July 28, 2007
Mumbles with a
Yen pox etiquette…
Immoderate words of
Following the dark hack
From my inner self..
the anti-pathy of reality
the anti-pathy of life
the anti-pathy of love
the anti-pathy of peace
the anti-pathy of hope
the anti-pathy of hate
July 21, 2007
July 21, 2007
James was sat in front of a computer screen gazing vacantly at a brightly coloured excel database that contained a multitude of mesmerising figures that meant nothing. It was Monday morning and he was hung over, tired, and vaguely depressed. But aside from the usual Monday morning blues, he was also worried. The situation with his live-in girlfriend was becoming impossible and something needed to be done.
Seven years they’d been together, him and Becky, after being introduced by mutual friends at an end of term Uni disco. He still remembered the tune that was playing when he first saw her, Why Does it Always Rain on me by Travis. ‘Whatever happened to the mutual friends?’ he thought vacantly. Then he wondered if he was to blame for their current problems. It was true he hadn’t been putting much effort into the relationship and taking it for granted, but then in some ways, so had Becky. He gave his ever-increasing paunch a friendly pat and ran a hand through his thinning thatch. James was thirty, but felt and looked much older
It was the job of course, ‘Ninety percent sedentary,’ he told himself. He was an Executive Officer at the Department of Education. He wondered why he was doing such a lame job after gaining a 2:1 at Oxford, but deep down he knew why. Despite the fact it was probably the most banal job known to man, it was easy. All he had to do was turn up everyday. Then he thought about Becky’s job, Policy Services Officer for a public sector housing group, not as easy as his, but still easy. They both earned less than thirty grand a year, but with a combined income they managed to get by quite comfortably.
While he pretended to read a few emails James thought about the ultimatum Becky had given him that very morning. It wasn’t working, she said, and she wanted him to leave. Becky had made the same ultimatum several times, usually after he’d been down the boozer with the boys and come home demanding sex, but this was the first time she’d issued one in the cold light of early morn.
James blamed most of the troubles on the dog, a birthday present from her friend Emma, a King Charles spaniel that Becky had christened Gordon. James hated the thing from day one. There was hardly enough room in the flat for a goldfish, let alone a dog, and all the fucker did was stink the place out and shit everywhere.
And when James really thought about it, Gordon’s appearance had coincided with the difficulties in their relationship. Not long after the dog arrived Becky had insisted that they do all their own chores separately, a small act that had instantly pissed him off. A few weeks later she went off sex. James didn’t mind doing his own cooking and washing, but what was the point of living with a bird, and putting up with all her feminine foibles, if he didn’t even get a shag?
Then he thought about Becky’s recent sickness. She’d been off work for several weeks suffering from a stress-related illness. When he asked her about it, she said he wouldn’t understand and then shut him out completely. James reckoned it was all to do with her boring job. In her youth Becky had been a relatively high achiever, but as soon as she left Uni it had all gone downhill. In fact the only time she’d been happy since Uni was when she took time off to study for a Masters Degree. But having a Master’s Degree in Housing and Regeneration had turned out to be as useless as her Degree in English Literature, a demoralising outcome.
Then James wondered if she’d been seeing someone else, taking time off to conduct an illicit affair, maybe even shagging in their bed! He didn’t think so, because there wasn’t a shred of evidence, but it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility. At lunch, with these worrying thoughts swirling around his mind, James decided to go and have a couple of hairs of the dog.
After his third Nelson Mandela in the Yorkshire Grey, James became convinced that Becky was having an affair and was determined to have it out with her. That afternoon he was due to attend a three-hour meeting on Change Transformation, but he couldn’t face the ordeal, those same voices droning, those idiotic power point presentations, and the utter pointlessness of it all.
On his return to the office he popped a couple of extra strong mints and decided to pull a sickie. He told his Line-Manager he was suffering from a migraine, an excuse he used every now and again in an emergency, and although she shot him a very suspicious look, he was allowed to go home.
Two hours later James found himself standing outside his own apartment consumed with doubts. The buzz from the three pints of Stella had all but worn off, and suddenly checking up on his girlfriend seemed like a very bad idea. If he waited till later, Becky was sure to have calmed down, and the morning ultimatum was sure to have been forgotten, just like all the others.
Then James heard a noise that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was the sound of a woman groaning and it came from inside the flat. Shaking with fear and anger James crept round the back of the apartment and peered through a gap in the bedroom curtain.
The scene that confronted him literally blew his mind. Jesus Christ! His girlfriend was lying naked, spread eagled across the double bed they had bought in Ikea, playing with herself. James could see Becky was very wet and this turned him on, and immediately a massive boner began pushing against the restraint of his chinos.
But none of this is what made James’s neck hairs stand on end. He shook his head, blinked his eyes, and looked again. In Becky’s mouth was a small pinkish slimy thing, which was attached to the furry body of Gordon! The dog’s tail was wagging furiously and if it was possible for a dog to sigh contentedly, he was.
James felt a surge of jealousy and an urge to smash through the window and knock the shit out of the liberty-taking canine overwhelmed him, but he stopped himself just in time. What was he thinking of? Had it come to this, jealous of Gordon?
Not knowing what to do next James continued watching the scene, voyeur style. Holy shit! Now Becky was re-positioning herself. She straddled Gordon and began lowering herself onto him. James unzipped his pants and the biggest boner he’d ever experienced pinged out. He slowly wanked himself as Becky’s cunt slid onto Gordon’s tiny pink penis until it met fur.
As his blood pressure rose and his nerves began vibrating James wondered how Becky could get satisfaction from such a small cock, for his was at least two times the size. Moments later Becky began groaning in ecstasy, Gordon made some strange whines, and then James’s girlfriend of seven years slid off the animal and collapsed trembling onto the bed.
James could see some dog cum dripping from Becky’s moist pussy and then he exploded himself, splattering the window with the most amount of spunk he’d ever produced. Fuck, he thought, as he stuffed his cum-splattered cock inside his pants and zipped up, ‘That was intense!’ Then he headed off to the nearest pub to analyse the freaky episode, contemplate his next move, and get very, very, drunk.
July 21, 2007
I fucked a Norwegian woman in a lift
when it was late
(this is a true story, no bullshit).
It was a respectable lift,
a bourgeois lift,
an Oslo lift.
It was a lift
within the apartment block where this woman and myself lived.
(This woman was my girlfriend at the time,
my first love).
It was a lift with a large mirror inside
and I watched on,
with her hips in my hands,
as I fucked her savagely from behind.
Her eyes were shut tight
as she gasped and
rocked back and forth.
I fucked her hard and fast until she quickly came
and then I pulled out and
she pulled me off until I came.
I then looked down to
see that there were come drops
forming a little puddle
on the floor.
The next morning
when I got the lift
from our floor
down to the ground floor
it suddenly stopped –
an old woman with a fur coat on
stepped inside the lift
with a pedigree pup on a lead.
I looked at the woman’s back
and then at her dog and
then back at her back and
then down at the stain on the floor,
my stain on the floor.
The door slowly shut
and as the three of us
to the ground floor
the dog began sniffing and then
at the dried up patch of come.
I covered my mouth up
and laughed into my hand
whilst watching that little
lapping at my come.
The moral of the story is to
never let a pedigree pup lick a lift floor
now matter how bourgeois it is.
July 4, 2007
The so-called 3 tramps were photographed in Dealy Plaza November 22, 1963 shortly after President John F. Kennedy’s assassination. They were identified as being CIA agents or at least back pocket agents that had CIA credentials at one time or another. The most convincing have been the identities of Frank Sturgis or Daniel Carswell as the first tramp in line and Carswell or Sturgis as the 2nd tramp. Most who have studied these photos at length are quite convinced that the 3rd tramp is E. Howard Hunt. Both Sturgis and Hunt later would be caught doing special operations for President Nixon in the Watergate Burglary case. The 3rd tramp was also identified by some as Fred Crisman another CIA connected spook.
As the years rolled by the first tramp in the line or first on the left in the picture was thought to be Charles Frederick Rogers. This tramp was called Frenchy after another intelligence agency type. Charles Harrelson, father of actor Woody Harrelson, was thought by some to be the middle tramp in the picture and Chauncey Holt would confess to being the one who looks most like E. Howard Hunt.
Finally arrest records were ‘found’ that proved that the 3 tramps were not connected to the CIA, FBI or any other government agency but were really tramps. 2 were found alive and admitted that they were indeed 2 of the 3 tramps. The 3rd was deceased. There is a simple but remarkable problem to their confession. In both of their separate interviews and their consistent and continuing accounts they say that they stayed overnight in a shelter and then got fresh clothes, showered and shaved then ate before heading to the tracks behind the grassy knoll at Dealy Plaza. They were supposedly in a freight train, where they were later found by Dallas Police Sargent D.V. Harkness after the shooting of JFK.
If you look closely at the picture you can see that neither the jeans of the first tramp or the disheveld dirty clothing of the E. Howard Hunt look-a-like would pass for fresh clothes, not even for a tramp. So you see that takes us right back to where we have been for over 40 years. Who are these ‘tramps’?