Get Those Fucking Shoes of the Seat!

 Using public transport tends to reveal some rudimentary moral values instilled by our families and society. E.g. as a child, it was always proper and polite to get up for the elderly or a pregnant woman and offer your seat. You would do this with a big smile, feeling good about giving back to society to fortify and support its foundation of good conduct and security. And while such an effort may be seen as very small, it adds up in the end. It is the frequency and quantity of good deed that defines the well-being of our society.

At least in public, there is this idea that modern society has progressed on all fronts. Technology has advanced and enabled us to do unbelievable things. Social stigmas have been eradicated and replaced with inclusiveness and tolerance. We're tolerant good-hearted sympathetic human beings with intentions of the betterment of mankind. Except for the technology, I'm ready to challenge that notion. Are we really that deluded? Or do we simply play along with the fairytale narrative in circulation? All it takes is to look at the fucking public transport. 

A part of my daily ritual to get to and from work is to ride the bus and train. During these commutes, I realise how far we have strayed from the fundamental moral values that were prevalent in my youth. Notably, shitty behaviour is found in youngsters. It is apparent that people love the idea of having children but can't be fucked to invest time in raising them. Their concept of parental love and guidance is implemented and showcased through buying material goods. The result is overprivileged, overindulged, supercilious, narcissistic cunts. If the offspring can't behave well at home by not respecting their own parents, why would they be respectful to people in public? Getting up for the elders or pregnant doesn't faze these cunts. They're generally too immersed in their mobile phones, blocking out the world around them to indulge in their own comfort. As an insult to injury, it's also very common to see them placing their dirty shoes on the seats opposite them. This behaviour pisses me off. On a few occasions, I have told them that their disregard and manners are unacceptable. The response has always been rude and unregretful, then followed to simply mind my own damn business. This is where we are heading, a society of egocentrism and narcissism. 

People, if you aren't up to the task of raising your kids, then get a colour television.

The Immutable Change

 As you get older, your circle of friends and confidants shrink drastically. People say: "we grow apart". A diplomatic statement to cover up the ugly truth of our increased self-awareness and selfishness that comes with age. Once we realise that the friend can no longer provide for our long-term needs, be it emotional, financial, or intellectual, that person is discarded. You could argue that this is a crude oversimplification and that more factors are involved, but be honest. We are self-serving cunts. Nobody loves you more than you love you. With that said, there are exceptions. There are people whose presence in our lives is a constant. They are with you through the good and ugly, always ready to catch you if you fall, listen, and tell you the truth.

Recently I lost someone very dear to me. If only the cause had been death, I would have been able to process the loss and tell myself that is the way of things. However, in this case, it resulted from engineered, twisted mindfuckery and puppeteering by a third party. Many nights have I lay awake, staring idly into the darkness, pondering how and why things crumbled to this state and ways to remedy it. Unfortunately, there is no going back. The pillar in my life cracked, and with it, my core, my foundation.

To presume that certain things can't change has proven to be a fallacy. While certain things in life may be sacred to you, others could very well disagree with your point of view in silence. You may realise that your pillar no longer has any need of you. Those long-term needs... well, they're provided by someone else.

The Age of Super Wank

So, here I am again, emerged after an extended but unintentional pause. When people say that the years have been kind to them, I'm convinced they're either lying, have unrestricted access to recreational drugs, or are the offspring of one of the few and effete European royal families. The years that pass have their portion of good and bad in them, with the only common denominator being the increasing pace at which they pass. Yes, time is a rogue agent, operating under its own rules and unafraid to piss on the laws of physics.

It is unclear when and how that society has become an egocentric, narcissistic cesspool. Though many would argue that the rise of social media to be the main culprit. Too many people have been given an outlet to voice and act out their fantasies. This is what happens when people are allowed to rub one out to their own videos and photos, the ultimate Droste effect of recursive masturbation: Super Wank. 

Intelligence and wisdom have dwindled proportionally with the increase of shallow people insisting on uttering their dim-witted opinions. Any form of reason or logic is shackled and gagged to make way for the simpleton's paradise. I've effectively stopped watching and reading news due to the endless feed of deterioration and corruption of morals. Traditional values designed to maintain and protect society have been deemed obsolete, only to be replaced by ideas inherently inclined towards violent mental masturbation. One might wonder where and when a line will be drawn, but it seems that people are happy doing whatever they want without being held accountable.

Statistically speaking, I still have a couple more decades on this planet. And while I can't imagine what new degenerative trends could surface during that time, I'm confident that the depraved cunts demolishing our society and culture won't disappoint. Can anything be done to stop or reverse this effect? Personally, I doubt it, but I'm willing and hoping to be proved wrong. For now, stay sane by staying away from the Super Wank.

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?

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.

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.

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

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

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…

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

Dabka Soul Train

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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