Life and the Stool of Steel

Prelude To Sodomy

2008-01-30T18:24:00.000-05:00

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

The Gay Reality

2007-11-29T22:28:00.001-05:00

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

The Death of the Hamburger

2007-10-20T01:11:00.000-04:00

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…

Pink will fade

2007-10-10T18:04:00.000-04:00

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

Dabka Soul Train

2007-09-13T17:26:00.000-04:00

Sometimes I found myself speculating why the death penalty and euthanasia aren't more common phenomena in our day and age. People in so much pain that the only humane thing to do would be to extinguish their light, and others who were the pricks of humanity that deserved nothing but deep cocks in their anal orifice followed by a gun shot.

It was a visual bullet-time realisation when I stepped through the doors that exposed the inside of the Arab night club. The term 'Freak Farm' came to mind. What the fuck was this? I navigated myself through the crowd with the intension of reaching the far end of the club, but in the process compelled to observe these humanoid phenomena up close.

Sitting there puffing on my hookah with great delight, I watched some of my newly met acquaintances venture onto the dance floor. I smiled and observed the people “getting their freak on”, which I mean in a literal sense. It was nothing short of abominable. Semi-overweight women wearing clothes five sizes too small with the moves of a rusty fork lift being admired by the male, who believed that the waist line began above the nipples and wore his jeans accordingly.
In all of this morbidity there was a sense of amusement. My observation struck me as being unreal that I had no choice but to smile wholeheartedly. A good comparison to this event would be the hypothesis of what a raspberry and guinea pig smoothie would taste like; it was fucked up and no one in their right mind would taste it, nevertheless, not impossible if you had the ingredients.
What happened next took me by surprise. The DJ went from mainstream Arabic music to something more traditional, or at least that was what I could fathom from the sudden increased enthusiasm of the dancers. The abominations suddenly formed a chain and initiated a “Dabka” (Middle Eastern folk dance) session to proclaim their rhythmic obedience to the song. Again, I felt someone had fucked with my mind. What the fuck was this? The chain grew longer and longer until it consumed all of the dance floor and moved in drunken grace.

Later I was standing outside the club to get some fresh air. It was then that things got worse. It was evident to me now that wherever a potential one night stand was taking place, the factor of success was NOT alcohol. It was poor disco lighting, and what happened was after leaving the disco the pick up became a double dare. You leave the disco and see your prize in the light of the lamp post, and your thoughts are: “What the hell is this? Did I score the donkey when I wanted to get with the rider or what? I can't back out now that's not polite”. Yes, these people in an illuminated environment were a celibacy incentive.

I was sitting back inside resuming my sideline freak show observation. The DJ had decided it was Dabka Soul Train time again. The crowd followed the DJ's musical lead and quickly a chain formed again. The stomping on the floor and the twirling of the handkerchief were there to honour the spirit of the Dabka. As I sat there smiling, my mind ventured off again. Why weren't euthanasia or death penalty more common and accepted phenomena? I remained inconclusive whether the people I gazed upon should die out of sympathy or punishment. One thing was for sure, you would never see the likes of these anywhere else.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Near Distant Future

2007-07-21T19:44:00.000-04:00

Life is never how we envisioned it, yet we still continue to dream up scenarios on how we land the date with the supermodel, the promotion at a renowned enterprise or the record deal breakthrough. If it makes your crotch tingle with joy, you will replay these fantasies again and again.

I cannot count the times that I have drifted into my sea of dreams and suddenly wake up to a bitter revelation. In my sweet fantasy I am a success in every single thinkable way. Should I mentally pause, it would look like one of those adverts in fashion or lifestyle magazines, where some guy stands out with his trendy hairdo, six-pack and ripped biceps. Fuck yeah, I could clear my throat in the presence of females and get offers of No-Strings-Attached-Sex, because in my dreams, I'm brimful of perfection.

My dreams revolve around the post-completion of my goals, and while I won't get into further details what those goals are, I will say that they are not unrealistic nor unattainable, just unfulfilled. I always picture how I might be standing looking out of a window reflecting on what I have achieved. I have not aged a day in my fantasies. Is it because I am unrealistic? No. Simply because I have no clue of who I am in the future or what the future might bring. I call those moments “The Near Distant Future”. These moments or concepts are the product of my tireless efforts to finish my objectives and not knowing when the completion will take place. To me there are only the epochs of “now” and “then”.

There are no sequences of how I will attain what at times seems impossible. No sequences depicted like Rocky Balboa's training session before the big fight. Lots of running, skipping, running up the stairs and jumping up and down like a crazed moron with violins playing a familiar tune in the background. There is no mental cinematography that can even closely describe the emotion and reality of the true endeavour to fulfill the dream or goal.

Regardless if the then-epoch will arrive or not won't keep us from drifting away those moments before you fall asleep at night, or during the dull lesson at school. We want to find ourselves trapped within the frames of the perfect picture in that magazine. We want to live that seemingly inanimate paper world. Sometimes I wonder if I focus too much on that perfection. That I live too much in my own mental silver screen and forget that even if or when I complete my goals, perfection will always be out of reach. I suppose that I am like my own bullshit salesman. Always out to sell myself the perfect future wrapped in a heart-shaped box with a fancy little greeting card that says:

“Ambition and dreams are the source of motivation and the excuse for everlasting unhappiness.”

The Age of Emo and The Trendy-depressives

2007-04-18T06:41:00.000-04:00

It seems that it has become fashionable to be depressive. I can't turn on my tv or walk outside without seeing funky Emo hair (aka. Fetuccini hair) or individuals with such a screwed up sense of fashion that you wish that fathers should be entitled to a semenal refund. It's always the damn hair that gets on my nerve. I am unable to grasp that these people don't grimace at their own reflection and put an effort into looking just a bit acceptable. And the trousers! My God the trousers. Tight around the legs and baggy around the arse. What the fuck is that all about? Gay Italian designers turn straight at the sight of them. Something else I notice, is the hygiene; It is my impression that these people simply refuse to shower or wash their clothes. Want to be Emo? Fine, just fucking shower on a regular basis and people won't immigrate to avoid you.But all in all I think that extreme fashion statements such as Emos and Goths encourages bad hygiene. Save money by not paying water bills and invest in razor bladesr.

What really made me aware of this trendy-depression were the tv-shows and movies. All the protagonists are tainted by issues and complexes; Look at the show 'Smallville', while I'm a big fan of Superman, I can't help but hate that show. Everything about it is fucking emo; the theme song, the characters, everything. I keep hoping the season finale is teenage Clark Kent hanging himself with a Kryptonite rope. Hell, even the whole new Superhero franchise is Emo: Spider-man, Hulk, Superman. Watch the movies, and you realise they are Emo. Be aware that by taking your kids to see these movies, you are indirectly telling them that heroism is overrated and that it's permissible to become an Emo cunt.

So what is it with this social phenomenon? Are people really that miserable solely because the world is such a terrible place? The answer is NO. Trendy-depression has emerged due to people's carefree existence. When you don't have a problem or care in your life, then that per se is a problem.
Fuck, sometimes I wish that I was Emo and all my troubles were make believe...I think I better go cut myself a bit to soothe the pain.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Once were boys

2007-01-06T15:39:00.000-05:00

It had been sometime since I had visited my family. I had decided that this visit would be an extended one. A visit to satiate my desire to be with my family.
As always the moment of reunion was joyful of epic proportions, and I could almost replay the whole moment in my head in slow motion with audio commentary of me saying “It was like out of a fairytale”. Even walking out of the airport I felt like Snow White coming out of the woods with her deer, squirrels, mice and birds singing songs of happiness. Yes, I was definitely home again.

It was strange to sit around the table again and eating as one family. Listening to how my dad would sound like a larger orchestra chewing his food, my brother slurping his drink or my mother unintentional colliding her cutlery with her plate. Even though it all could sound disgusting or annoying to any other person in the world, to me it was music. I even caught my father looking at me with a reminiscent look. Yes, dad I missed it too. More than you would ever know.

In this ecstasy of memories, I did see some changes in the transparency of ghosts of the past. The grey hair covering my dad's head. The different types of medication that both my parents took to keep chronic diseases on amicable terms. It felt like someone had turned over two pages at once. Too much time had passed and no one had told me, or I hadn't opened my eyes till now.

I still saw my father's face before me filled with nostalgia. Never had I ever seen him like that, and it made me wonder, if he ever had the thoughts that I was having now. Things were different now, but once we were boys...

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Aloe Vera and the art of Ass Wiping

2006-09-25T17:38:00.000-04:00

I was walking through the aisles of the supermarket after having covered every item on my shopping list, except for one, toilet paper. I couldn't count the number of times that I have shopped for toilet paper, and every time I would buy something different.It wasn't the illustrations of lambs, infants or techno-rabbits on the packaging that had served as catalyst of persuasion. No, it was a random and desperate trial-and-error procedure in the quest to find something that felt good to wipe yourself with after the act of defecation.

I came across one package that I had always ignored. Toilet paper enriched with Aloe Vera. I had never really been keen on the whole deal with cosmetics that had the extract of mango, strawberries or avocado. They really endeavoured to market those products, and I could only imagine people ending up wanting to eat them rather than applying them as intended. I was torn between giving into the mainstream bullshit or continue ignoring the product, after all I was really a bidet fan. As I have told many others before me, if you stick your hands into a pile of shit, do you wipe your hands clean afterwards or would you wash? But due to lack of facilities in my current bathroom, I had to resolve to paper. I wasn't happy about it, but what could I do.
My decision was to go along with the whole Aloe Vera enriched toilet paper. I wanted to see what the whole fuss was about. How could including the use of vegetables or fruits of wiping your ass be beneficial?

I got home and impatiently walked around my flat waiting for my ass to make sign that the time had come. I had even considered taking some kind of laxative to speed up the whole evaluation process, but there was a risk to that. What if I didn't like wiping my ass with fresh Aloe Vera? I would be stuck for the rest night making numerous visits to the toilet and not looking forward to it. No, I chose to play it safe and wait.
It was only a couple of hours before my ass poked me on my shoulder and hinted that I had affairs to take off. Ecstatic I hurried to bathroom and put effort into making it the as messy as possible. With moans and groans I made sure that this paper was put the ultimate test. It was not getting off the hook easily.
I got the first roll out and held it in my hand. The paper was a bit thicker than the regular toilet paper. It had a weird texture and it made me feel dubious about the whole affair, and frankly quite happy that I had decided not to take a laxative.
I detached the first batch of paper and finally wiped for the first time. There was a short silence and then the sound of something creaking. I wasn't alarmed but positively surprised. It was my ass. My ass was smiling! It had not smiled in a long time. This paper was amazing. I felt that I had wiped my ass with sunshine. My bottom was clean and happy.

Needless to say I tried the paper more than once and the results were perfect every time. Of course it will never be the same as bidet experience, but this was definitely a good alternative.
I could only blame myself for not having invested in this product earlier.

All the facial cremes, body lotions, shampoos etc. which all had some kind of fruit or vegetables involved, I still wasn't sure if any of them worked, but with the whole Aloe Vera experience I was willing to believe so. I had taken good care of my ass, and now I knew that it would take good care of me.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Love Ideology

2006-08-13T13:16:00.000-04:00

People write about it, sing about it, talk about it and even celebrate it. Yes, the concept of love has become the number one creed of the twenty-first century. Everywhere you see people holding hands, kissing passionately in the streets or holding a single to rose that is intended for that sole significant other. Love has seized control of our planet, and it is here to stay.
And here I stand amongst the fanatic believers like an atheist completely oblivious to the creed that promotes heart shaped balls, Swiss chocolate and romantic songs.

What is love really? It's one of the few things in life, I keep thinking that I understand, but realise I don't even remotely grasp it. I can look at couples that are insatiable by each other's caress and not reach any conclusions. In fact, I only end up having more questions. I envy these people for understanding something so banal, while I ignorantly try to analyse it to atoms.
Perhaps it isn't about understanding, but about feeling. It again makes me think of my behaviour during my teenage-years. My mother would often tell me that I was 'cold', and in my adolescent outburst I'd give her the whole cliché with “You don't know, who I am inside.” and subsequently run to my room and throw myself on the bed.
Now, more than a decade later I realise how she knew before I did. It seems that this behaviour has manifested itself to a greater extent in my persona. Even though I love my family more than anything in life, there was never a moment of hesitation or doubt to leave them far behind me to reach my goals. I have grown too selfish to really feel others and choose only to feel what I feel.

Lately I have been asking myself a lot about the whole idea of love. The idea of bonding with someone else on more than just a physical level. Would I be able to do it? Would it be possible for me to actually allow somebody else to become an active part of my private life? It seemed very unlikely right now. There's a barrier, that I seem unable to overcome. The barrier that keeps me walking alone and grants me all the infinite liberty and advantages of indulging my egocentric nature. This strange love ideology simply doesn't fit in with my agenda right now.

Again I ask, what is love? I don't really know. What I do know is that for the time being is that I am not a part of that heart shaped balls nor the Swiss chocolate nor the love songs. I am just me, and maybe some day, I will learn to appreciate and feel this global phenomenon. Until then, I'll just have to observe.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Waiting Game

2006-06-04T13:03:00.000-04:00

At my job there's one thing that has made me think about certain aspects of human anatomy and functions that we embrace and like to show off. Some take pride in showing their physique, while others like to sing or dance. Despite the diversity in human thinking and perception, there are specific bodily functions that we choose to execute in solitude. One of these is the act of defecation.

It's evident that the architects of stall based public toilet were either sadists or simply had no shame in life. They really put thought into, how to make the most intimate ritual as degrading as possible. I wouldn't be surprised, if the early blueprints of public toilets had bushes or trees instead of stalls just to make the whole experience of taking a shit in public even more retro towards the caveman era. This layout has been the catalyst for a whole new global phenomenon, which I wish to describe.

Reluctantly you will find yourself entering the public bathroom to take that crap, and you will curse yourself for having that extra bagel or slice of pizza. It's that little extra bit of food that has made you unable to wait until you got home, but here you are in the midst of an anatomic emergency.
Before you actually get to it, you investigate the premises by looking at the floor. This is an attempt to catch a glimpse of any shadows coming from the stalls with closed doors, which will establish whether or not you are alone. Depending on the circumstances you will always choose the stall that's furthest away from all the engaged ones. Even if that particular stall has shit stains and vomit spray painted on the walls, yes, you will choose that one. Anything that will provide you with stealth defecation is welcome.
Once you sit on the public throne, you will always try to finish as quickly as possible, if you know that you're the only one there. However, that particular scenario is very uncommon, some might even say it's a myth.
The most regular scenario entails that the stall next to you is occupied by some poor bastard, who has heard you pulling down your trousers and heard your belt buckle clang against the floor. This is when the warm up for a very twisted event commences, The Waiting Game. You will unconsciously clear your throat to alert the person next door that you have arrived. Personally I am still unable to explain, why we do this. Is it to provoke? Or is it like a handshake before the match? Nevertheless, the kick-off or “shit-off” for The Waiting Game has commenced at this stage and an absolute silence will seize the lavatory.
The objective of The Waiting Game is simple; He or She who can out wait the other opponent and let him/her finish defecation and embarrass himself/herself in the process is the winner. To do this you must have solid control of your bowl and sphincter. You can easily recognise a rookie by his poor attempt to mask his lack of endurance, when he fakes a cough in an attempt to drown out the sound of a fart or a crap hitting the water in the bog. No, a real professional doesn't do this. A real professional sits silently and waits for the opponent to give in; Survival of the fittest rectum.
Another trait of a professional is that he will bend over and try to catch a glimpse of his competitor's shoes. Especially if the match is taking place in the toilet at work, the winner can internally boast about defeating John from the Customer Service department. Hell, the winner could even keep a record of who he has already defeated or lost against on the office computer.
Sometimes in a match you will experience someone washing his hands and activating the hand dryer. A dedicated professional is never foolish enough to give into the noise of a hand dryer, only rookies will do this and perform a fastbreak and think they are on their way to victory. Professionals see this as cheating. A good comparison would be a soccer player spitting in the face of an opposing player, while the referee has its back on you.
The duration of a match may vary depending on the skills and endurance of the participating rectums, and God forbid, if the stalls on both sides of you are engaged. That's when the matches can go on for an eternity, and if these take place at work, you might find yourself having to work overtime to compensate for the time spent taking a shit.

Do feel free to sit there and reflect for a bit about The Waiting Game. As for me, I will go take a shit in the privacy of my own home.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Attack of the Tobacco Spongers

2006-03-25T12:33:00.000-05:00

I've come to the decision of giving up on smoking. Not just for the obvious reasons of it being unhealthy and financially draining, but also because of the legions of tobacco spongers marching through the city in civil uniforms.

At least once a day I was approached by one of the troopers with the generic phrase: “Could you spare a cigarette, mate?”. There was no scientifically proven way of evading these people. Often I contemplated hiding the cigarettes up my ass, but it would be no surprise, if they just stuck their heads up there as well asking: “Could you spare a cigarette, mate?”. What the hell was wrong with these people? The majority of these people had the financial means of buying a pack of cigarettes. I was a fairly travelled man, but had never come across this phenomenon. Not only was it an obvious and bad phenomenon, these encounters were also increasing at an alarming rate.

You could find yourself in the middle of a completely empty street. Not a single soul would be in sight. Tumble weed would be passing in front of you along with old newspapers. It was when you put that blasted lighter to the cigarette, a hole in the space time continuum would take place. The scenery of an abandoned part of town would transform into a busy medieval market place. Out of thin air these spongers would appear like cocks and do their default church choir line up for you and sing: “Could you spare a cigarette, mate?”. Sing you motherfuckers sing. I was through with the bullshit. I was kicking the habit.

Sunshine Today, Sunshine Tomorrow

2006-03-01T18:44:00.000-05:00

Yesterday before I fell asleep, I realised a greater truth about myself. It's funny how you can shift mental states and not really realise it. States that can be completely out of persona and consume years of your life. As I lay there in my bed, I finally saw that I walking down a path, which I shouldn't be following.

For the first time in a long time I woke up feeling content in this special way. Yes, I could feel that I have taken one step closer to the person whom I once was. The results were instantaneous, when I left my home. People seemed to smile more and the birds actually did whistle and not curse at me.
At work I was able to shield myself behind my mood, and all the bullshit and the intrigues bounced off of my mental kevlar that protected me from negatives energies. I was angry at myself for not seeing this earlier, but perhaps I needed to fall to realise, how high up I was.

With my new pair of eyes, I was able to grasp things differently. I noticed small things that I would normally ignore. One incident today was, when I on my way home stopped by a place to buy some food. When I first entered the place, there was a man in his late 60s sitting in a purple jacket and grey trousers eating silently. His meal consisted of chips and chicken sparsely distributed on a small plate. While my food was being prepared, which took roughly 10 to 15 minutes, the food on the geezer's plate somehow did change much, and I suddenly noticed why.
This guy was eating incredibly slow. It looked like a cautious process. Slowly balancing the chips on his fork and getting these soaked on enough fat that drenched the plate. A good simile in this case, would be like watching a grizzly bear trying to deflower a virgin fly. I wouldn't be surprised, if he had actually gotten on all four and started licking the plate clean. For fuck sake, it's chicken and chips, it's not French cuisine, where you sit and enjoy the savoury sensation and the restaurants interior decorations. No, this was a dodgy little fish'n'chips shop on a dodgy road in a very dodgy part of town. Some people just overcomplicate things and forget to enjoy the beauty of simplicity.

Walking with my food in my hand back to the house, I remembered how yesterday had been and how today was. Tomorrow would be better for sure. My sunshine days had finally come crashing into my life.
Many things were life are irreversible, but this one wasn't. Your mental state could shift and change, but your true essence would always stayed submerged and stored behind those infinite layers of changed, until one day it will pop up from beneath the surface and float on top like a turd on the oceans of this life time.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Pinball Intoxication

2006-02-26T16:22:00.000-05:00

It was Saturday afternoon and I had been invited to a small private party on the other side of town. I was told to buy my stock of preferred beverages to bring to this little soirée. An hour later I found myself in the kitchen of a 1 bedroom flat. The kitchen had a nice feel to it, and I got a positive vibe from the place and the people I was with. Yes, this was going to be interesting.

The conversations started very formally, but as the alcohol assumed control of us, the nature of the discourses turned more sarcastic and distorted. My personal favourite subject revolved around men's tendency to masturbate even, when they were in relationships. The female members in this conversation were unable to grasp this notion, even when I defined this to be “Quality time with your own cock”. Of course, they wouldn't understand. After all, they were equipped differently.

I felt back in my element again. It didn't take long before more guests arrived to the scene to participate in our alcoholic depravities. The majority of these people were Brazilians. Again, my mind started travelling down memory lane. I experienced this moment of Calor Humano again. It's that very sensation that I thought that you would never feel again.

My enthusiasm had pushed me to consume alcohol beyond my physical endurance, and in a heartbeat I found myself losing all basic motor skills and a stomach raising a white flag surrendering. I had to find the bathroom as soon as possible. I opened the door that would lead me to the bathroom. To my horror I found a long corridor with the bathroom at the end of it. As my motor skills were completely flawed at this point, I tried to focus on each step I took towards the sanitary salvation, but I was doomed. I found myself bouncing from one wall to the other like a human pinball. I cursed internally in every language known to man and tried to assure myself with the firmest conviction that my mind was stronger than the alcohol. I was dumb believe so. My brain had left a nice sign with a message stating “Be Back Tomorrow With A Hangover”. I was alone with my desperation.
After a lot of effort, I reached the end of the hallway, and had been previously told to pull the long white cord to turn on the lights in the bathroom. I saw the cord, but I was unable to grab it. I felt like a virgin trying to find the right hole. It was damn near impossible to grab hold of something so simple and so close to me.

Of course, the rest of the evening passed with my going down on the toilet various times and passing out on some stranger's bed. Despite the unfortunate events at the end of the party, it had all been worth it. The Calor Humano had made it all worthwhile. When I came home and lay in my bed, I could faintly the details of my conversations, but I could remember the sensation inside. I couldn't help but smile and with that very same expression of happiness, I fell asleep.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Vita Veritas and The Void inside

2006-02-23T17:04:00.000-05:00

Yet another day had passed, and here I sat in my home shifting like carnal rocking horse between the states of daydreaming and thinking. I had come a long way since, I had first arrived here. In many ways my endeavours had finally paid off, and I was now living the life that I had imagined months back...well maybe not quite...but a good approximation.

The thought started with the usual train-ride to work, where I stood looking at the people, who were mostly buried in the privacy of their portable music-players or newspapers. I wondered if these people looked at me, as I looked at them. Did they think, what I was thinking? Did they live the life, they were meant to be living? I could see no creative or ambitious vanity in their eyes. Instead I saw routine and indifference.

Life was indeed odd. Every day was like a thorough assraping and the only way to survive was to acquire a liking to consistent buggering, or let the void within engulf you with its numbness.

I was in the same queue that led all the way to the deep pit of lost dreams. The pit where dreams were exchanged for a fixed salary and a place to stay. Was life about this all along? Had I been biased all along, thinking that somehow things would turn out differently for me?

Life lay beside me like a dangerous predator that I had to stroke gently and carefully to avoid a confrontation that I would surely lose. Yes, Vita Veritas an untamed beast to be respected and feared...

Edward T. Shufflebottom

To Those Who Got Away

2006-02-22T16:11:00.000-05:00

Today a good friend of mine told me, how a long lost friend of hers had contacted her after many years. There was apparently some romance involved in all of this. It was nice to hear that people are actually

It is amazing how your feelings towards someone can remain unaffected by time and other external factors, while other things crumble and decay in the very same process. Those feelings are usually reserved for those you developed a connection with, but you never had a chance to explore. They are the ones who got away away.

It's debatable whether or not these feelings only exist due to lack of knowing, what might have been, or if it's a rare instance of having connected to a real soul mate. Nevertheless, you occasionally find yourself mindfucking yourself and hoping to ejaculate an answer that will quench your thirst for the factual vision of a non-existing alternative future. Why had that one person gotten away? Was it my fault that things never came to pass? Rarely will you ever know the truth or see that person again.

Something that has puzzled me about all of this, is our lack of ability to act on our instinct and desire. We feel it strongly in our hearts, but we procrastinate the revelation of our feelings until it's too late. We end up feeling sad and with a heart that aches for closure and knowing.

Years and years from now, you will sit in the privacy of your home, happily married and with the kids playing in the garden, and think of the beautiful brunette or the tall blue-eyed bartender and damn your cowardice to hell.

We all have someone, who got away. It''s that person that will haunt you memories forever. Remember, your heart will always want to wonder why not...

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Walkabout Experience

2006-02-19T12:26:00.000-05:00

I had gone to explore the night life of this part of the city with a couple of friends of mine. It was here that I was introduced to something that completely took me by surprise. It was a cultural niche invented by the Australians, the infamous 'Walkabout'. The atmosphere was quite unique. It was a hybrid of a pub and a disco. The subtlety of the pub was there, but was cocktailed with the disco element that made people dance due to the lack of seats.

In the centre of all of this, I stood absorbing this cultural input. However, as the input started to stagnate I started to notice something else. The concentration of human abominations was alarmingly high. Wherever I looked I saw nothing but genetic crimes against humanity. It was evident that the corrupted segment of the Human gene pool had decided to party here tonight, and while I stood finishing one drink after the other, I was struck by a crude realization of how some of these beings would go home to fornicate and possibly reproduce some mutant offspring that was twice as vile as themselves. In this environment I was indeed a prostitute against my own will, because I would have to be paid to have any type of sexual interaction with the opposite gender.

We left after a few hours and on our way home, we came across of one those poor homeless souls. This one was extremely proactive and very aggressive, when it came to asking for money. I wasn't scared, but was surprised at this overly desperate behaviour.

It was getting pretty tiresome to always have to hand out money or cigarettes to those less fortunate. It was a constant battle trying to endure the guilt trips. Perhaps this was why the people in this city quietly ignored everything and everyone around them to filter out the poverty and misery. Maybe some day I would be like them. I would walk blindly past those, who were less fortunate holding out their hand with the faint hope that, I would drop a coin into their palm. I was hoping that I would never follow this creed of social apathy, because it was undeniable that the benevolent nature in me was slowly starting to decay...

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Postcode Mentality and the city of ciggie snatchers

2006-02-05T05:40:00.000-05:00

Much had happened since, I departed from the feline cesspool. I had finally gotten a place of my own and dubbed it home. It wasn't actually a penthouse, but the foul stench of dog and cat shit wasn't nothing more but a distant memory. I was able to think back of the entire episode and chuckle at my frequent state of mental pandemonium.

I had opened my eyes to many new things, which I had been blind to before or at least not given myself an extra moment to dwell on. Wherever I went, my eyes fell on poor unfortunate homeless souls. Some of them would patiently await and hope that you would drop a coin or two into their hand, while others would actively seek you out to promote their sad condition and burden you with a guilt trip, “Can you spare some change for a cup of tea?”. Of course, I wasn't that gullible. Since when did tea get poured into cans of Carlsberg? Along those very same streets, kiosks and grocery stores with exclaiming discounts on every type of alcohol known to man, store owners encouraged these souls to spend their hardly begged money. It was sickening and sad, but nevertheless I indulged them. I gave them whatever change I had on me. Ideally I would prefer them to spend the money on something that would benefit them, but then again, who was I to pass such judgement? Who was I to say what was beneficial or not for these people?

Something else I noticed was, when the homeless aren't looking for money, they are looking to acquire cigarettes. I couldn't count the amount of times throughout the day that I was bombed with the question, if I could spare a cigarette. Standing still and smoking a cigarette was like being a freshly furnished turd waiting for the flies to arrive.

My new job had presented me with more material for my mind to work with. I finally realised, what I was doing, wasn't what I was supposed to be doing. The geek talking of complex data structures and methodologies that never interest me was being force fed into my ears, but my mind was somewhat distant. I was out of synch with this environment and these people. There were only two persons that I had bonded with. Each of them carried a element that I could easily mirror my personality in. The rest emitted vibes of fraudulence and riding horses, they needed ladders to mount. I communicated little or never with these people. I might have come across as being timid or introverted to them, but I felt that we had nothing to say to each other that would have served as a catalyst to initiating the semblance of basic friendship. At this point, they were people I worked with and nothing else.

Every evening I found myself standing outside like a furnished turd looking at the naked trees occupying the grove as far as the eye can see and the dull grey sky The pavements were dirty and stained with the residue of dog shit. It seemed that dogs in this country really made an effort to shit in the middle of the pavement, and people who walked just wanted to step in it. In fact I can imagine they jumped into it. Maybe they liked the extra padding on their shoes, so they could slide down the street to reach their destination quickly. But it was out here that I found my mind clearing up and able to put things into perspective.

Yes, Life goes on...

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Edwardian Resuscitation

2005-10-15T19:49:00.000-04:00

It wasn't just a new day. No, it was a new life. Blank pages were now occupied by writings of a promising future. I had finally gotten a job that I wouldn't loathe. I had been welcomed aboard on the wagon of life, and my journey was about to commence. I considered myself fortunate, and I saw how my efforts had finally paid off. Success was inevitable at this point. I was happy.

I had ordered a large pizza with lots of chilli to celebrate my victory over the bad times. Never had I enjoyed a meal like this one. I was in ecstasy. Unfortunately I was about to pay the price for my feast of triumph. I couldn't remember how long it had been, since I last ate any meal where chilli was an ingredient. In my elevated mood I completely forgot about the consequences of eating spicy food, but I was happy.

I couldn't count the times that I had gotten up throughout the night to go to the bathroom. Being very exhausted I was unable to comprehend, why my ass was on fire upon finishing my visit to the bathroom. I felt tempted to go downstairs and stick my butt in the freezer or insert ice cubes into my anus. However, the feeling of laziness and extreme fatigue was too overwhelming. I decided to go back to bed with flames sticking out of my ass. My ass would have to burn for now, because I was still happy.

This was not the end of a chapter. This was the ending of a book, and I was about to start writing a whole new one for my new life as an established homo sapien in modern society. I foresaw that life could only improve now. I had been at the bottom and used every single cell in my body to thrust myself upwards. I was on my way up. My destination probably wasn't the stars, but I would surely reach a celestial layer of some kind. I was happy.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Sunday Turnstiles

2005-10-09T16:44:00.000-04:00

It was Sunday, the most boring and inanimate day of the week. The day were you would sit down and mentally recite the whole week and compare it to every single moment in your life. I couldn't help but to start journeying down memory land. I wandered down my own boulevard of regrets and achievements. This timeless dimension that was a figment of my imagination was occupied by every person and object that I had interacted with at some point in my life. I would pass by every face in a slow motion driven environment and salute those whom had brought my joy and extend my long finger to those who hadn't. It was a lot like watching those commercials for hair products, where some famous model walked down the street and got the attention of every male in her proximity. I was the centre of attention in this brainchild of mine.

Inevitable my journey took me to the end of the boulevard and to the junction of fate. This is where I stood know and pondered if the sum of all my failures were greater than my achievements. Every road departing from the junction was guarded by a turnstile that led into a misty oblivion. I knew if I once crossed one of the turnstiles, I would extend my boulevard and I wouldn't be able to regress to this conjunction. Only the sound of the wind and my heartbeat could be heard. Tumble weed and rogue posters saying “Future wanted – dead or alive” strayed by.

I was at a point in my life, where every single decision I made scared me. I wondered how others felt about this. Did their buttocks sweat? Did their interior monologue stutter and tremble with insecurity? Or was I simply a neurotic and social outcast? I would never find out.

These were the Sundays. The days that you hoped would never come, but ironically enough you couldn't live without. The days that contained an endless moment of decision-making to walk through a turnstile and cash my ticket for a destination that would drop me into an unknown tomorrow.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Penguins are here

2005-10-07T22:26:00.000-04:00

The Indian summer had ended subtly and let autumn announce its presence with grey skies, colourful leaves and various illnesses. Only armed with a leather coat and a pair of suede shoes, I had chosen to surrender silently to this hostile geological take-over. I was well aware of what was about to transpire. Billions of invisible fiends had taken their positions all over the world and awaited an encrypted message. The penguins were here.

It had taken two days before my room mate had found the time to show me, how the central heating was activated. The lack of carpeting made sure that this house remained a giant icebox. I endeavoured to shield myself against the cold by using my jacket and my shoes, but not even that sufficed. It was like experiencing an Alaskan winter with long meditation sessions surrounding the subject of how-the-hell-did-I-end-up-here. I did constantly try to remind myself that things were never easy in the beginning, and Rome was not built in one day. However, these placebo phrases were slowly losing their power. I was in a mood of perpetual bitterness with a terrible urge to desist from all productive activity.

My new mood took its toll by depriving me off all fundamental social skills. There had been a few incidents that could verify, how I had become inapt for any social encounters. What I found odd yet very amusing, was the fact that I did not feel guilty for being so socially impaired. I was able to defy the unwritten laws of ethics and formality without being morally prosecuted. People probably regarded me as the caveman that recently arrived to civilization, but that didn't concern me. Perhaps I had reached the age, where I was old enough to be categorised as eccentric.

I had witnessed something rather unfortunate. My mind was at this point still unable to grasp it. Devil cat had entered the living room with light movements and disappeared behind the television. It was then that I heard the sound of something that reminded me of cold lemonade being poured into a cocktail glass. I closed my eyes hoping that it was my imagination playing tricks on me. By the time I realised that I had not slipped into some sick state of daydreaming, Devil Cat was halfway through its piss. I got up and ran to the television, but I was too late. Devil Cat had finished serving its lemonade and charged out of the living room. There I stood unable to comprehend or believe what had just happened. The secret of why the living room occasionally smelled like piss was finally out. Many times had I entered the living room and been punched in the face by the foul odour of feline urine, but I had been unable to locate the source.

When things couldn't possibly get worse, I was surprised again. This time it was a lump of excrement of some beast that laid there undisturbed to test my endurance. My only guess was that Princess had given this object a lift from the garden and into the utility room. I sighed deeply. It was strange after living in this house for such a short while that I was already able to identify how the most improbable things took place. It wouldn't be long before I could unravel the secrets of the universe, decode highly encrypted information for government agencies and identify that final ingredient in KFC's delicious chicken. I was not sure how much of this that I could take. Not only were the penguins here, but the swampland had claimed the house, and there was absolutely nothing that I could do about it. You probably guessed, what I did. That's right. I cowered.

I was beginning to suspect that the inhabitants of this house enjoyed this rather inhumane and filthy lifestyle. Cleaning up crap and vomit from various members of the animal kingdom was obviously a full-time hobby cherished by everybody in this house besides me. If they were looking to include me into their guild, they could forget about it. I refused to become an element in their equation. The penguins were here, the swampland had claimed the house, the guild of shit was looking to recruit me. I needed to get out very very soon.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Sheep, The Bird and The New Hope

2005-09-29T18:43:00.000-04:00

Another visitor had come to the house. This time it was in the form of a white overweight poodle. From a distance you would be prone to believe that it was in fact a sheep rather than a dog. I was told that the dog came from a Posh family, and the obesity and disobedience were proof of how it had been overindulged throughout the years of its life. It now spent its visit here sleeping most of the day in the living room. This of course meant that I was deprived of the pleasure of chasing out Devil Cat, but at the same time I was content with the fact that none of the felines tried to invade my new so-called domain. I was definitely more a dog person than a cat person.

The sheep of course was also obligated to help the swampland spread. Piles of dog crap were mounting up as far as the human eye could see. I had this misfortune of witnessing Princess drag her body like a steamroller over a freshly dislodged excrement. There was no way in hell that I would ever share a sofa with that cat again. I was sure that she had done something similar before, but it was different now. You could compare it to shaking hands with people and knowing that they might have picked their nose or scratched their ass at some point in their life, and it wouldn't bother you. However, if you caught anyone doing this, you would be reluctant to shake their hand. You would simply wave your hand and say “Hey” while standing out of an arms distance. This morning I also saw two small puddles of what appeared to be dog vomit. Of course like every time I decided to cower elsewhere in the house and patiently awaited for someone to discover these two minor incidents and remove them. It seems that every additional inhabitant of this dwelling has an urge to make life more difficult for me.

Not too long ago I was dragged along to this remote pub in the middle of a semi-rural society. I had left the house unshaven and with bad fashion. I expected the place to be filled with old village drunkards that spoke of the older days. It turned out to be completely different though. The atmosphere was calm and charming in its own very unique way, and didn't take us long to find a table and discuss, who would be the first to order a round.

It was at this point that I saw her, the bird. She was elegant in both movement and voice. I could convince myself that she was probably not the perfect template, but my lust wouldn't hear of it. I cursed my self-indulgence. I should have shaved and dressed up. My decision was to wait till next week and prepare myself to chat her up.

I went there the following week, but my plans were disrupted by two elements. The first element was a ring on her finger. Had I not learned my lesson yet? The hands were important to observe in the game of lust and love. The second element was a surprise. She was obviously very into flirting with her male colleague, who was young gentleman in his mid-twenties. I couldn't help but feeling like a retard. Birds just can't be kept in pages.

My landlady had announced that a new girl would move into the house by the end of October. I felt content upon hearing these news. This house needed a bit of social pep up. My relationship with my current room mate had not developed and stayed very superficial. I didn't feel motivated to socialise with her. We were on completely different wave lengths. She was a more simple and superficial being with no real interest anything apart from cats and soap operas. Personally, I thought that she was complete waste of semen to start with. Had I been her father, I would have inserted her into a mother and repeated the whole intercourse to make sure that I would get it right this time. I was hoping that this new room mate would be my new hope of feeling more at home. Of course this could also backfire on me. I could risk the two room mates ganging on up on me and making my life even more miserable by unanimously agreeing on walking on all fours and crapping in the garden with the dogs. Only time could tell.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

The Perfect Template

2005-09-25T22:07:00.000-04:00

Like many men I have had long discussions with my male friends on the topic of the ideal woman. Everything from her physical features down to the very neurotic compulsive behaviours were open for discussion. My ideal woman was always described as being of South American origin with amazing looks, modest, exceptionally intelligent and passion for gastronomy. This combination was commonly liked by my friends, but rejected as a real living example. You are asking way too much, they said. In the beginning I thought that I was being reasonable with my criteria, however, my friends were persistent on the fact that I was delusional. With repetition, truths can become lies, and lies can become truths, and my ideal woman became a fiction of my imagination.

I started joining chat rooms to cope with my boredom. I ended up talking to this Brazilian female, who studied biomedicine. Inevitably she sent me her picture, and what I saw surprised me. I was expecting something that looked like the swamp thing or a female version of Freddie Krueger, but the woman was absolutely breathtaking. It was at that point that I had a flashback of my discussions with my friends. Had they been wrong all this time? I extracted more information from her, and again I was amazed. She had a passion for cooking and was single. I could not help but feeling dubious about this engineered perfectionism. Was she telling the truth? Or was this in fact a guy, who enjoyed taking the piss? I asked her, if she wasn't a guy, to which she responded that she wasn't and that I would be more than welcome to call her to verify this. I froze. This was it. This was the perfect template. My friends had always stated that this perfect template of mine was as real as the Sasquatsh or the Loch Ness monster. But here it was, not physically in front of me, but some text on my screen suggested that my prototype actually existed.

I believed it to be a personal revelation of how perfection could sometimes cross over from the world of imagination and manifest itself in our world. This woman was the tip of an iceberg, and I was certain that this type of woman was in production, but on a small scale like the Koenigsegg and the Lamborghini. At this point I knew that 99.99% of the production at the women's factory was flawed. It was my mission to figure out where that last percentage of women resided. That percentage was my niche, my perfect template.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Phantom Lemonade

2005-09-17T14:49:00.000-04:00

Today I embarked on a journey down culture lane. Numerous of different attractions and shops invaded my senses with different odours, lights and gimmicks. Members of the opposite gender occupied the streets with their physical features to demote the idea of human extinction. I was in the centre of the known universe and had become a part of this cultural cosmos. I felt home.

My journey led my companions and I to a restaurant which housed ambassadors of the Brazilian barbecue culture, churrascaria. The waiters kept passing our table with different types of meats and cuts which only lingered the food orgy. I had also ordered several Caipirinhas. Caipirinhas, yes, how I remembered. This drink was Phantom Lemonade. The taste of this sweet and inconspicuously intoxicating beverage made me reminisce of my trip to Brazil. It had been in Brazil that I had discovered new sides of myself. I had found an inner peace that a lot of people spend a lifetime looking for. It felt like the warm embrace of a loving mother mixed with taking your dream world back to reality. Unfortunately this unique feeling was not abundant for eternity. Since then it hadn't been possible to recapture this untamed and uncommon state of being.

I had also been keeping an eye on the waitresses. Their friendly smiles and exotic way of speaking was a rogue aphrodisiac. In particular there was one, who caught my attention. She was quiet and discrete compared to her other colleagues, yet there was something about her that I couldn't put my finger on. I knew that I had to get in contact with her. As she was very busy and always moving around I took the opportunity to talk to one of her colleagues and ask about her. I expected her colleague to be reluctant to tell me anything about her due to professional issues or that she was already in a relationship.

Reality struck me when the waitress revealed that her colleague was in fact married and had a child. I was surprised. The girl didn't look to have the age of someone who would be married and have a child as well. But looks could be deceiving. Faintly disappointed I suggested to my colleagues that we left the place.

On my way back I kept thinking about the Phantom Lemonade. It was a torrent of memories and feelings that had passed through me, while I had consumed these Brazilian tokens of gastronomy. Would I ever experience this inner peace again? Or had I been touched by the hand of God for a short time to compensate for the difficult times I was going through now?

Some people tell me that each one of us possess the power to find happiness, but I disagree. We, homo sapiens, possess the power to find temporary happiness. True happiness finds us, because we are unable to define, what we truly want. It's when we stumble upon this ecstatic sensation of inner harmony that we realize the meaning of many things. As for myself, I was privileged for a short amount of time to feel true happiness. I see now that many things have changed since then. Happiness has been forgotten and instead I have allowed myself to mentally decompose. I am like everybody else, an average neurotic product of our time remembering the bad things in life, even when they are long gone. It is time for me to let myself be found by true happiness and remember a simple lesson in life: The quality of the good times surpass the quantity of the bad times.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Retribution

2005-09-11T11:50:00.000-04:00

I had been gullible enough to believe that my situation could not possibly get any worse, but I was surprised again. As usual I was doing my walk-abouts in the house, while my food was cooking. I went down to the back door to look at the transforming terrain, but I felt something was wrong. For some odd reason I decided to look down on the floor right in front of the door, I spotted a foreign object of some sort. The object was approximately 2 centimetres wide and had a dark and what seemed to be a solid texture. I exhaled lightly and continued to investigate the floor. My worst fears were now a reality. Numerous of alien objects similar to the one I had spotted only seconds ago were piled up randomly like some abstract new-age art piece. Like those you saw on television, where some rich closet homosexual was willing to pay an insane amount of money to own and bragged about at his cocktail parties. It was dog crap. The culprit was likely the new dog, and I could only imagine that it was lying now in its basket chuckling at me and my new discovery. This was the dog's retribution. Its payback for having been harassed by me. Who knows, perhaps I deserved it. The battle between man and beast should be a two-way street. One thing was for sure though. I couldn't go downstairs no more. The seed that the dog had planted would only encourage the swampland to spread into the house. It wouldn't be long before it would be risky and somewhat hazardous get out of bed, because inside there were not enough flies to help you. For now I had to leave the premises, or I would risk being asked to clean it up, like with the incident of the cat crap in the living room. I had to cover my tracks thoroughly.
My plan was to turn off the lights, tiptoe away from the scene of the crime and quickly think of a solid alibi. I needed to think of something coherent and plausible. Another clash with the room mate would undoubtedly unleash my bottled up frustration upon her, and she would not comprehend this, because unlike me she doesn't mind living in an animal cesspool. No, It was to a mutual benefit that things remained calm as possible
Tables had shifted for sure. This blow, this attack, this comeback from that little dog had been swift and subtle. It had come out from the shadows and crapped with ninja-like stealth and disappeared. Something had to be done. I needed to mentally regroup and lay out a new strategy. I wasn't about to let that son of a bitch win this war. No four-legged creature should have the pleasure of pushing Edward T. Shufflebottom over the edge. It would not and could not happen. Soon enough I would know how to deal with that miniature bastard.

My food was finally ready, and I decided to eat my dinner in the living room. It had become a haven since the cats and dogs weren't allowed in there anymore. As I sat down, I instinctively investigated the floor. My experience earlier had made me a bit paranoid. Animals were full of surprises, I couldn't be too careful now. I noticed something else. It was pool of some substance. I suspected it at first to be feline urine, but as I investigated further, the pool appeared to be way too big to have been left there by a man even. Also the texture appeared to be more solid, like some sort of glue. It looked like a horse had jerked off and left in hurry to catch its next race. Panic seized me, and I took my food to the dinning room. I ate quietly while trying to think of an alibi that would unlink me from being the first to discover the dog crap and the mysterious pool in the living room.

Good God, here I was in this house that was slowly into an animal cesspool, an unknown substance with horse semen characteristics and a rogue dog with desires of revenge. Things were definitely not improving. I could only pray that I would make it through this phase in my life in one piece and not become mentally crippled. For now things were a bit calmer than usual, but danger was still out there. What would happen next?

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Never was a rainy day

2005-09-09T14:40:00.000-04:00

I have had the feeling that it would rain today, and my intuition has been right. Again, I sit by my open window enjoying the aroma of a rainy day, while I can hear the ice cream van playing its idiotic jingle. It's the “La Cucaracha”-theme with a high tempo sadistic twist of infants gone berserk on xylophones. The more I listen to it, the more I imagine the van being a mobile circus with a driver that's dressed up like some clown, who behind his infinite layers of make up loathes his job.

Today I had decided to eat my lunch at Burger King. Something very embarrassing had taken place. The guy who attended me was a black African male in his late twenties. I had already decided what I wanted to order, while waiting in the queue. However, this guy spoke in a completely incomprehensible English. It was worse than the cabin crews on international flights, where they always seem to pick the worst English-speaking individual to provide the details of the trip to the passengers over the speaker “Ledzajentelmen velcome aboard za flight to Lala-land”. This guy spoke with a terrible accent, and because he had asked the same generic questions to all customers hundreds of times throughout the day, he was able to repeat them at speeds that were only contemplative in a nerdy Sci-Fi universe. If I had to mimic this guy, I would have to speak some unknown tribal language, like the ones you see on the Discovery channel, when they are broadcasting documentaries about Indians in the Brazilian rainforest . The queue behind me had piled up very badly, and I had already used my quota of sorry-could-you-repeat-that-please on this guy. My embarrassment was a hair from being surfacing, which made me decide to improvise and stick to repeating the keywords that I could understand. Somehow I managed to get through it, and I had successfully placed an order ...on something. Obliviously I stood and waited for the guy to bring the food to the counter. I felt a bit like back in primary school, where I would open up my lunch box and be surprised with what sandwiches my mother had made for me. It turns out, I had ordered a cheeseburger meal. I confess that I was disappointed by the outcome of the short discourse, however, I was not brave enough to initiate a new conversation with him with the intention of altering the order. My main concern was to get the hell out of there rather than eating my food.

My mood is not as dull and pale as the sky today. I'm a bit indecisive whether I should be happy or sad today. A lot like that theatrical mask that both represents the smiling and the frowning face. It's a state that lingers until a new a day commences and only then will I be able to make a choice. Now it's raining again.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Secret ingredients and geologic transformations

2005-09-09T06:04:00.000-04:00

The experience from yesterday is still affecting me today. I am experiencing a terrible mental jolt, and confusion is roaming my head like a hurricane. I am slowly realising that things are going to be a lot more difficult than previously expected. So many things that I must unlearn, so I can relearn them in this new environment.
The sunshine success stories that I hear about others makes me wonder, if there is some essential lesson that I did not attend early in life. A lesson that explains how to make the cocktail of success. It must have been on one of those days, where you pretend that your tummy hurts so that your parents reluctantly let you stay home, because after all school is very important. Too late for that now. I have obviously not attended that cursed class, and here I am years later paying the price.
Face the facts I must, I will never know the secret ingredients that go into the drink that will grant me glorifying success and prosperity. These ingredients are like those in the KFC chicken recipe. They create a unique and distinctive flavour, but still esoteric to those who eat the chicken.
Fact of matter is none of these privileged sunshine bastards will ever reveal these ingredients to me. Not even if I expose them to physical and mental torture, will they even remotely consider to surrender their precious knowledge to me. No, the secret stays within the circles of this cult of success.

It seems that we have yet another dog in this house that needs taking care of for some time. Unfortunately this dog has a similar type of aura that surrounds Devil Cat. Its appearance and actions stirs this urge in me to either provoke it or slap it around for a bit. I've done the keen observation that by moving my legs restlessly and speaking with in a deep voice, the dog will enter into of a state of despair. Its paws will be scratching and sliding on the wooden floor in its attempt to run from me. When it finally starts moving it turns its head to see, if I'm still hot on its trail. Occasionally it reaches to a location in the house, where it's confused of where to go next and starts barking uncontrollably, as if saying “I give up! Terminate me now, but do it quick and painless”.
A few nights ago he would not stop barking, because random persons would be passing by the house. I was desperately trying to get some shut-eye, but the dog didn't seem to care much for that. I remember feeling rage, and I had got up to go silence him. When I was actually walking down the stairs, I could hear his paws moving in hast across the wooden floor back to his basket. It obviously knew that it should be quiet, which only ticked me off more. I felt like hitting him on the head with a crystal ball, or wheel spinning with a steamroller before I ran over him.
Why can't dogs hold the barking until someone is actually trying to break into the house, or already has broken into the house?

With this new addition to the dog family, a geologic transformation is taking place in the garden. There's an alarmingly increasing amount of dog excrements threatening to suffocate the rich flora.
When I go out there now, I move cautiously to avoid stepping into something that I would regret. Luckily the flies come to my aid by circulating the designated perimeters. I am coming to the conclusion that this garden is slowly turning into swampland. One might have thought that this process starts due to other circumstances, yet I am pretty much convinced that the presence of dog and cat crap is the catalyst to this geological phenomenon. What was once green and soothing to the human eye has now become the anus of Mother Nature.

My situation has not improved. It's frustrating enough having to share the dwelling with animals that lick their own anus as a sign of good hygiene, but with the transformation of the garden, the late night barking and the job hunt, I feel mentally sodomized. However, I take out fractions of my frustration upon the animals. You are probably thinking “You sadistic bastard.”, and that I am. I feel obligated to annoy them in order to suffocate my own frustration. State of beast should never be superior to that of man.

Edward T. Shufflebottom

Cat Incidents Encore

2005-09-03T12:34:00.000-04:00

About a week ago there had been two special incidents. They were actually identical, but I had only been witness to one of them. It seems that one of the cats had taken a crap on the living room floor, and just left it there as if saying, “Get bent, Edward!”. Of course, my room mate expected me to clean it up, as I was the first to make this rather uncommon observation. However, I'm allergic to the small critters, and if I don't pet them, feed them or even get the near them, I will not be the one to scoop their crap off the floors. I had spoken this attitude to my room mate, and she was not pleased with what she had heard. Though, it's safe to assume that she could see the logic in what I had said still with a lot of tension in the air. The day after the same incident had apparently repeated itself, but I had not been around, thank God, and I had been asked to keep the living room door shut to keep the cats out of there.

Yesterday, I had chased Devil Cat out of the living room, with some feeling of satisfaction I might add. It had snuck in again moments later and hid behind the sofa. But of course, I am not tolerant nor slightly flexible, when it comes to that diabolic cat. Its actions only seem to fuel my irritation and compel me into making its life even more miserable. I had simply lifted the sofa to let it know that I could not be outsmarted by a defective model from the feline production factory. The cat's face had frozen, and I could almost hear it screaming “Daram yoo!” in a thick Romanian accent, before it ran out of the living room. I recall observing that because of it's short thick legs and wooden floor, it was slipping and was nowhere as fast as non-mutated cats. Again, I felt tempted to tackle the beast and subsequently get out a long-range weapon of some sort, preferably a sniper-rifle or a crossbow, and bullseye the cat's rectum. A fitting end for that malformed beast.
It's very likely that it was not this cat that had taken a crap on the floor. To be honest I think it was the crippled cat. It practically drags her ass across the floor, and it is only easy and convenient for her just to take a dump while she is on the move. Though, deep down in my caveman heart , I wish it to be Devil Cat. Only that way can I mildly justify my cruel and violent emotions for it.

I have noticed that the neighbours have a cat named Dennis. Whenever I sit here by the window, I can always hear one of them calling for it. The mother uses a high-pitched voice, which makes her sound like Hyacinth Bucket from Keeping Up Appearances, “Hiiiier Kiiiiiiettty Kiiiiettty. Diiiinnniiiis. Kiiiietkiiiietkiiietkiiietty”. I don't fully understand, why anyone would need to distort their voice in an attempt to communicate with their pet. People do the same when they talk to infants or younger children. It's rather retarded. Indulge me for a moment here. If I walked up to you and started speaking like a bad imitation of Mickey or Minnie Mouse, wouldn't you think that I was severely brain-damaged? What's even more funny, is the daughter. She also calls for the cat. I reckon that she's around 6 or 7 years old, and with her thick British accent she calls for the cat, “Dennis!!! Here Ketketketkettey”.

This neighbourhood is obviously dedicated to some sort of odd depraved feline creed. Their lives revolve around these damn cats. Wherever I turn, they just seem to be there. Why do people find cats so adorable? They are disloyal, egocentric and careless beasts. They do have the advantage of being able to take care of themselves, but then again when we get a pet, isn't our intention to care and nurture it?

Edward T. ShuffleBottom

The Mona Lisa-syndrome

2005-09-02T12:32:00.000-04:00

It is one of those crude and vicious realities that dawn on you, when you can do nothing but stand idly by and watch your mind getting beat into submission. Boredom is officially my new master.
Fact of matter is, I can't recollect ever having been this bored. There has always been something to do or someone to call. No, this time around is something unique. If boredom was art, then I would be suffering from the Mona Lisa-syndrome.

I have become the victim of my new lifestyle. How could I have been so gullible to believe that the transition from old to new would be so smooth? But one thing is for certain, this is a test of endurance. Good things will never come easy. That is something that I have to keep in mind. Something to sponsor my patience and my endurance. Hopefully in a not so distant future, everything will turn around completely, and my terrible boredom will be nothing more but a vague and suppressed experience. However, the situation now is nowhere near bliss. It is in fact one of those horror stories that you will tell friends and acquaintances about on your first encounter with them.

Unfortunately my boredom has me confined to this place that I'm currently calling my new home. I share this home with a dog, a horde of cats, and a room mate. Despite my efforts I have been unable to establish any significant social bond with her. I have tried on numerous occasions to suggest that we do something more social in a desperate attempt to relieve my boredom, but it's all in vain.
I suppose that she's the introverted type of character, which prefers to mentally idle alone rather in the company of others, or perhaps it's simply bad chemistry between the two us. The last suggestion seems to be the most accurate.

As I mentioned before there are also cats wandering around the house. These cats have somehow contributed to my frustration. I think it's either anger that's spawned from my bored state of mind or envy. “Envy?”, you ask. Yes, being a cat must be incredibly simple. Your life has very little or no worries. You sleep pretty much twenty hours a day, eat, sleep and crap, and at a certain time of year, you get this uncontrollable urge to shag or get shagged.
There's one of those cats though that really makes my doors blow. There's something about this cat that I am unable to put my finger on. The body suggest some odd form of feline dwarfism. Nothing on that cat's body seems to be proportional. In fact I would say that the cat looks like Dr. Frankenstein's early experiments; A predecessor to his monster. Its fur looks like a desert camouflaged uniform worn by American soldiers during the Gulf war. Not only does it look hideous, it also behaves very strangely compared to the other cats in this house. It's this combination that triggers a primal instinct in me, which tempts me to reek terrible acts of violence upon this cat. Truth be told, I would never harm the beast, but the temptation still lurks beneath the surface. Fortunately, this cat comprehends that I hold no love for it, and always disappears like a streak of back alley cat-DNA residue, when it sees me approaching. But indeed the cat provokes a torrent of malicious thoughts through my head. This cat is the devil.
The cat that I dislike the least is definitely the crippled cat, Princess. She can't walk on her back legs and drags the back of her body around like a feline broomstick sweeping the floor for whatever dirt it may come across. Seeing her walk around in the beginning is very disturbing, but after while you get used to it. I did see her running once. It was admirable but also rather humoristic at the same time. She looked like steam powered miniature locomotive that was using the paralysed back legs like an engineered pump that boosts velocity. Particularly this cat for some reason seems much less annoying. It may be sympathy for her physical condition.

It is imperative that I find a way to cure this overwhelming boredom, before I succumb to it. At this point I'm out of ideas of what to do exactly. Perhaps I'm looking for an answer at all the wrong places, when the obvious answer is right in front of me. In my experience that's how it tends to be quite oftenly.

Edward T. Shufflebottom