Just a Taste

Here's a fix for you word addicts, you proseaholics, you shooters of fine literature. A sliver of a nugget from a story I've had in my wandering mind for a few years now. Recently unearthed on an archaeological dig into one of my external hard drives (hat, whip, the works). Enjoy!

“Be good be good,

Or they’ll whisk you away.

From the path you mustn’t stray.

Be good, my lad,

Or you’ll be had,

The ink’ed ones’ll come and take the bad.”

Pushing All The Wrong Buttons

Ever walk past a pelican crossing (crosswalk to you Colonists) and press the button even though you weren't even going to cross? Seems like a bit of a dick move, doesn't it? Holding up the traffic; people in cars just trying to get from A to B.
How about intending to cross, pressing the button, but seeing an opening and taking it like the badass you are, leaving the drivers to your sloppy seconds of a road? No?

I love doing that.

To be more specific I love the second one. I dabbled in the former when I was in my infancy; when alcohol and readily available porn was but a dream; but thought that kind of asshole behaviour was tempting the universe into taking it's cosmic boot to my man jewels. So instead I live dangerously by seizing the opportunity a lull in traffic presents. I like to keep my walks smoothly flowing like warm butter down a hooker's back. You know, no pauses, no delays, nice and slick like a hooker's back that's covered in melted butter. It's not the only reason though, oh no, one of the real kicks I get out of it is messing with traffic and drivers.

Few things give you control over other people's lives outside of being a reality TV host or a drug dealer, but being a pedestrian at a crossing really hits the spot. That minute or two of complete standstill may have just prevented a poor animal from becoming an asphalt pancake; or a nasty rear ending (huh huh); or some poor child being hit by a 4-wheeled beast as he chased after a stray ball. Yes, you may have just saved lives because you're that much of a hero. Flick your cape out, strike a pose, and marvel at your sheer superiority to the common man.
Of course the opposite is entirely true. That delay may result in the drivers putting the pedal to the metal because some dick was too impatient or just wanted to be a complete shit-monkey. In turn causing that animal to taste rubber; that bumper getting crushed; that chav to make it across the road with nary a broken femur. All this because you're the villain of the picture, twirling your waxed moustache, standing atop your victims like a grim memorial, cackling, cackling like a maniac! MWAHAHAHAH!

...ahem.

There's no way of knowing that these things can or may happen, if there were then I would have won the lottery years ago and be bathing in Coco Pops right about now.

Controlling the drivers is done, on my part at least, not to help or hinder people down the line, but because when I'm walking I don't really like drivers. I don't know why, maybe it's because I don't drive and remain a pedestrian. Maybe it irks me that if I'm late I have to exhaust myself to get where I'm going instead of just putting my foot down a bit more. Whatever the reason, my penchant for holding up traffic is ever so gratifying. Admittedly I can play the benevolent deity to drivers, often giving a friendly gesture to allow them to pass in front of me or pull out of a junction I intended to cross. This fluctuating mood keeps the rubber footed metal beasts sharp, always paying attention on the dark roads they travel lest another wanderer like myself should cross their path.

I don't hate drivers. How could I when I must rely upon them so much in this day and age? But I certainly don't care for the ones I don't know when I'm prowling the urban jungle in need of sweet nutrients (takeaway) or a companion (fresh tissue paper).
So take note wheel-people of the world!
There are many others like me out there.
And your precious time is but a button press away for us.

The Droopy

Question: Can you quantify an emotion?

Answer: Probably not.

Fun Answer: I have!

 While engaging in luncheon with a colleague (read: drinking beer with my flatmate) he posed this question. More specifically he asked:

"If misery could be measured, what unit would it have?"

 Of course not wanting to pass up the opportunity to make our mark on history (read: crack a joke) we threw our brains at this wall of a problem like the crash test dummies they are. So we gave misery a unit.

Ladies and gents, I give you: The Droopy. Or Dr.

Named in his honour.

Where 100Dr = 1 Boohoo (Bh)

Then there's the speed at which one becomes miserable, the rate at which that happens, an area that inflicts misery.

And so on and so forth...

You're welcome, science!

Watery Wings

November 14th 2013
415 days since it happened

 It all seemed like the usual routine; Autumn in the UK? Wave hello to the rain! And at first it was fun. People scurried from doorway to doorway, children splashed in the ever growing puddles, the population became a sea of umbrellas, hoods and hats. I for one had become soaked to my underwear on one venture out having slipped and fallen. I just laughed it off.

Then it came.

 I scoffed at the notion when it was uttered and in my defence the idea was laughable. An invention of a childlike mind. Who's laughing now?
 Without so much as a whisper of a hint the great force enveloped the nation, draping all but the South East in it's cold, damp form. The capital spared by mere miles. Nothing could be done, by ourselves or the outside world. It's body spanned the length and breadth of nations and yet it was as no more substantial than a warm breath on a cold Winter's day. What weaponry, what force, what army, could possibly harm or deter something so vast and seemingly infinite as this beast?

 Scotland  and Northern England suffered the worst blow. What appeared as the head of this creature had opened it's tremendous maw and taken the land into that maddening abyss. Wales had been lodged almost permanently in the throat of the vile thing. An eternally moist blanket that became thicker at indeterminate times as if it had been a patchwork quilt sewn from rags.
 There was no way to avoid it. No way to even begin to imagine anything like this would, or even could, happen. However, we are surviving. As unknowable as it may be it does not have the intent to send us to a watery grave, that much is now certain. Who knows what our future will hold. Some top men are speculating that due to the size and nature of this event it is entirely possible our own bodies may begin to change. Life must adapt. Still, life goes on. Albeit somewhat more aquatic than it used to be.

...ha. Aquatic. A-quack-tic. Ha ha. Has water ever driven a man mad?

 I'm not sure how much more I can keep writing after this. Paper is all but useless now; too soft and easily destroyed. Electronics are too susceptible to the creature's form as well. Maybe I'll write more in a few weeks. Someone should now what it was like in the beginning. Before...it.

Before...
...the Rain Duck.

Something Geeky This Way Comes

Damn was that last post ever broody. All it needed was some greasy hair and torn jeans to become a written embodiment of a teenager. Onwards and upwards! Or...sideways most likely.

For years I have never been one to start watching a show that has long been over. Watching something that has a definitive end just made the episode count seem more like a countdown. Seeing as a lot of great series never truly got their own end, TV execs doing what they seem to do best and killing dreams (not that I'm bitter or anything), I never wanted to get invested only to be left hanging and asking what happens next. Kind of like avoiding a relationship just so you don't get hurt.

(Ha ha! "Avoiding a relationship" is that what you call it?)
Hush brain!

But lately this thought process has been turned on it's head. In the ever maddening craving for another space opera since the untimely demise of Stargate Universe (damn you network heads!) and with nothing on the horizon, I have turned to past greats to get my fix. Star Trek: The Next Generation and Firefly being the main contenders for my time. That's when I noticed it.

I'm becoming a bigger geek than I used to be. And I love it.

Geek. Nerd. Dork (the other one not the penis one). Label it, don't label it, the point is as time goes on I'm becoming more comfortable with who I am. This is almost entirely down to the friends I've made over the past few years (tissues at the ready). Thanks to the likes of Download Festival and the social-maker that comes in bottles and cans I was lucky enough to become good friends more like-minded people. Sure there are folk I know who like their free times gaming fried or basted in science-fiction, but when it came to comic books, cartoons, bad movies and the like, there wasn't really many to share some "Oh em gee, did you see what the Doctor did to that Dalek?" or "Batman's latest story arc is so blasé," moments around the water cooler. Which brings to mind the fact I have never had any conversation around a water cooler and now believe it to be an urban myth like Bigfoot or people who use the word blasé.
 Over time I have discussed the geeky subjects as one one might discuss a great novel or a fine wine, only with more capes and explosions. Being able to openly talk about these things has weakened a sort of wall I had put up to protect myself from the kinf of mocking most geeks receive from the general public. Combine that with the likes of The Big Bang Theory popularising the stereotypical geek/nerd and such aspects as geek-chic in the fashion world, it is downright cool to be what once was considered uncool.
 Of course I'm still not completely open about my penchant for the superpowered, the hi-tech, or the magical, lest those of other persuasions suddenly acquire a love for torches and pitchforks. This entire article may well let the spcae-cat out the bag of holding but having already written a review of a comic book I doubt this is news. Now if you don't mind, the Enterprise has been stolen and only Picard and Riker are left to save it. The suspense!

Gone With The--Ah Fuck It

Now and then I poke my head into blogosphere to see how my little-ship-that-could is doing. Turbo-charged, word guzzlers zoom past, all chrome and wonder, the virtual asphalt torn asunder in their wake, air cloying with the thick haze of Reddit links and Digg suggestions; meanwhile the Wandering Mind idles along, neglected and forgotten, the feral blogs of the internet wilderness beckoning it to join their maddening crowd.

Honestly I can't even say why I haven't bothered with it. Not because it's a secret, simply because I don't have the faintest idea. Funnily enough this very moment is being powered by a "I'm fed up and fuck everything" mood and this is suddenly when I decide to brave the overgrown weeds that no doubt populate my online garden of babble. That's irony or something.

One would suppose with the big change that having a new job and meeting new people entails, that such experiences would be fodder for the ramblings of a bearded man in charge of his own website. Quite frankly it's all a bit dull. Passé. Morbidly uninteresting. Combined with my waning faith in people the past few weeks I am left with an acutely bitter tasting mood (that my immediate superior at said new job adds a rich bouquet of stale cigarette smoke and raspy breathing to). The result is a one man pity party, pouring his selfish woes on to a neglected blog.

Job remain barely bearable.

The so-called fairer sex manage to twist my vision of simplicity on it's head before giving it a firm stiletto to the knackers.

And my dog, the mighty Josh, has been ill of late. All the more worrying at the ripe age of 15.

My mood is Rhett Butler right now. And everything else is Scarlett O'Hara.

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

Quickly Now!

More quickness! At this rate my blogging prowess is coming into question. Surely there's a little blue pill for writing?

Some of you lifetime fans (I'm looking at you Rhino) may remember that Rube Goldberg machines have a special place in my heart and the heart in my mind (that part that makes you light up and occasionally giggle like you just saw boobies for the first time). I'm also an advocate of laziness, though Bruno Mars can take his song and shove it into a sensitive place. So it was no wonder that upon the discovery of this little gem, that I felt the urge to share it with all you gorgeous people with damn fine taste in blogosites. Ladies and gentlemen I give you The Page Turner.

Tongue Tied and Brain Twisted

I found a poem that is more than a poem. It something of a test apparently. I just found it incredibly fun because I'm a nerd like that. To hell with what others think; when I finished I couldn't help but think what a beautiful language it is.

As for the statistic at the beginning, it doesn't help when most English speaking people aren't too bright to begin with. Myself included.

Enjoy!

My 2012, What Big Looming Threats of Doom You Have

It's 3am. I am wide awake. This wouldn't be an issue were I waking up at decent times and not just before noon each day. It seems being unemployed has caused me to develop some bad habits. On the upside, saying it's 3am leads me into singing the Matchbox 20 song. So not all bad.

The time between job hunting could be spent being far more productive but unfortunately Skyrim happened. Instead of improving my skills or refining my talents I have some fancy armour and take to beating dragons with a hammer, which to be fair is surprisingly relaxing. But I digress. It's 2012! we're all doomed! Or are we? While the idea of global annihilation (so proud of spelling that right on the first go) brings a sort of adventurous wonder to reality, most of us are fairly certain that such a thing won't happen this year. But then most of us were fairly certain at one point or another that the world was flat, the Earth was the centre of the universe and that reality television was a good idea. For those not quite up to speed, the Earth is most assuredly round and far from the centre of anything and reality television should be expunged from history and the creators and participators of which launched into the nearest black hole in the hopes that they are somehow stricken from existence.

Here's hoping you all had a spiffing Christmas, or other holiday season, and a jolly good new year!

...I said baby, it's 3am I must be lonely, I said baby... (count yourselves lucky you can't hear my singing)