The northlondonhippy

Archive for October 18th, 2009

Blah, blah, blah.

That’s what other people’s excuses and apolo­gies sound like to my jaded ears. Just so much noise and hot air.

I’ll spare you mine. I don’t actu­ally have any. I just haven’t both­ered to post any­thing here.

Call me crap-ass if you like. Mr. Cra­pass. Crap­pen­stein. Crapfuckingtastic.

Just don’t ever call me late for din­ner. You can ask your grand­par­ents where that one comes from because its older than they are.

Its not that I don’t come up with great ideas for things to write about every day, because I do. Com­ing up with this shit’s not hard, sit­ting down and doing it is.

I always seem to have some­thing else to dis­tract me away from doing some­thing semi-productive and nearly use­ful, like writ­ing one of my patented hippy things. Ok, I haven’t actu­ally patented them, because some­one already beat me to it and got the patent on crap.

I’d rather be day dream­ing. I’d rather watch tv, or read or pass out in a drug induced stupor.

Alright, truth be told, its been years since I’ve been in any sort of stu­por because I don’t do those naughty drugs any more. I don’t even drink and trust me, if you’re aim­ing for a stu­por, booze is most def­i­nitely your bestest buddy.

The only rea­son I’m grac­ing you with my pres­ence now is that I popped onto my own web­site and noticed how long it had been since I both­ered to post any­thing and I thought, “fuck man every­body gonna think I be dead or some shit like that”.

Yes, I my inner voice sounds like that, doesn’t yours?

So here I am, after a night­shift and a cou­ple of spliffies, spew­ing utter rub­bish just for the sake of hav­ing some­thing semi-current on the top of my home page. Do peo­ple even call them home­pages any more?

Maybe I’m just los­ing touch. I gen­uinely had to look up some words in the Urban Dic­tio­nary that the kids are using these days, because I didn’t fuck­ing under­stand them.

Maybe I am your grandpa.

Oh yeah, we’re approach­ing my birth­day, its only a cou­ple of months away. Is it too early for me to start my annual moan about age­ing and mid­dle age and dying and death and yada yada yada?

Appar­ently not.

I was going to write some­thing about zom­bies the other day. I can sum it up for you. I saw Zom­bieland. I liked Zom­bieland. I like Zom­bies. Zom­bies scare the bee­jeezus outta me because they are dead, right, but like they’re walk­ing around and you know, they want to eat your brains, only you can’t kill ‘em, um…because like they’re already dead?

Ok, that’s not really my review of Zom­bieland, though I did see it and I did like it, but that was an actual review I over­heard on the street. I might have made up the bee­jeezus part for comic effect, but the rest is pretty much word for word what I overheard.

I was going to stretch all that out to 1000 words. You don’t have to thank me for spar­ing you that zomb­i­fied opus, just send cash or pro­vide sex­ual favours to me and all my friends.

How cool would that be if ran­dom strangers from the inter­net offered to shag my friends, just because I asked them too. I’d be the most pop­u­lar guy around. You’d want to be my friend too. I can sort you out with ran­dom hook-ups, no charge.

Wait a sec­ond, if I have ran­dom strangers will­ing to sleep with peo­ple I know, I’d be a fool not to charge some­thing. How about a han­dling fee? That sounds fair. Shall we call it £200 quid for the hour, you can talk extras directly with your inter­net date upon arrival.

You see, this is how peo­ple sud­denly become pimps. One minute, your just typ­ing some crap on the inter­net, the next you’re run­ning a sta­ble of pros.

Snoop Dogg’s life sud­denly makes a lot more sense to me now.