Got a proper job
Reviewing computer games
Will write something soon

It’s a bit rum, having a job I want to be good at. Doesn’t leave much time for fucking about, taking photos of plastic fannies and doing everything in my power to not be productive. I’ll be back at the blog soon, and any of you with any experience of my promises will know; they amount to a peppering of shit dust all over your dinner.

Don’t resent me a shred of happiness, you ghastly pack of bumwolves.

Gather round, scamps and travellers - and hear my tale. Hear about what happens when you allow unapologetic incompetents to flail unchecked in the offices of our land. My own tale begins innocently enough, with a simple lapse in organisation, followed by a profound disinclination to “do anything about it”, in the spirit of “oh God, do I have to, hmph”.

If I was a mechanic, my customers’ bonnets would flip up, tear off, and shear through a cyclist’s torso. If I was a tailor, my range of bespoke suits would cause a lingering melancholy and laziness that would - eventually - lead to the cessation of all human reproduction. It’s what I do. I do things badly, and people always suffer like you wouldn’t believe.

This is why I limit myself to admin jobs; it’s the same everyday consideration that makes modern Gorgons train their hair not to hiss at the cinema. What possible harm could I do in a menial admin job? Well, I’ll fucking tell you. I forgot to photocopy the study guides for Midwifery Pragmatism.

Now I didn’t realise they had to be taught this; I thought midwives were going to be pretty pragmatic by default. I mean it’s pretty down-to-earth and real stuff, running around saying “shit, a baby - get it the fuck out of that woman before it eats her hole” and “no way, another baby - do you want me to pull it out underwater?”.

What I’m saying it that pragmatism is essential to midwifery. Too little, too much, and babies start dying. And now, thanks to me, a generation of totally fucking impractical midwives have been unleashed. I mean, shit! I’ve started a midwifery timebomb!

By 2007, these people will be delivering their first babies. The midwives - I say midwives, by now they’re just baby-killing machines - will be taking the expectant mothers to Alton Towers. Then, when the mothers go on the nice swan boats they start shouting “BOOOORING LET’S GO ON OBLIVION”.

By 2008, caretakers at the Obvlion will have to unsnag the umbilical cords from the frame, so that other customers don’t get smashed in the face with a 60mph toddler. They’ll become really immune to infant mortality, and it’s my fault. Their wives will say “why aren’t you gasping, there’s all manner of infant mortality on the television, and some is particularly excellent” and the man will say “my daily life is now a catalogue of human remains and unrealised potential, thanks to Log“.

Well, I’ll tell you what. I’m not hanging around for the fallout. I’m fucking OUT of here. On Friday, when my contract ends. I just hope to God that I’m out of here before the carnage starts, and the blood starts flowing.

This is totally like I’ve fucked up the Bible.

This award ceremony is held in the honour of my competition winner, mydeaddog, to whom I have dedicated the rest of February. I daresay we’ll be seeing a bit of him around here over the next few posts - anyway, this is the best idea I have ever had for a film.

24 HOUR DELIVERY
A young girl, who is dumb with shock from witnessing the murder of her mother, writes a letter to the murderer (in a charming yet totally heartbreaking display of childishness she just puts “to the personn who kild mi mummy” on the envelope).

She opts for the 24 HOUR DELIVERY service, and the man on the counter says “hey, lady - what’s a little cutey like you got with urgent business?” and the girl says “actually it’s a letter to the man who murdered my mum“. (She can’t talk so she says it with her eyes, like Groucho Marx).

But the letter gets opened by this evil postman who reads letters and laughs at the spelling mistakes. And he’s going “ha ha, this girl’s mum’s dead, this is my impression of a woman being murdered”. But when he’s doing this, enter NICK NOLTE - who says “she payed for 24 HOUR DELIVERY. (the title) That’s more than just a contract of service, Dave. It’s a promise to a little girl.”

But the letter’s open now, so he’s all like “well I’m a vegetarian but it’s dead anyway so let’s eat”. So he reads it and starts crying, and says “I’m going to solve this crime and keep our promise by finding the murderer in 24 hours” and Dave agrees to be his sidekick.

After looking up addresses on the internet but not finding any suspicious ones, Dave says “Let’s go ask that guy who killed his wife in the pub.” NICK NOLTE thinks this is a good idea, but says “we’ll need to go undercover - let’s put blood on our faces”. There’s a funny moment where Dave says “I thought you said faeces” and NICK NOLTE says “maybe later dollface” (romantic interest), and then we’re in the pub. I’ve scripted this bit.

ALAN (the baddie) NOTICES BLOOD ON DAVE AND NICK NOLTE IN THE PUB
ALAN : Hello boys, been up to something?
DAVE : Nick and I have murdered our wives.
ALAN : Cool.
NICK : Yes, mine wasn’t happy about it at all, but I just kept stabbing and stabbing.
DAVE : Mine by contrast looked philosophical but disappointed.
ALAN : That’s often worse.
NICK : And now to business do you know anyone who killed the mother of the girl who wrote this letter?
ALAN : That depends. I meet a lot of people who killed the mother of the girl who wrote that letter in my trade.
DAVE : Perhaps this will tickle your fancy. But it is my last one. :(
DAVE HANDS ALAN A JEWEL (character development)
ALAN : OK. But no monkey business!

So they’re all sat down together and they’re all in the room when the LITTLE GIRL from the beginning walks in (plot twist) and she says “Thank you Alan darling. I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about, gentleman”. And then there’s this total revelation. The girl says “I am the murderer, I was expecting your excellent 24 HOUR DELIVERY service to return my inadequately addressed letter to my supplied address after about a week. I felt like I hadn’t been told off properly for the murder, so I wrote myself a stern letter. Krazy I no.”

Then she says some awful shit about how the love of the postmen had given her a voice (something for the ladies) and she could finally realise her ambition to whisper “i love you” after sex (when she is old enough).

Then the credits roll, and we get updates on their lives, like at the end of Legally Blonde. 

Something like “Alan adopted the little girl and lets her play with the corpse of his wife (to reduce culture shock of suddenly having an alive mum)” and “Dave and Nick never get it on but they sometimes make excuses to touch each other”.

My other film is called SHARON BRUCE-TAHOE IS ONE PRIZE FUCKING BITCH and to be honest there’s not much plot in it, it’s just something that I’ve been wanted to say somewhere public since 2003.

Oh, no!

I emailed my good friend Ruth Madoc (pissdrenched@gmail.com) with five images that I got from Google Image search. She loves receiving thematically linked images, and I love her being happy.

However, she’s gone on holiday, and I’ve hit my head with a saucepan. This has resulted in me losing the images, and forgetting the word I typed into Google in the first place. On top of that, I’ve become obsessed with knowing that word as soon as possible. I’m in a right pickle, and to make matters worse, I can’t scream, because I’m at work!

If someone - one of you, perhaps? - could just log into her Gmail account, and retrieve the email I sent, perhaps you could tell me the word I typed into Google?

Ruth DID say that there’s a clue to her Gmail password here (before she went on holiday, anticipating that I would need to do this).

http://www.grapheine.com/bombaytv/playuk.php?id=649622

If you can also tell me what email address Ruth REALLY wanted from Gmail then I might even be thankful enough to put a prize in the post to you or something totally queer like that. She won’t tell me, because she’s embarrassed, but the answer’s in there somewhere, probably hidden in the middle of a pile of spam for gay porn and panda software, knowing Ruth!!!

Answers in the comments, please. And you can’t win if you’re my mate, either. FUCK OFF, YOU STUPID DUMB FRIEND. STOP LOOKING AT ME SHOW OFF TO STRANGERS.

Every image from the random image script on the front of the Adecco website.

I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna fucking get out there and do me some a1 photocopying. And by a1 I mean “top grade” rather than the paper size, because ours can only do a3 although it is a fax, too, which I thought was pretty cool. I mean, whatever next?!?! They’ll be making toast and driving you to the shops.

ADDITION : I don’t have Photoshop at work, so I’m going to have to wait until I get home to put that array of cunts onto traditional office scenes, maybe with speech bubbles. In the meantime, if any of you shitters want to do so, email them to jon dot blyth at gmail dot com and I’ll put them up in the main post with a credit. (500 pixels wide max plize, otherwise I’ll have to resize them at home)

Totally Done By ZPoonZ

From a Hicksion

And Suddenly I Loive ZponZ

Dong by Simes

Now Zpz & me R lk WED

Done by Jonesy

Done by Will Hayward

Done by Hicksion

I just received the finest joke via email. It had the subject title “FW: Hilarious!!! Onestone!!!” Now, I’ve just this very second invented the Whatever Next? Model of Absurd Extrapolation, so I was amazed to suddenly find myself at the very forefront of a new model of joke distribution.

Even if I’m not the first person to have ever received a joke by email, and I’m fairly certain I am, then I’m certainly the first to report it on a “blog”. I won’t tell the whole joke, I will instead reduce it to the vital elements.

[Original email here]

• Because it is a reference to his single testicle, an Indian called Onestone threatens to kill anyone who calls him Onestone, which is his name.
• A lady called Yellow Bird says “Hello Onestone”, and he kills her, using his penis to fuck death into her every bone.
• Another lady called Blue Bird says “Hello Onestone OoOOPs” and he takes her to one side, but this time he utterly fails to kill her like the previous girl, despite repeatedly sticking it in against her will.
• The moral of the story is : “A testicle deficit hinders any prolonged rampage of serious sexual assault and murder.”

Now, this joke made me laugh so much that I got rather stern feeling in my tummy. So I’m going to write five more jokes along identical lines!

1. Once upon a time there was a town called THE BROTH. Then someone built a crypt or TOMB in the town centre and everyone said “oh no, TOMB will SPOIL THE BROTH” but it didn’t. Perhaps spurred on by the towns resilience to such spoilation, a town planner decided to build a big concrete HEN that he could ride in the middle of the night. “Oh no,” cried the Town Mayor. “TOMB, HEN will certainly SPOIL THE BROTH”. But it didn’t. Then they had the internet installed and everyone sent each other pornographic greetings cards called E-COCKS. And the town was totally spoiled.
   Serious town planning is not to be trusted to the whims of fanciful architects. Also be careful of bawdy online content.
2. Water : Hello, Blood! Let’s do sums!
   Blood : HA HA! IT’S A BRA! Give us a biscuit I’m staaaarrrrving.
   Deal only with your social equals.
3. Once upon a time a man called HOT NUTS walked into a pub. The woman behind the bar, whose name was THE PRINCESS, immediately revealed her anus and said “Would you like to sink FAT COCK’S HEAD into this BUCKET OF SHIT?” The man was astounded until she explained that Fat Cock was the name of the pub’s dog, and she produced a bucket of shit from behind the counter and apologised about exposing her anus, explaining that it was a nervous reaction to innuendo. As HOT NUTS forced the dog’s head into the bucket of shit, he reflectsed;
   Ensure that there is no ambiguity in an offer of sex - if there is, seek to iron it out.
4. Six years ago I was trying to change a light bulb. I tried screw bulbs and bayonet fittings, and over seven different sizes and shape of bulb. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the light socket to work. I reasoned that it was an electrical fault, and called the professionals in. Imagine my shock when the man who came to fix my bulb had no fingers, and just a tiny patella on the end of each stump! He winked, and said “My knee-hands make light work”, before I brought a tray of ceramic thimbles crashing down on his fucking head.
   Never startle me with a poorly flagged pun.
5. There was once a war between two VERY different kinds of people, the VAGINAS and the PENISSES. The PENISSES liked watching football and washing their car, whereas the VAGINAS enjoyed strong narratives and emotional complexity. Reasoning that they could never get along, the VAGINAS moved away, into a place they called TINKLE SPRINKLES. And the PENISSES changed the name of their town to MR BOOMBASTIC and drove their cars in races. Then one PENIS said “i want to kiss a vagina” so they drove to TINKLE SPRINKLES and behaved rudely in a restaurant. So outraged were the VAGINAS that they erected a gigantic wagging finger in the town square and the PENISSES looked annoyed but stopped doing it anyway. Then it became known that younger PENISSES and VAGINAS were meeting in a place called LOVE/SEX GULCH and the older folk were so outraged that they joined forces to stop it - but sharing a seat in the bus, some of the older PENISSES and VAGINAS fell in love and when they got there someone said “look we are all getting along” and everyone celebrated Christmas together that year.
   Love will always find a way.

Well, I certainly stopped entertaining myself some time ago, so I’ll leave you all be.