Tag: Poems & Big Words

20 Books You Shouldn’t Read on Public Transport

Pump Him Hard - a good read, but not on the bus.

1. Horse Porn: A History

2. You and Ebola

3. The Hitman’s Handbook

4. Rophynol – A Buyers Guide

5. Wet Nursing Your Grandchildren

6. Pump Him Hard

7. Make It Look Like An Accident

8. Fodor’s Top Ten Whores of Old Amsterdam

9. Pisstory – The History of Public Washrooms

10. Living With Sores

11. Bus Crash: A Pictorial Journey

13. Jihad Made Easy

14. Grow Your Own Brain Worms

15. 30-Day Tripe Diet

16. Kill It, Strip It, Wear It

17. A Red Nose and A Strap-On: Diary of A Sex Clown

18. Human Trafficking for Dummies

19. Cooking Cats the Italian Way

20. Hairy Potter and the Cock Ring of Doom


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Losin’ My Muse

I’ve lost my muse. My supernatural writing mentor vanished two weeks ago, leaving me alone and devoid of inspiration. Unfinished blog drafts sit neglected on my desk; a half-written movie script collects dust instead of Oscars; even my shopping lists are dull and lacking in pace.

Have you seen this chicken... I mean, man?Have you seen my muse anywhere? He’s an overweight, hairy guy called Dave. I know muses are usually beautiful Greek goddesses, but Dave was cheaper. I thought we would work well together. He wasn’t bothered about grammar rules and all that verb-participle stuff, but he liked a good laugh and a cold beer. So I took my chances with Dave.

Maybe it’s my fault. I didn’t appreciate him when he was around. To be honest, he spent most of the time asleep on my couch, waking only to scratch his ass and shout “Have ya written anything yet? No? Get on with it! Write about bees or something.” Then he would fall back into a drunken coma. Did I mention he liked his beer?

Dave might have been drunk and asleep most of the time, but whenever I felt my inspiration slipping away I could rely on him to slap me on the back, belch into my ear, and give me a few words of wisdom:

“Get drunk. Works for me!”
“Copy someone else’s stuff!”
“Go for a walk. I’ll come with ya, if we can stop at the hot dog stand.”
“Drink more.”
“Why don’t ya write about bees?”

Sometimes Dave would disappear for days on end. He would always let me know where he was going; he was good like that. He would leave post-it notes on my desk that read “Bored. See you Tuesday” or “Gone to a rock festival – back when sober”. Oh well, at least Dave’s absence gave me an excuse to procrastinate. I’d work on that storyboard when he got back.

Writer's block? Blame hot dog eating competitions.One time, Dave attended a muse convention. Muses from around the world came together, shared their literary horror stories, and took the piss out of their protégés. There were drinking games and hot dog-eating competitions too. Dave returned from the convention hungover and smelling of mustard. I had hoped he’d learned something, and would be bursting with inspiration.
“I got nuthin’ for ya. Wake me up in a few days and we’ll work on that bee story.”

This time, Dave didn’t leave a note. He just left. Maybe he read my latest script and lost the will to live. Maybe he was tired of all my penis jokes (and no man, not even Dave, can persuade me that a penis is not funny). Maybe he is now asleep on someone else’s couch, smelling of beer and mumbling about bees.

If you have my muse, please, please can you send him back? I promise to be a more attentive student. I promise to get that story finished. Tell him I have hot dogs.


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Oh My God

Hey Tiggy... you're going DOWN!

Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God
Oh My God, Oh Your God, Oh His God, Oh Her God…
Pavement, “Shady Lane”

Do you believe in God? You would think I was a flippin’ nun, the amount of times I say “Oh My God!” And I’m not just talking about shouting it out during those sexy fun time moments. For such a cynical, probably-ex-communicated agnostic, I spend a lot of time referring to “God”. Have you noticed how many silly sayings are associated with the Big Guy?

Godspeed: How fast is that? For an old guy, I can’t imagine God is that fast. Maybe he has a chariot pulled by angels. Naked angels. If I was God, that’s how I’d want to travel.

Maybe he drives a Porsche. Can you get cars in Heaven? How would they get up there? When a car dies, does its oily little soul drive through the Pearly Gates? Or does Heaven have its own car manufacturing industry? So there are factories and manual labour… in Heaven? So much for lazing around on fluffy clouds eating Philadelphia dip.

On the other hand, if God is omnipresent he is already everywhere, so He doesn’t have to move at all. This phrase needs a rethink.

According to Jeffery 21:09, your soul will burn in Hell if you eat peas on Tuesday.God Botherer: One thing worse than a salesman (or a “corporate account executive” as they call themselves now) is a salesman selling God. They eagerly chatter on about Jesus and Good News and His Plan like it’s the first time anyone has told you about it.

You then waste ten minutes ranting about how you read the Bible but couldn’t follow the plot, got beaten up at Bible study as a kid, and how St. Paul said eating shrimp is evil but you like shrimp so stuff what he thinks… and all this time the God Botherer smiles and patiently waits for you to either convert or die of apoplexy.

Is hiring these dicks the best marketing plan God has? If I was God, I’d hire the most kickass marketing people I could, get some prime-time TV advertising going and perhaps sponsor a hockey team or something. It would be cool to be on a squad with God on your side, literally.

Godawful: The God Botherer told me God Is Love, so how can God be awful too? You mean he was lying? You could argue God is awful because he lets earthquakes and tsunamis and premature ejaculation happen. But isn’t that the fault of Mother Nature? So Mother Nature is awful! But she invented rainbows and baby rabbits and smokable herbs, so isn’t she good as well? I’m confused.

Here’s an idea I bet even the Pope hasn’t thought of – supposing God and Mother Nature are married, and are both behind this creation lark? It’s easy to see how trouble starts…

God: Damn you, woman, I told you not to fiddle with that storm cloud! You’ve washed away an entire civilization. I’ve been working on that all week!
Mother: You and your silly little human experiments. When are you going to do something useful, like clean up that oil spill in my ocean? Honestly, playing with tankers at your age…
God: Well if you hadn’t turned those stupid dinosaurs into oil, there wouldn’t be oil spills!
Mother: Dinosaurs were your idea!
God: Try telling that to those frikkin’ Creationists!
Mother: Do you want me to send a hurricane to sort ’em out?
God: Oooh, yes. There’s nothing good on TV tonight anyway… apart from the hockey.

Oh dear, I’ve taken God’s name in vain. Am I going to Hell? Good. It beats working in a Porsche factory.


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