My mind is quiet now. The shouting. The swearing. The hammered digits. They’re all silent now. The only sound I hear is the blood rushing through my ears like Niagara falls as I stand, mallet in hand, and stare at the carnage before me. At my feet the 9v cordless drill whirrs to itself, it’s trigger taped down with duck tape. The word Budgiefuckers had been scratched into it’s plastic housing in some rage induced font.
After the ordeal of the chest of drawers I didn’t imagine that things could get worse.
But they could.
I hate flat packed furniture.
The screw guide holes are always that little bit too far to the left, you need a Phd in angles to get the doors to hang straight, the instructions always read like they were translated from Japanese into Hebrew through Flemish before eventually being hastily copied down in English by some hamfisted warehouse jocky called Steve, and fuck me if there isn’t always one piece either missing or that tiny little bit mis-shaped so that it doesn’t work quite as it’s supposed to.
When I’m ass deep behind enemy lines….I’m talking so far into the bad guys territory that the only way to prevent myself from taking a high velocity round to the face is by growing a stupendous beard through sheer force of will…when I’m in that much trouble, and the A-Team nor Chuck Norris are anywhere around…then I would appreciate some kind of headup display informing me of what’s coming up, what I can expect to see in the next 25 minutes or so.
It could save my life.
Look, I’m not a grammar Nazi or anything, but when are we going to stop allowing any illiterate twat that can string a couple of words together near a microphone?
Why am I so vitriolic this week? I’ll explain, though I should point out that it isn’t a long story. In fact, it isn’t a short story, but more of a micro tale.
So, 2011 appeared. Awesome.
Ya know, I kinda hoped that the new year would bring with it some form of relief from the bloated, off-colour, tumescence that my spleen has become. Relief in the form of more happy, smiley thoughts than dark, brooding, evil, murderous thoughts at the inane world around me.
But I was too hopeful, too enthusiastic at the thought of my brain being filled with more than bile and venomous rage, and volcanic anger.
Because we went bed shopping at the weekend.
So, it’s Christmas then. Bargain.
Look, this year has been a bit odd, and it’s taken me a while to find my stride, but I think I’ve made it. Sure many entries in this blogs were worse than a shit stained copy of Katie Price’s autobiography, but that’s only because I forgot what I needed to be doing; forgot what I’m good at: Complaining. Oh, I complained a lot, but compared to how it should have been I may as well have simply stuck my tongue out at everyone and stomped off to have a good cry behind the shed every week. I think I was trying to reinvent myself a bit; pretend that I’m a normal guy really once you got passed the bile and drying spleen carcasses, but it wasn’t really working for me. All it really did was cause me to churn out page after page of craptastic shite. From now on, I’m embracing my inner git because it’s been a while since he’s had free run of my head.
There really is no reason to fight it anymore, so I’m going to come right out and say it:
I am a miserable bastard!!
So, I’m watching TV, right, and this woman (who’s on the run from the cops) grabs a hostage at random, points her gun at said hostages head and screams at the myriad police officers who have swarmed into the building and who now out number her roughly 300:1 to put their guns down, or she’ll shoot the hostage.
Hi, by the way……
Well, here we are again. Another week, another few minutes of your life I’m going to steal and add to my own, thus ensuring I live longer than I have any natural right to.
My topic this week is mundane, even encroaching on dull’s territory, but it’s one I’m becoming increasingly confused by as the years race passed me at an ever increasing pace; snow.
It is seems that I am not the sanest midget in the cracker factory today and, quite frankly, I don’t intend on being. Saneness is for fools, insanity’s where the money lies! How do I know? Because my car’s broken down again.
In fact, not only did it breakdown, but did so mid-homeward journey, on the high street, in rush hour traffic!!! 20 minutes I spent sitting in a rapidly freezing Rover, hazards blinking, whilst a dirty great queue of increasingly irritated drivers formed behind me as I tried to stop the recorded message at the other end of my phone to stop talking for 2 fucking seconds so I could speak to the AA and ask them very nicely to pick me up, simply by shouting at her, before my mobile’s battery died.
So why the insanity plea? Because, frankly, I haven’t seen any evidence that being sane is in any way better than a big steaming bowl of fruit loops. And as I have to pay out yet more money to the thieving bastards at the garage so that they can tut at my car and giggle as I hand over my debit card for the 14th time this year, I’ve decided that I can’t take it any more and have actually, finally cracked. I did it myself with a really big pair of nut crackers.
As you can see, not a rational bunny at all. Prepare then, oh mortals of this soft and fetid rock we call home, for just a great pile of shit.
Sorry people, we’ve had word from Mat that there won’t be a What’s in my Drawer this week. In his own words: The PC decided to sulk yesterday and wouldn’t let me on anything. It’s not working properly this morning either.
Hopefully business as usual next week.