I am a gradually opening door.

The more time I spend in this place of my head, the more I like the way you look from where I’m standing.

So the cute Cypriot lost that tennis game, but we whupped the cricket, so I’m ok. Balls and whistles.

I will burn you mudders. Wit my whup-ass stick of no lagwage bitch. Suk on tat. I da boss! Da BOSS.

Where exactly are the four/165 places Neil Finn intends to kiss that woman in “Throw your arms around me” ?? I wish I could shed my skin, like snakes! Man that would be so cool! But then I wouldn’t have arms to throw around Neil Finn. Shoot.

Lately I’ve been trying to record more of my music, it’s hard work but it’s sorta getting there. All it proves is that I am insane, and that follows into my wacky recording techniques which mostly involve hacking up snippets of that show “King of Queens” over some guitar frills in Am. Hell, it’s still better than that fucking Bernard Fanning song. Gad damnit! I could spank his bearded amazingly musically talented just not on his own ass into the next hottest 100. Get back with Powderfinger where I respect, nay love you with all my body, bitch!

I beat like a drum, drum tight skin and sweating beaters, longing for a little future faces, keeping the rhythm. I can’t wait until I beat out 18 years. Booze and casino for this sprightly pumpkin.

I wish you were all in my pants. I’ll have to settle for you, you and…. Maybe you later, if I feel good.

Killing whilst bantering

You know what’s a great word? Braggadocio.

I find that everyone has one really interesting obscure place where they like to be touched, and for everyone’s it’s slightly different.

“I don’t care if I fuck up, I’m going on a date, with a rich white lady, ain’t life great?”
NO ELIOTT, LIFE IS NOT GREAT AT ALL. Life is one crushing blow after another until you want to hide in a small hole and just quit because everyone is beautiful until you find out they’re not, and then they look even nicer. I saw someone that looked so much like someone I know that I thought they were today. Yes, ichi ban, that’s what I said.
You know it’s bad when the dreams start again. Filing cabinets of the mind, apparently.

Click Click Click my chair is making clicking noises at me. GROWL! Yeah. That shut the bastard up like a shivering penis. Don’t creakity crick at me.

I should make an absentee list each day of people I should be seeing or talking to and not. I feel bad. I want to be able to do the Robbie Williams impersonating Elvis pose in that video clip. So fucking sexy, I’m going out right now and buying a glitter suit.
Then you’ll touch me in my special place. Damn women, they just don’t understand. Damn men too I suppose.

Bridge your gaps, then burn those bridges. LOVE

Lick Me. Now sugar free.

It’s not even pig sex unless you both enjoy it right? Fuck the letter of the law, I’ll send you a letter.

Was there a cartoon called Preston Pig? Is that just me?

Belgian Waffles, and also Belgian Wafflers, one leads to the next, I wonder if they’re all heterosexual. I wonder if we’ll ever know which things are important.

OR, as Joyce Cary said,
“The saddest thing is that we don’t know what we don’t know, and the more a man thinks he knows, the less he does.”

I was recently on the continent, as they say, and I tried an eloquently flavoured pasta dish with a certain unknown spiced sausage of some description and it had a certain… ambiguous flavour, I loved it. Of course, I’m always on the continent, and the pasta came from a packet of the brand “Continental,” but hell, what really is the meaning of putting the world’s good fortunes to yours. Eh?

I have also been somnambulating…. But perhaps I only dream that I do. We believe in what we cannot see, and we see what we cannot believe, so who will film it? Jim Jarmusch… god I hope so. We’ll all be minimalist idols.

Minimalist Idols? Jack White? Big Day Out? SURE DO HAVE MY TICKET. See you there, fellow fans, I hope they play Truth Doesn’t Make a Noise. Then again, fuckit, artistic freedom abound, play whatever the Christ nigger porn slut they want!

Bent Get, assholes of the ever daily night!

Candied Camera

Catch, 22. Ah, you fucking dropped it ya ‘tard.

Get into Wilco. Get into Yankee Hotel Foxtrot by Wilco. Get into my pants. If only my pants had written a ground shattering alt-country CD you sure would be in them. Curse you, whoever you are.

Pleasures of the flesh and the sea, swimming, lazily, in both. Clenching my fist just to see if it makes a difference, in a larger sense, because the atomic bomb didn’t, so we need some new weapons.

Lately I’ve been busy. This is probably not of interest. I’m sure you come here for what? For the font? Is it for the lack of images of Christ? Heck, why do you visit, gentle gentiles? Or chewy jews for that matter? Why are you an extraneous part of my life on a frequent basis!?

Let’s play ball then folks?

When I say Hey! You say Huh? When I say Michigan Fisheries Departmental Meeting, 12.30pm, Tuesday, you say Huh? Then we take Morrissey’s advice and hang the DJ.

Oh, get into the Smiths. Actually don’t, if you do, you’ll be hooked, and they are the most powerful of all addictions. Don’t risk the dark plunge. Unless you like it at the bottom of the black pool…