Thought Vomit #53: ft. Yahoo Serious

Sometimes the ideas, they just don’t come. They flit through the mind momentarily; you evaluate them, and dismiss them as mental gash. Sometimes my brain is about as useful as my lower back.

I could blame the little gnome that’s sat on my keyboard; he’s very off-putting. Not because he’s so small, but because his little knees are on backwards. So every time he tries to ties his shoe laces, he kicks himself in the face.

I could blame him. But he doesn’t exist, and is rather the pre-frontal ejaculations of a thoughtfully repressed man moron.

Time to bribe myself it seems. There’s a small box of Thornton chocolates waiting to be rammed in to my copious gob, and if I can come up with one thing worth the effort of typing, I shall be allowed to unceremoniously gorge them through my gullet. It won’t be enjoyable; it’ll be an empty and unfulfilling experience. Rather like wanking in a lay-by.

I imagine.

There was a man in the audience of my gig last night who had one of those big bellowing laughs; the kind of laugh that makes the rest of the crowd want to laugh more too. I sometimes wonder if an audience makes its own fun, feeding off of itself like a cat licking his balls, and the entertainment is somewhat superfluous. There might be some truth to this, having seen many a good act struggle with an audience, and many an average act get swept up in the mirth.

That might be worth a Vanilla Velvet at the very least.

Am I the only person in the world that hates Simon Callow?

One of my most striking memories, apropos of nothing, is of a small tatty poster pinned to a door in a corridor of my university. It was about a hockey practice, and at the foot of the notice, in huge bright blue lettering, it read: There Are No More Wednesdays.

It turned out not to be true. I’ve experienced at least a dozen Wednesdays in the following decade, and not all of them were worth the effort. If there were indeed no more Wednesdays, I doubt anyone would notice. Wednesdays are the pathetic fallacy of ennui. And they smell of piss.

No, I don’t know what I’m on about either. That’s what a combination of too much chocolate and a malfunctioning cerebellum get you – a cortexspasm.

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