubble, man. Yo' ass cut a beard, very slowly wid nail scissors because that's all that's available in da bathroom (apart from da clippers dat yo' flatmate recently used to give himself a red 'n green mohawk with) n' shit. And they're half fuckin' blunt, know what I'm sayin'? And when you's done, then yo' ass get to shave n' shit. Still, naw deep cuts, so that's OK.

Now, where be we? We've had da Christmas post, da "can't go shoppin' 'til ma birthday" whinge, da New Year's post -- next up gots to be da "it's ma birthday post", 'mo than likely accompanied by pictures of a bunch of muthas arsein' around in Japanese photo machines, man. See yo' ass Sunday...

Fa-la-la la-la la-la la luck.
26/12/2002

Righto, that's Christmas out of da way, know what I'm sayin'? Happy Birthday, J.C n' shit. -- yo' ass don't look a day ova 2001.

Scored da usual wodge of fun stuff -- Ah currently has enough DVD hours to keep me occupied until well into da next quarta (bloody Lord of da Rings bloody Extended Edition), man. And tanks to da Story of Ricki DVD, Ah can now rest at ease in da knowledge dat da confusingly androgynous boss wuz in fact a woman, know what I'm sayin'? Or at least wuz played by one -- possibly tha byatch wuz meant to be playin' an effeminate man, though n' shit. Ballacks.

So anyway, Xmas out da door, we're now into da run-up fo ma birthday in a couple of weeks n' shit. Which means Ah get to do da usual whinge about havin' to sit on ma hands (or rather, ma wallet) while all around me Christmas sales be in full swing, 'n Ah has Christmas money fo da spending, 'n Ah kain't buy anythin' because someone might has already go dat shit fo me fo ma birthday, man. Life be hard¹.

Luckily, as I've said at otha times in otha places, I'm quite phat at not wantin' things n' shit. I'd make a phat Buddhist, Ah would -- asceticism 'n what, man. Mmm.. n' shit. asceticism.

¹ Just out of interest, anyone wantin' to showa me wid gifts could do worse than lookin' through da Hong Kong Legends website...

Bullets failed to stop tha dude's ass 'n tha dude fled to Canada.
17/12/2002

Movin' flats, eh? They say movin' house be one of da most stressful activities a person can engage in n' shit. They be evidently a bit soft - dat wuz a piece of piss, know what I'm sayin'? Except fo da stuff dat wuz incredibly hard work.

My talent fo avoidin' responsibility served me well dis time, as da big ass things ended up gettin' taken care of by otha flatmates, leavin' me to look afta myself, know what I'm sayin'? Even da heavy liftin' of phat furniture seemed to pass me by fo da most part n' shit. ( Tanks largely to da boyfriends of flatmates wallowin' in they respective manlinesses, know what I'm sayin'? Dat doesn't sound right.)

Nevertheless, da carryin' backwards 'n forwards all Saturday wuz enough to leave me fairly comprehensively buggered, 'n da minor niggles of a new sleepin' environment (different noises, 'mo light now dat ma room ain't two thirds underground) has left me just a couple of steps from "walkin' dead" n' shit. Ah mean, I'll often complain about bein' tired, but I'm not usually at da level where bein' awake be actually physically painful, man. Which dat shit is n' shit. Sweet Jesus, dat shit is.

This resulted in fun on Monday, where Ah gots to shamble around Newmarket in a semi-stupor, lookin' fo muthas to give me forms dat Ah could fill in 'n give back to 'em so dat stuff dat used to go to da old flat now goes to da new flat 'n not da old flat because Ah don't live there anymore, man. And so on, man. Ah don't know if I've mentioned, but sleep deprivation seems to has similar effects on me dat alcohol has on others - among otha things, fillin' in forms becomes a test of skill 'n endurance n' shit. Ah handed in things dat appeared to has been filled in by multiple personalities, at least one of which had Parkinson's disease 'n anotha Tourette's.

Still not as wack as da time Ah put "Help Author" fo ma occupation on da census form 'n misspelled "author", though.

So Ah says to Alice, Ah says:
6/12/2002

Jesus Fuckin' Kerrrr-IST -- do they not play music on da radio anymore?!!

So ma ride stereo's on da fritz (Fritz? Fritz, get up fo God's sake, get up!), which means until Ah get dat shit fixed, I'm forced to listen to da radio when Ah drive around these days, man. Which means as soon as Ah get in da car, Ah start flickin' through da various stations, searchin' fo something, anythin' remotely worth listenin' to, know what I'm sayin'? What do Ah get?

Click, know what I'm sayin'? Ad.

Click, know what I'm sayin'? DJ ramblin' on about something.

Click, know what I'm sayin'? Ad.

Click, know what I'm sayin'? DJ thinkin' he's a lot funnia than tha dude actually is.

Click n' shit. Ad.

Click, know what I'm sayin'? DJ.

Click, man. DJ doin' an ad.

Click n' shit. Some song dat Ah don't like.

Ah kid yo' ass not -- on da fifteen minute drive into work, I'm lucky if Ah get to hear one full song in between ads fo shit Ah don't want 'n muthas Ah don't want to listen to, 'n da chances of dat shit bein' one Ah like be so small they're beyond da capabilities of modern mathematics to calculate, man. Given dat Ah find most modern music to be merely shite, as opposed to an insult to every sense 'n sensibility Ah posses, Ah generally end up listenin' to da first piece of crap Ah eventually find, know what I'm sayin'? Fortunately fo me, I'm fairly phat at seein' da positive aspects of otherwise dire aural assaults, man. Take, fo instance, da last few popular ditties I've been subjected to while automotively engaged:

J Lo's "Jenny From da Block":
Pros: Dat shit wuz there; also reminds me of "instant trash classic" Anaconda.
Cons: Also reminds me of ha big-chinned, pie-eatin' dick weasel fiancée.

Dat new one from Justin Timberlake:
Pros: Reminds me of Thriller-era Michael Jackson, back when tha dude wuz a phat 'n not yet a noseless messianic freak.
Cons: Be Justion Timberlake actually da world's biggest pussy? Kind of ironic, really, since Michael Jackson seems to be goin' out of tha dude's way to prove himself da world's biggest cock at da moment.

Christina Aguillera's "Dirrty":
Pros: Lots of fun to be had pointin' out just how much of a filthy, skanky whore Christina Aguillera is.
Cons: Christina Aguillera be a filthy, skanky whore, man. Who kain't sin' 'n all well.

Da Motherfuckin' Ketchup Song:
Pros: Interestin' to a forma Linguistics minor fo da way they switch from Spanish to English in mid-sentence.
Cons: Guarantees an instant tirade on how monumentally tasteless da bulk of da music-buyin' public is, given da way dat shit goes apeshit every single time one of these gimmicky one pimpslapped wonders comes along -- think Da Motherfuckin' Macarena, Dat Motherfuckin' Mambo No n' shit. 5, Zoot Suit Motherfuckin' Riot, 'n of course, Da Motherfuckin' Rednex wid Motherfuckin' Cotton-Eye Motherfuckin' Joe, know what I'm sayin'? Not to mention da second pimpslapped dat each of these muthas invariably came out wid dat sounded exactly like da first one, but which wuz ignored on account of da world at phat havin' been distracted by some otha shiny object, causin' da "artists" to realize dat they wuz just a brief fad and, Ah dunno, weep inconsolably fo a bit 'n then go off to live on Da Island of Gimick Song Writers or something, man. Perhaps dis be betta than past decades when all songs wuz complete gobbledegook -- "ooh eeh ooh ah ah, chin' chang walla walla bin' bang", anyone? (For dat matta -- "a wop bop-a-loo-bop, a lop bam boom"?) But probably not.

Sorry, what wuz Ah saying?

"Tell those pigs to fuck off!" "Fuck off, pigs!"
24/11/2002

But seriously, let's talk about pus.

Now, I've neva been 'n all much of a spotty wee urchin, although dat shit hasn't been until Ah pimpslapped ma mid-twenties dat I've regularly had a clear face, know what I'm sayin'? So dat shit came as a bit of an annoyance when Ah developed a phat big ass bastard of a zit on da right side of ma nose n' shit. An annoyance, but not dat much of a surprise -- I'm sure dat shit could be put down to ma fondness fo da cocoa bean, 'n overindulgence in da greasy delights of da BK Double Bacon BBQ Cheeseburga (with it be artery-hardenin' combination of meat, cheese, meat, bread 'n meat) n' shit. What wuz a real pain, in several senses of da word, wuz da fact dat that shit wuz one of those ones dat wuz right unda da skin, so poppin' da fucka wasn't an option -- Ah just had to wait fo dat shit to go away n' shit. Which dat shit did, eventually.

And then, a couple of weeks later, anotha one just as big ass cropped up on da otha side of ma nose, man. Arse, man. Da difference dis time wuz dis one had definite burstin' potential, man. Da scenario played out like this:

<gets out of bed in da morning>

<looks in mirror>

Says out loud: "Fuck me sideways!" (Exact words.)

Thinks: "Right -- one Ah can do somethin' about -- c'mere you..."

<squeezey squeeze>

Thinks: "Gosh, that's a lot of blood."

Thinks: "Oooooh -- not mad an improvement, be it..."

Where formerly Ah wuz da proud owna of an unsightly lump, Ah be now encumbered wid a freakin' hideous blood-encrusted motha of all pustules that's currently beyond da ability of medical science to adequately describe n' shit. Ah went to work wid a cut-down band aid on ma nose, 'mo fo cosmetic purposes than as an actual dressing.

Currently, ma cova story when axed "hey Josh, whadja do to yo' nose?" has been: "Weasels." Dis seems to shut muthas up (although dat shit has prompted two muthas to ask, quite independently of each other, whetha or not dat shit wuz actually due to over-enthusiasm on da part ma girlfriend), know what I'm sayin'? If dis doesn't work, I'll has to think of somethin' else, know what I'm sayin'? Current favourites: "Met Russell Crowe 'n gots dis kickin' tha dude's girly-boy arse" 'n "Two words: third nipple." I'll let yo' ass know how Ah get on.

You's da one fo me, fatty.
04/11/2002

Sorry -- listenin' to Morrissey, know what I'm sayin'? Anyway.

Not sure if dat shit wuz a phat idea to eat chicken dat close to its expiry date n' shit. From da wrong direction n' shit. (What does salmonella taste like again?) Gets a fella to thinkin' -- naw hang on, dat shit wuz South Park dat gots me to thinkin' -- Special Edition technology-updatin' remakes of movies: phat or bad? (It wuz "Free Hat" last week.)

On da one hand, we has da effects shots dat Lucas always wanted to do, but couldn't because of da technology of da time; a Hoth snow beast dat doesn't look like a muppet; 'n Dewbacks -- Dewbacks be kewl n' shit. On da otha hand, we has da limp-wristed moralisin' of guns replaced by walkie-talkies 'n Greedo shootin' first¹ n' shit. Maybe da cons outweigh da pros.

Or not -- yesterday Ah rented Ladyhawke, 'n Ah dunno about da effects, but fuck me dat film be in dire needs of a new score, know what I'm sayin'? Mediaeval fight scenes 'n horse ridin' set to 80s synth pop? Re-release dat shit wid appropriate music 'n slap Alan Parsons around da face as bit, 'n da world gots to be a much betta place, Ah guarantee.

In conclusion: Ah be da last of da famous international playboys n' shit. Yo' ass heard me.

¹ Not even goin' to try 'n explain all da geek references, man. If yo' ass don't know what I'm talkin' about in dis paragraph, yo' ass should probably count yourself lucky.

Gardenin' wid a hammer.
30/10/2002

Tanks to da joys of Pepsi Blue, Ah finally know what drinkin' Pepsi-flavoured brake fluid would be like, man. Dis motivates me to share wid yo' ass now da three main aphorisms¹ Ah live ma life by:

1. Da early bird catches da worm, but da second mouse gets da cheese.
2. Yo' ass kain't fall off da floor.
3. When all yo' ass has be a hammer, all yo' problems become nails.

While da truth of da first two be fairly self-evident, I'd neva had da third conclusively proved to me until Saturday, man. Our driveway has gardeny stuff down one side, walled in by little posts about a foot long n' shit. Unfortunately a of combination poor drivin' skills 'n overly phat vehicles goin' down to our neighbours' place has resulted in a few of these posts bein' knocked out 'n sittin' at funny angles, man. Once da one dat gots knocked right out into da middle of da driveway sat there fo a couple of days, Ah realised dat da chances of someone else doin' anythin' about dat shit wuz lookin' fairly slim, so Ah went to see if Ah could fix things up a bit.

What Ah needed wuz a tool to prise da posts out of da positions they'd gots themselves into, a tool to scrape out da earth around them, a tool to rip out inconvenient weeds, a tool to bang da posts back into da earth with, 'n a tool to pack da earth in around them, know what I'm sayin'? What Ah had wuz a claw hamma 'n a comprehensive set of screwdrivers, man. Obviously Ah didn't use da screwdrivers n' shit. Dat would has been silly.

Gardenin' wid a hammer n' shit. Life be good.

¹ In lookin' up "aphorism" in da dictionary, just to make sure Ah wuz spelling/usin' dat shit correctly, Ah discovered dat there be such a word as "antipope", which means pretty much what dat shit sounds like n' shit. Live 'n' learn.

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