Saturday, April 16, 2005

I hate philosophers.

Now and again, I dabble a little in philosophy. Which is something that gives me joy and hopefully some wisdom. The only downside to philosophy is the philosophers. I'm not talking about "real" philosophers here like Spinoza, the Christ and Socrates, I'm talking about the human puke that deems it necessary to drool their ill-conceived plagiarisms all over the net.
Every other week I seem to be confronted with yet another narcissistic failure of a man, indulging in some form of auto-erotic mental gymnastics. Let's for example take a look at some of the semi-philosophical phlegma I was confronted with last week:

"i wonder, though, if that is enough for what it sounds from the substance of what you write if that is enough : the contact between artist and audience? perhaps as i read more and more entries about your connecting with your friends there the friendship and connection you seek precipitates out upon the screen, and the artist/audience interactions becomes merely ... screen fill ..."

Allthough contrary to popular belief, I'm not really that dumb, I must confess that I have absolutely no idea what this motherfucker is on about.
Now let's compare that piece of philosophical herpes with a quote from my favourite philosopher:

"Let he who is without sin, throw the first stone."

Do you see the difference? It's plain! It's simple! And it's shocking in its life-altering vision.
I have developed this little theory about what drives this human waste to continue to barf their syphillus ridden little theories out, in an attempt to produce an original thought. And it can be stated plain in simple (Like any good philosophy....... Applause and Pussy.

When I was a little kid, my mother, everytime I went to take a crap, would come, look at it, and applaud. Giving me a sense of creativity and a shit-load of positive feelings about myself. And still everytime I create one of those magnificent piles of doodoo, I can hear choirs of angels breaking out into a song. Now imagine someone not blessed with a creatively poo-obsessed mother like mine. A mother who uses words like: "stink", "bad" and "dirty". Somehow a child will start to wonder how he can get someone to applause for his shit. Such a person may grow up to talk shit, and write shit and think shit, just in an effort to get mommy to applaud. BUT SHE OBVIOUSLY WONT YOU OBNOXIOUS NARCISSITIC ASSHOLES!

Which is brings us to the all-important pussy! Let's just have a look at the life of the marvelous philosopher Foucault. His philosphy is simple, crystal-clear and always relevant. Now you might think this Foucault got the pussies shoved in his face for breakfast. Wrong! Foucault's life was overshadowed by a great lack of pussy. In fact, I don't believe he ever got any. So what does this teach us? PHILOSOPHY IS NOT GOING TO GET YOU ANY PUSSY ASSHOLES! Personality, nice eyes and a great butt rakes in the pussy, not unintelligible scriblings about the meaning of the universe.

I hope we have all learned something today. As for me, I'm going to the shitter to enjoy the music.

Friday, April 15, 2005

Death List

You know how certain things are just part of you and completely normal and conductive to leading a healthy, happy and productive life? Until some stuck-up bitch tells they are evil, crazy and make the baby Jesus cry?
That's what happened to my deathlist.
As far as I can remember, I've always had a deathlist. My father had a deathlist. I know my mother keeps a detailed one with name of the offender, date of offence and details regarding the alleged wrongdoing. (Details ranging from: "Didn't return my greeting.", to "Had orange handbag with red shoes.")
So as you can see, keeping a deathlist, for me, was a normal part of being a responsible adult.
Now for those not in the know, a deathlist is a list, with people who make you want to break out in a song. Like "How do I get you alone.", by Marilyn Manson on crack while cleaning his flamethrower. People that should be careful crossing the street in my neighbourhood. That kind of thing.
Apart from it being a great stress-reliever, a deathlist also helps you get to sleep. There is nothing better to get rid of the stress of the day than to devise new methods of making your list a little shorter. I remember once, using state-of-the-art CAD techniques, devising a contraception, that would allow me to hoist one of my list-buddy's, to the cieling of my appartment. With a simple push on a remote control, the contraception would lower itself, until the crotch of the list-buddy would be in kicking range of my foot. A friendly visit from my steel-tipped boot would send him flying back to the cieling again.
Imagine the sheer joy! Lying on the couch with Mickey, the fireplace burning, an operette playing in the background, a good wine, and some poor motherfucker strapped to the cieling getting the living shit kicked out of him.

Now why am I writing all this down? Because some oversized boulemic bitch told me it was sick to have a deathlist. And that made me sad. And that confused me and that got me thinking.
But that's all over now. She just made the list.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Blocked Me

Blocked Me

Ok....... this one had me rolling on the floor.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Back by popular demand!

Home at last. The vacation did me good. When you go south in the Netherlands, the scenery changes. Where at first there are only green fields as far as the eye can see, the landscape takes on an earthier colour, more trees appear and the landscape eventually changes into rolling hills.
The last time I drove this route, was when I brought my lover to the airport, never to see her again. Every windmill I passed reminded me of how I pointed it out to her. I remember her sticking her face up the carwindow and absorbing every sight as if she couldn't get enough of it. Her joy was childlike and unconcealed. Beautiful to behold.
Well.... ehm...... yeah...... (There goes my insensitive tough-guy image.)

My vacation itself consisted of long walks through forests and fields, venturing into the dangerous lands of Belgium and Germany. The only note-worthy conversation I had was with a friendly shopkeeper who got a little carried away, asking personal questions. I really had to restrain myself not to grab her furry little in-bred ears and smash that porksnout on the counter. But I'm digressing.

I actually did learn a lot about life and myself these last few days and have made a little list of my most noteworthy and wise thoughts.

1. Never scratch your balls right after crushing dried chilli peppers with your hands.
2. Stick to Heineken and dont try the local drool.
3. There is no fate worse for a man than losing his connection to God.
4. Don't go chickshopping at "Motorclub Jack's Place" (by bikers for bikers).