Thursday, April 02, 2015

A grain of hope beyond a receding hairline

Vanity, a cardinal sin... at least to some. As for myself I consider small amounts of vanity to be healthy to maintain some decent appearance. Not necessarily you'd have to look like Mr. Universe or a swimsuit model, but at least a level above looking like somebody who got eaten and shat out. After all, we do live in a society that tends to judge people by the appearances first, even though the majority in open and plain hypocrisy say “it is the inside that matters”. Do I hear anybody here say balls?

I've been going to the gym for a while now. Unfortunately, my genetic disposition has never allowed me to eat carelessly and in any quantity without paying the toll of becoming a pancake house. And certainly now with age, I seem to be paying even more and discovering a growing intolerance to certain foods that I years earlier would have no problems consuming. It's sad, but what can I do? However, I have successfully established a routine to keep the pancake house at bay. Going there in the mornings I do see people of various ages and sizes. You have the Sporty spice type of guys and girls, and then you have the ones that look like that they were gang raped by a box of donuts. And while that does sound a bit harsh, I do applaud them for getting up early as they do to try to combat the pancake house. It is after all our vanity that takes us to the gym. Well... that and the constant propaganda in the media.

There is one man there that I always see. He is in his late 60s or early 70s I believe, but the man is without doubt in incredible shape. If somebody told me that he came out of his mother's cunt riding a bike, or already participating in an ironman competition, I would believe them. He comes in with the sweatpants and shirt and looks like platinum Oscar statue. Seeing him though, it made me wonder, when is it alright and acceptable to simply say “Fuck it, I'm old and fat and that's the end of it.”. At what point are we supposed to draw the line and stop hearken on to our vanity? Is there an age where we are too old to stay fit and good looking?

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Those to come

In the supermarket, on the bus, in shopping centres in the restaurants. I see it everywhere. It's a sad sad sight. Not even the Columbine shooting is this sad. I'm not sure if I can shake my head anymore without giving myself a concussion. What am I talking about? People who think they can be parents.

What the hell happened to people? All I see are little twats manipulating and controlling the bigger twats. All pedagogical abilities are entirely absent. What's even worse is how these individuals are convinced that they somehow know better than any other experienced parents, including their own. In what mind is that possible? What kind of cocktail of hard drugs do you have to take to believe that? What arrogance! Just because you knocked someone up or got knocked up by someone. Cunt-gratulations on this rare and special endeavour.

So often I see kids throwing hissy fits in public places, and the parents try to negotiate or reason with the kid. And I stand there looking at this and remember back when I was kid. I couldn't do any of that shit. My parents would give me the “fisheye look”. That look said it all. It was a menace of biblical proportions. Fire and brimstone would rain down upon me right there. I would know this and would cease all cuntic activity that very instant. In fact, I would get looks for doing much less, let alone throwing a fit. Good God, that would be like jumping in front of a train and thinking that I would get away with a scratch. Most of you reading this might be thinking “Oh my God, his parents beat him. That's sad. He's traumatised and doesn't know what he is saying.”. If you are, then from the bottom of my heart, balls to you. Look around you for crying out loud. There's a reason why the world is saturated with supercilious twats. It's because they were never put in their place. They were never told how to behave and treat their elders. So, if you are a parent and I urge you to reflect for a moment... punch that kid in the mouth before it's too late.

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Love R.E.D.E.F.I.N.E.D

People talk about it, portray it in the media and glorify it as an embracing and unifying force. Yes... love. Love me here, love me there, and love me everywhere. With all of this praising of love, one would think the world would be a better place, but as it turns out, it's quite the contrary. The world has never resembled a cesspool as much as now. It has become a melting pot of cuntism and dickreaucracy. Even back in the day, when domestic violence was considered a natural activity in a household, the world wasn't this bad. You may sit there and think that life and society isn't too bad where you live, but there are many atrocious things taking place as you read this that isn't covered by any media. The fact that you have it better is because somewhere else someone is paying the price.
So what exactly did happen? Where is the pink factor? Where are the heart-shaped nipples and balls? It all sounds and looks contradictory to our modern belief in the omnipotence of love. Are we all really hypocritical twats? The short answer, not really. People do aspire to fall in love. But we've simply managed to redefine the concept and idea of love...

We now live in a consumer oriented society and our needs are constantly forced to change. The media makes us believe that we need to change what we have in order to get something better. Cars, houses, clothes, televisions, mobile phones. It all needs to be upgraded to something superior. Even with love, we now see partner-cycling. People only love as long as it suits their needs. It's not uncommon nowadays to have been married 3-4 times. How is that even possible? Is it possible that one person can have THAT poor judgement and hasn't learned from previous experiences? No, obviously it is something else. We simply love being in love. We want to feel and live the love that we see on the silver screen. We want to hold hands, go out for romantic dinners and have those amazing moments that we see rendered in slow motion in the movies. Love isn't this and never was. The whole love-at-first-sight isn't anything more than a superficial infatuation. Of course, this doesn't mean to grow into something more. That leaves the question, what is love then, if it isn't balls-at-first-sight?
I'm sure that most have heard the term “love is like a garden”. You'll likely nod and say to yourself that the saying is true. However, there is more to it. See, a garden wasn't always just a garden. It started out as something. It didn't just materialize. Likely it started out as dead and infertile soil. But with time and dedication it grew into a beautiful garden and so. By now you realise what I'm getting at. Love is a process and it's ongoing. It doesn't come from the big bang following the balls-at-first-sight. We find love because we make a conscious decision of making time and adapting to the potential candidate. This is what it ultimately is, and you may be sitting there shaking your head, and if that is the case, then balls to you. Balls to anyone who has bought into the modern concept of love. Balls to “Oh my god, we said the same thing at the same time, she's totally my soul mate.”. Balls to those who cycle partners thinking they're procuring true love. Love is logical and level-headed.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Prelude To Sodomy

A couple of months had passed since I moved into the Sodomite Mansion. Life had taken its course and the initial awkwardness had become casual speech spiced with ad libitum usage of the F- and C-word.
The China Box had also started greeting me with “hai” and “hau ah yu” and his visits were more frequent as well. I would always hear them upstairs in the kitchen cooking dinner together flirting. Well...flirting as faggots flirt. Not that it bothered me, but it was just odd to hear men interact that way, which then again led up to the post-dinner foreplay. Now, I never personally witnessed any of these foreplay sessions, however, I was well aware they took place. You would be inclined to ask: How do you know? Simple. The persistent sound of cutlery touching the plates would cease, conversation would be exchanged with silence with occasional snickering and not least, the music. The music was the hallmark of hot steaming gay sex fantasies. The prelude to sodomy.

Classical music would flow gently from the loudspeakers to set the mood for what would become yet another memorable arsefucking. My thoughts were that in the gay world the art of seduction was different as well as the ingredients. What would work for a man and a woman didn't get two men hard. Similarly, being a man and sucking someone's cock, the choice of background music would be Vivaldi or Bach because Michael Bolton or Bryan Adams was just too fucking straight.
One evening the four seasons was playing full blast from upstairs, and I suddenly heard someone coming down the stairs. It was The China Box joyfully taking the steps in small joyful hops. I noticed how he fished a small flat and square package from his jacket and pretty much sprinted upstairs. Again, I sat wondering. What the fuck did I just bear witness to? Aside from the moan I had heard some time back, I knew at least it was safe sex. Safe Sodomy. But that wasn't the issue. The issue was the joy, the thrill, the happiness that the China Box radiated upon descending those stairs. How could anyone be this ecstatic moments before, they were going have someone maul their cock up their anus? This guy almost jumped up and clicked his heels together to the mere thought that someone was about to destroy him from behind. It defied my logic and comprehension of the world.

Being from the opposite side of the sexual spectrum, I could tell that I still had a lot to learn about human sexuality. The homo flirting was still alien to me, but at the same time it was intelligible in the sense that it was an ingredient in any relationship. Ultimately it had to be the lack of exposure. I could attest to the fact that I didn't cringe as much to this man love, as I had initially done. Even the China Box' comment the other day “Now I have to wear tsu piece of underwear” didn't make me cringe. Well...maybe it did. At least my tolerance had enhanced, and as long as the foreplay was out of sight, it was out of mind. Until then! Bring all the great composers of the past and play and fuck all you want fags.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Thursday, November 29, 2007

The Gay Reality

I had finally left the harmonious yet impeding life of suburbia. Around me metropolitan constructs pierced the skies and busy streets were occupied by vehicles of various sizes and colours. People of different races, creeds and fashion orientations mingled in a soup of diversity to willingly and unawarely celebrate tolerance. I was definitely where I wanted to be once again.

My new home was a room in a townhouse in a quiet street just off one of the bigger road of this city. It bore some semblance of what I had become acquainted with in the suburbs. Just a hint of tranquility of what otherwise seemed like a chaotic city.

I shared the house with an older gentleman, who was also the owner of the house. My first encounter with him had been very short and the general impression was good, however, during our discourse there was something about this guy that I couldn't put my finger on, and I did leave the place that evening with confident theories. As it turned out, my assumptions were all correct. My landlord was a homo. His 'friend', as he referred to him, was of Asian origin in his mid to late twenties. His appearance accurately fit the description of the non-flamboyant feminine queer with a twist of spoilt brat. The couple made me think about the millions of western men that went to Thailand to find this much younger and fit spouse. Maybe this approach to spouse-hunting worked both for the straight and for the queer; I wasn't sure, yet I couldn't help but categorise it as a father-son-relationship with 'benefits'.

It only took me a few days before I had nicknamed the love doves, The Senior Queer and The China Box. Though I didn't call them this to their faces, this was how I would refer to them in conversation with those acquainted with my current domestic conditions.

I noticed how through the first couple of weeks that they were uncertain and cautious around me. It was feasible to assume they were showing some sort of regard for me perhaps not being tolerant enough for their man love. Though after that they would often disappear upstairs into the bedroom for a couple of hours for some John-on-John action. It was in these moments, I would automatically put on my headphones and listen to music at full blast, and even though I could be closer to complete deafness at this point than I ever was before, that alternative to me was better than the possibility of hearing anything that was occurring in that bedroom. Unfortunately my tolerance had certain limits. You could be as queer as you wanted to be, but I begged to not bear witness to any visual or aural presentation of this sexual orientation.

Lamentably, one night I was doing a late night washing up, and I heard something that transformed me forever. I heard a loud moan coming from upstairs. It wasn't just any moan, but one of those moans that a man would exclaim right before he blew his beans. Even to this day, I was uncertain whom had let out that moan, and frankly I cared not to know, but I was still convinced that no man should let out that kind moan as a response to man handling. Again, I stood before myself transformed and scarred man doubting that I would ever recuperate.

The observation of a gay relationship this close had indeed shed light on how things worked. Often I had in jest said that being gay must be easier, because dealing with a man was more straight forward than dealing with a woman. My experience here was teaching me that I was gravely mistaken. There had been a couple of incidents, which I called “Crisis in the Sodomite mansion”, where the fights were no different from those between and a man and woman. The term “making someone your bitch” was verified through these arguments I had overheard, because one always stood out as being the emotional and feminine while the other took on the more masculine approach.

All in all, my experiences here were teaching me valuable lessons of how the relationship between two persons regardless of their sexual orientation or level of commitment would be like any other. Though from now on, I was sure I wouldn't suggest that being gay would be a solution to any problem that I would have with the opposite gender, not even in jest. Because for certain the make up sex would entail me putting my cock up someone's colon or his into mine.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Saturday, October 20, 2007

The Death of the Hamburger

In 1940 the first McDonald’s restaurant opened in America, and 67 years later I found myself walking into what now had become the biggest culinary concept in the world. How this franchise had done so well over the decades was a mystery to me. It was plausible to assume that six decades ago the food at MickyD’s was of admirable quality and taste. Unfortunately quality is an attribute that seems to dilute over time. An even greater mystery to me was why I insisted on coming back to Mcdonald’s. What was it about the place? Was it the clown within me? Ronald Cunt Mcdonald? Regret was an ingredient in my burger. With every mouthful I felt that I had just wasted my money to deal with a hunger that deserved better. And after I had finally thrown the trash in the bin and put the tray at the designated area, I stood outside and allowed myself a moment of flatulence to commemorate how the Big Mac only sated until you dislodged gas either anally or orally.

On my way back home, I started to think about how the hamburger had died. How the simple and well known configuration of ingredients consisting of a juicy patty with ketchup, onions and other condiments embraced in the mercy of a fluffy bun had become nothing more but a ghost of the past. Macdonald’s had monopolised the image of the hamburger and convinced collective humanity, except for a few, that the Big Mac was the avatar of the famous sandwich.
I was disgusted with how the Big Mac was a tidy, “low-carb” and non-greasy burger, and glorified by Ronald, who had never grown bald like normal clowns. Our society had become obsessed with the trend of eating healthier and exercising regularly. And while I was all for that approach to life, it struck me as being some bullshit that the media was feeding the public: “It’s junk but it’s healthy”. Junk food was junk food. If you went out for a burger, it should be the sole intention of being greasy and unhealthy.

There were many burger joints out there trying to stay faithful to original hamburger concept. Personally, I hadn’t found that one place that could recreate the magic of that greasy sandwich from my childhood. Many would get close but never quite capture it. Maybe it was the bread or maybe the meat. It was hard to say, but I would keep searching. I was sure that the signature taste was still out there. I could feel it. Indeed, it was out there waiting to be resurrected…

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Pink will fade

It has recently dawned on me that I have become an ‘adult’. Mothers with their children refer to me as ‘the man’, not because I am anything special, but because I simply am not ‘the boy’ anymore. With this realisation I have started thinking, what is it exactly that transforms an individual from being a boy/girl to being an adult in the eye of society? Is it a time factor? Is it the evident hair loss? Or did my parents register me somewhere as an adult without my knowledge? If you ask me, I am inclined to say that it is the lack of the Pink Factor.

What is the Pink Factor? It is the attribute whose quantity dictates your view upon the world and ability to interact with people. We are all born with it, and with time Pink diminishes as a result of being an expense for our bad experiences and failed endeavours. The consequence of this entails that over time a gradual transformation takes place. The world has become more grey and doleful for your own personal reasons, and people are not as amicable in your social eye.

I can think back of behaviour and comments that I made a few years back and grimace at my shade of Pink. So perhaps I give off that vibe now. Maybe my Pink storage is reserved solely for maintenance of my existing relationships. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t miss being Pink and gullible.

So here I am, ‘the man’ as some random mother off the street pointed out, know that being adult has not only taught me many things but also inhibited me from experiencing and venturing like I did before. As the saying goes, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Boy, does it suck being an adult.

Edward T. Shufflebottom