All About The Englishman
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Things fall apart. The center cannot hold.
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[Playing] Oh, holy Halo 2, Xbox
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Monday, March 7
New Site, Whaaaat?
That's right folks. Fans of the visual arts can head over to Where's My Parade? to gorge yourselves on the bloated nipple of my artistic creativity. Make haste, before it bursts!
thus spake The Englishman at 1:22 PM
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Sunday, December 26
This, my first American Christmas season, has without a shadow of a doubt been the most materialistic, gluttonous, indulgent, deceitful, prozac-induced, commercial, forced, colorful, plastic, spoilt, exuberant, paganistic, delusional, raw, contrasted, conflicted, memorable, orchestrated, amorphous, hip-hop, pre-pubescent, glorious, conquestuous, stupendous, orgiastic, politically-correct, hilarious, covered in mayonnaise and begging for mercy at gunpoint holiday I have ever experienced in my two-score years on God/Allah/Shiva/Other (please explain)'s green earth.
And I fucking loved it. Thanks, gods (and 'esses - M, I'm looking at you). . .
thus spake The Englishman at 9:39 PM
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Friday, December 3
It's Family Movie Time!
The real 'Lemony Snicket's A Series Of Unfortunate Events Culminating In A Shit Lasagne'
Classic.
thus spake The Englishman at 4:44 PM
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Thursday, December 2
Stalled Negotiations
<great vengeance and furious anger>
Dear Person Who Designed Every Public Toilet Stall In The Western World,
You unspeakable fuck. Don't laugh, I mean it - you are a Fuck.
Your handiwork is among the most critical and visible on the face of the planet - everyone has at least once in their lifetime been surrounded by it, stared at it, and in some instances even ingeniously written their nemesis' phone number with the tagline "For a great blowjob, call Hank" (sorry, Hank). Many of my own personal life philosphies have been delivered to me via the medium you designed. . .and I'll admit, some splendid blowjobs too (thanks, Hank).
Why then, did you feel the need to ensure that when I am engaged in one of the more private bodily expulsions, I can see next to me another man's crumpled trousers and skidstained underwear dancing around his hairy calves? Did you think it was funny to force strangers to be able to hear each other's every breath, every grunt, passage of gas, buttock adjustment and occasional mumbling? Was the "make the walls a ruddy great foot-and-a-half off the ground" design consideration over your head, carelessly passed down from on high by the great toilet-stall tycoons of the late 19th and early 20th centuries in a bid to scrape a few extra bucks into their corpulent bank accounts?
Don't try to pass the buck - I'll take on the tycoons in another post, thankyouverymuch. Whether this abortion of a design was your idea or not, you are the inflictor of the punishment, therefore I expect you to fix it. And because I am so self-righteously angry (and every televangelist and God-fearing prole knows you can't be "self-righteous" without being "right", right?), I am going to dictate the necessary changes. Or you will burn in Hell. And I'll key your car, oh trust me, I'll key that sucker good.
- Walls touch the floor. ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS! - That goes double for doors - impatient fuckers will simply need more patience; they do NOT need to be able to watch my feet as they shift nervously and turn inward with the strain of defecation. - Soundproofing. Specifically these stalls must be proof against the sound of poo coming out of someone else when I'm trying to poo myself - it's like a disgusting fecal version of 'Simon Says'. Don't ask me for the mechanics, just do it. - Wet wipes to stop the attack of the Cling-ons. - Musak. Helps us really feel it when we say "This music is shit!" - Butlers. English ones. And they must all be blind, either from birth, or you can do it in the job interview, I don't care. - Non-stain bowls; anal roadkill smeared around the bowl from an unsuccessful flush is just not cricket.
There, I've made myself clear. You have your mandate, now get to it! Don't make me reach for my keys. . .
</great vengeance and furious anger>
thus spake The Englishman at 2:02 PM
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Wednesday, December 1
People in Knead
My darling M,
If you are reading this, I thank the gods that my communique has made it through the blockade. As you may have heard in the latest news telegrams from the front, the armed uprising against Finagle-A-Bagel hasn't quite gone according to plan. Three months in and I can see the strain, I see the look of defeat in my men's eyes. They know it as well as I, yet it is I who is denied the luxury of admitting it in even the hushest of tones in the corridors surrounding the War Room.
I haven't slept in days.
To the East, General Honey Grain is amassing his forces, aided by Commander Chunky Vegetable's relentless artillery corps. To the South and the West, the Cinnamon Raisin Hun raid our camps nightly, making off with at least two or three of our number each time. The North is home to the doughless heart of our foe, the feared Roasted Garlic and Parmesan Brigade, led by our nemesis himself, Brigadier Finagle.
To this day, I am still disbelieving of the treachery of the Cream Cheese Rangers at the battle of Baker's Field. To think that was the pivotal moment that diverted us to the point at which we find ourselves! Victory seemed to us all but assured and we salivated with the anticipation of tasting the spoils, of picking the oniony remains of our savage enemies from betwixt our teeth. In this soldier's hindsight it is easy to admonish myself for welcoming the supposed defector into our band of freedom fighters, forgiving the blood the Cheese had spilled, and to forego the unbecoming precaution of checking the "sell-by" date.
The horrors of that day shall not leave my memories voluntarily. Scores of bodies, doubled over with paralyzing cramps, the permeating smell of vomit and soiled uniforms mixed with Boston Kreme, whilst all around me men screamed and wailed in peristaltic agony. As I stood immobile, with my lieutenants all around me ordering a full retreat, I knew the traitors were watching - I caught a lone Cream Cheese's eye across the battlefield as it picked its merry way back towards the tyranny I thought it had forsaken. As I searched its mould-spotted face for some sign, some hint of remorse, the Cheese just laughed. . .
The ground shakes - they are advancing on our position, in preparation for the death-blow to our futile rebellion. . .it comes much sooner than I expected. Whilst my subordinates curse the sky and beg wretchedly for their lives in the face of the impending baked doom, I only wish I could gaze once more upon your sweet glazed visage.
Goodbye my love, and never forget that I am best kept in a cool dark place.
General Dunkin Englishman,
Rt. Hon. Commander of the Baked Armies
thus spake The Englishman at 2:10 PM
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Friday, August 20
Kiss The Rings, Bitch!
Above is the new life motto, used frequently (and accidentally in a very public manner at work today, bringing the Englishman's HR points up by 1; only 5 more till 'involuntary retirement'!), an unabashed plagiarism of that comedic genius, Dave Chappelle. It takes a lot of skill to find a word that has lost its' offensive punch, and polish, revitalise and carve out a new place for it in civil society.
For making the word 'Bitch' funny again, I give you kudos, Mr. Chappelle, kudos.
I suggest you all try it. Simply disagree, play a game, or start an armed conflict with someone, win it, and end on the sourest of notes by slipping in "yeah, that's right. Kiss the rings, bitch!" as a parting shot. "How to Lose Friends and Alienate Yourself", indeed, but how sweet it feels!
Note to self: get more rings
Follow up note: Introduce idea of polygamy to the Woman as way of getting more rings. Proposed benefits include someone else to do dishes, someone to take her side in arguments (make sure Woman #2 is mute), and someone to lend 'feminine hygiene products' when the Woman is out. Yeeees, it's all going according to plan. . .
Coming soon, the Englishman strikes a blow for the common man against the most faceless of faceless corporate machines, Finagle-a-Bagel.
Keep the cheeks in the seats.
thus spake The Englishman at 10:35 AM
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Wednesday, August 11
Horny Feelings
Hi
I know, I know. I haven't called. I didn't write. We had a fantastic time together - don't scoff, I really mean it - we had a fantastic time together and then, I just, just disappeared. It must have looked like I didn't care, or that what we shared meant nothing to me. That's so far from the truth.
You see, I was ashamed. No, no, let me finish, I have to tell you this. I was ashamed of the lie that I and your astigmatism allowed you to believe - you never questioned it, and all the while I was telling myself that you didn't deserve to live with such a pretense. You're so kind, and such a great companion. You were understanding about the diarrhoea incident, and you never mentioned a word about the flies, or the poaching attempt when we were out to dinner that one time. You defended me in Chinatown. You were the picture of compassion when I wrecked your jeep with my bare hands in what was, in hindsight, a hilarious misunderstanding involving my limited perpheral vision, and innate distrust of moving objects of considerable size. I've since gotten my contacts adjusted, and vehicles don't befuddle me as much now.
You made me feel special, and I wanted to give you everything you dreamed of in a companion. That's why I was afraid to tell you about me, the real me, the me that was watching you enjoy my company from afar, and whose heart ached to tell you the truth that I am not the sophisticated debonair you thought I was. I'm not your prince charming.
I am a rhinocerous.
I know, it's hard to believe - my class, my elegance, my knowledge of fine wines; all my own. My parents live in the savannah out in west Africa. I was there when I told you I was leaving to go distribute aid to the third world with my inherited millions. The truth is, for the 6 months that we've been apart, I just sat there, eating long grass, taking mudbath after mudbath, and trying to make my aching heart forget about you.
But I couldn't do it. I'm truly sorry for what I did. And so now, here I stand, in your doorway, asking you to forgive me, and take me in.
Before Animal Control gets here, if possible, and I get darted, tagged, and released into the wild.
thus spake The Englishman at 1:38 PM
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