Happy Go Lucky Sunshine Hour

I get off on being indifferent,
I moan when I am mean,
I groan when you are happy,
So I’ll bury you at sea.

Your tears will taste like soda,
Your blood will be so sweet,
Your soul will taste disgusting,
So I’ll drain it down the sink.

Our bodies used to mingle,
Our emotions used to meet,
Our spirits used to fly,
Before we finally faced defeat.

They always used to warn me,
You told me not to see,
I used to fucking try it,
Before I killed you in the street.

The Millionaire Waltz

Tomorrow?
Was it yesterday?
What are you talking about? Who was there? Why wasn't I present?
I was? Well what did I do?
I didn't do that. No. I didn't. Oh god I did, didn't I?
Seemed like a great idea at the time.
Well yes, now I remember it. Third times the charm I guess.

When do you wanna get together?
Cool, works for me. You recovered from the ball last night?
The Baron's shin-dig? We all were. You were there.
Of course! You practically fucked Mistress Morgana in front of everybody, in the cake no less.
You did indeed. Yes. You did. Ha ha, I reckon so.
Still seems like a great idea to me.
So you remember now? Well, at least you're consistent.

Beni and the Writer's Stone

Hello dear people of the unknown universe!


Welcome to a segment I like to call; "Beni has a writer's stone!"

Now some of you may be asking, what the ruddy fuck is a writer's stone?
It's simple really, as any well-balanced or even slightly intelligent person would tell you, a writer's stone is a build-up of solid concretions of dissolved procrastinatory minerals in the imaginary tract of the third eye. Which of course leads to blockage, and an inability to pass your imagination properly. This can sometimes lead to infection, which spawns many...many...terrible ideas.


And for those of you who do not fall into the two previously mentioned categories, I will be plain in explanation.
Writer's stones make it painful, or even impossible, for me to piss out my ideas onto paper.
My literary cock is clogged with so much bullshit that I can't even put on a smile and whistle while I work, just...contorted masks and ugly grins.

Hope this sparked some fun images in your head!
Sure didn't do anything for me.

Infinity Now, Yesterday's Forgotten Lessons

Ugh.
Gag.
Le sigh.
Pussy fucked Popsicle bunny.
Oh man.

Red wine mixed with Guinness. Bad idea? Possibly maybe.
Tequila for dessert. Good idea? Probably not.

Welcome to Hangover, the city of tomorrow.

I miss those things really.
How often do we see those city mock-ups that advertise what life will be like when we can fly our car to the moon and have picnics in bio-domes.
You'd think with all this new fangled raz-ma-taz about the world coming to an end due to the environmental conspiracies of the oil companies, we'd have apocalypse mock-ups.
I don't mean any of that factual, probable shit either.
Fuck no.
I'm tired of seeing penguins covered in oil, followed by Al Gore getting a blow-job at the podium for all his amazing work at pointing out things that other people have been shouting about for ages.
No.
I want a good ol' fashioned "World of Tomorrow"
I wanna walk into a city mock-up, where all the cars are being melted down for scrap, and helium filled dirigibles soar through the air.
I want panicked civilians screaming about how the previous generation raped the planet and left them for dead, then five minutes later see them slink off to the break room to have a cigarette.
Just for the hell of it, lets have the Anti-Christ strolling around, punishing the survivors for allowing sodomy and gay marriage.
Which will bring about the end of the world as we all well know.
I also want gift shops.
Oh the irony of it, I would laugh. And laugh I would.
A room full of plastic baubles advertising a world where they themselves would not exist, perfection.


"Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future."
- That Wilde and Crazy Guy

Lets get ready to rumbaaaaaa~

Rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba!
Rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba!

All right, so I had an interesting day.
I suppose it was different we could say.
Wine fest, Rastas, Go-Go Poles and Koreans singing.
God forgive me, I'm a devil a poach, nearly got six months for a killing a fish.
With a fork.
Sadly it didn't work.
The fish scared me.

Rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba!
Rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba!

So I called people I hadn't spoken to in months.
Maybe even years.
No, just months.
Eight to be exact.
One had a birthday, one was just gay.
Either way, it made my day.

Nighty night, and slap schlock tight.
Don't bugs the bite'let bed.
Make for the morning, no let the night!

Rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba!
Rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba, rumba!

Twats

Brilliant, ain't it?

God help me, I was so capable of being happy there. But no, no no no.

Where am I now?

Not a smaggin' clue.

They breathe, oh do they breathe.

What does that mean?

They giggle, how humiliating.

I walked the dog today, tomorrow I'll play frisbee.

Same difference.

Shit.

One can snore.

Musseltoff.

Great eh? Dictionary don't even know it.

Piece of shit.

Shit.