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I have been trying to grow a beard for about two months. This would imply that I am actively involved in the pursuit of beard growing from the root of the verb ‘to try.’ I am not actually doing anything. The beard is growing itself. Most of this happens when I am asleep, because the following morning there has been some developments. My face is longer and heavier… and itchier!
I found a friggin’ spider in my beard today. This means that insects are laying eggs in my face – which also means that my face looks like a good place to lay eggs if you’re an insect. Because this doesn’t fit with my self-image I have shaved off the last two months’ worth of liberated follicles along with the nesting site for the next generation of daddy long legs for my bath plughole. I found this little boy’s face hiding underneath the beard, blinking bashfully in the mirror.
DT
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A few years ago, a friend of mine showed me how all traffic lights have a tiny revolving cone under the control panel to aid people who have a hearing and sight impairment. Did you know this? It’s certainly a golden moment when we chance upon something that has existed for years just beyond the boundaries of our knowledge. Did you know that all biro pens have an air hole in the tube and in the pen top in case a child swallows it?
Until recently, I didn’t know that you can record your voice on a mobile phone. Well, how about this one then – a zipper that locks. I mean actually locks like a key so that if you’re fat and bend over (ahm… like a friend of mine) your gut doesn’t hang through the fly like a donut in a ripped bag. When trying on a pair of jeans, I demonstrated to the sales assistant how when I bend over the zipper comes undone all on its own. Err …I mean my friend did and I was with him. She was a big fat bird herself and could obviously relate to my situation, so she stretched out a chubby paw, yanked the zip up to the top teeth and pressed the zip down – whereby it locked into place.
DT
Filed under: bad boy, being alive, comedy, comedy writing, culture, funny, girl humour, humour, lad humour, life, love, new ideas, opinion, perspective, philosophy, random, society, stupid thoughts, the asshole, thought for the day, thoughts, toilet humour, writing | Tags: bad boy, being alive, comedy, comedy writing, culture, dick jokes, funny, gay humour, lad humour, lad stuff, life, literary journalism, men behaving badly, opinion, perspective, philosophy, random, random stuff, society, stupid, stupid stuff, stupid thoughts, thought for the day, toilet humour
Toilet paper illustrators should have more fun. For one, they have a niche little corner of the market to play around with yet spend their time working on Christmas trees or cute little animal designs to print on toilet paper. Get an image of a puppy dog, and then cover it in shit. Not so cute after all, eh? I propose printing little tongues or noses, indented and poised to lick and sniff. Why not have a sense of humour about it? Ask anyone what illustrations they have on their toilet roll and you’d likely score a blank – which is a good thing, coz if you’re shopping specifically for toilet paper illustrations then your life is over.
DT
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Some burps just happen naturally and discreetly like sneezes. Others – usually the mightier ones – we have to work out of our system by invoking them from a far deeper and altogether darker place. Thinking I was alone this afternoon, I was in the middle of summoning Conan the Barbarian from the caverns of my stomach when my girlfriend suddenly appeared and unknowingly leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I roared a knee wobbling burp – she kissed me. Let’s say it was a mutual shock!
DT
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If you piss in the swimming pool a cloud of chemically-active purple mist allegedly billows outwards from beneath your legs to show everyone you’ve pissed in the water. I’ve never seen this and I don’t know anyone who has ever done it or witnessed it either, but I’ve lived with this fear since I was a kid. Why purple anyway? Why not red or orange? A rainbow arcing out of your privates would be mortally embarrassing.
I haven’t been to a public swimming pool in years but I really want to put this theory to the test once and for all. I want my kids to be able freely piss in the swimming pool without the same fears I had to live with.
I’ve got a urine sample bottle from the doctor’s surgery that would make the perfect molotov cocktail when filled with piss and lobbed into a swimming pool from the spectators gallery. How many other unsubstantiated theories have I dragged into my adulthood. How about the one that claims if you sneeze with your eyes open, then your eyeballs will pop out of your head swinging from their optic nerves like a yo-yo. Once again – do you know anyone that’s ever witnessed this? Apparently, it’s physically impossible to sneeze with your eyes open but I’ve seen A Clockwork Orange so I know you can force your eyelids open. I haven’t got the balls to try it on myself so I’m looking for a stray dog to try it out on.
DT
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I can’t play shit, and I have tried and can’t play for shit. Yet, this hasn’t stopped me from designing T-shirts, band logos and even names of songs. For about fifteen years, I have been the swaggering front man of The Great Jelly Bean Diet, headlining nightly on the Lesbian Toothpick Tour in the festivals of my imagination. My name is Micky Glow-worm or Spleen P. Sprinkler Jnr and I always finish my set by pissing into the crowd whilst vomiting onto my cock. The chicks love it. Actually, that was the finale fifteen years ago, and then I get carried off the stage whilst masturbating a black pudding. Things have changed since then, and after an extended leave of absence after the drummer OD’d on jelly beans (he had a low glycemic index) The Great Jelly Bean Diet reformed as a Catholic rock band. Our biggest gig was Liverpool Cathedral where I closed the set by giving Holy Communion and baptising two Born Again twins from Blackpool.
DT
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Is there a painless way to carry shopping bags home? I’m talking of course about those plastic bags that take about one million years to degrade in landfill and near cripple you for the brief time you come into their working life. Tally up the work/life balance here – they are made, work for about half an hour and then spend a million years in a subterranean retirement home. In contrast, organic hemp bags lead a full career and are retired with military honours.
There’s a major realization a mile from Tesco’s that your fingers are blue and the last time you remember feeling them was about half a mile ago! At the one mile point, doubts start to creep in about getting the bus after all. You’re too povo to buy a car and thought you’d brave the pain to save £1 bus fair. At the two mile point you’re fully committed and you start to think of ways to spend your £1 saving to take your mind off the fact that gangrene has set in from the second knuckle. You’ve got no mates who would be willing to pick you up, and can now openly consider yourself the saddest loneliest bastard within a two mile radius of the supermarket. So, you start to swap bags around, chuck the soup in that bag and displace the weight. This helps for about ten minutes until you stop again in that bent-over crunch position by the side of the road trying to separate skin from plastic. It’s worse if you happen to be with a woman; well my woman to be precise. I get comments like “come on tuff guy,” or “do you want me to take one for you?” The standard male ego response to this attack on the size of my genitals can only be “I need to balance the weight luv…. I’m Okay!” I am a f**king liar – go ahead and tell her you are dying here by the side of the road like road kill in silent a prayer to the God of public transport to deliver a minibus.
DT
Filed under: bad boy, being alive, comedy, comedy writing, culture, humour, lad humour, life, opinion, perspective, philosophy, random, society, stupid thoughts, thought for the day, thoughts | Tags: bad boy, being alive, comedy, comedy writing, culture, dick jokes, humour, lad humour, lad stuff, life, literary journalism, men behaving badly, opinion, perspective, philosophy, random, society, stupid, stupid stuff, stupid thoughts, thought for the day, toilet humour, toilets
Correct me if I’m wrong but you crap in them right? Did I miss an important committee meeting back when toilets became household fashion accessories? I’m reading the stats on a toilet in a glossy magazine – ’slim line mauve exterior with sunken flush.’
The Japanese have revolutionized turd technology and turned the everyday crapper into a mainframe computer. Short of a plastic hand grabbing and wiping – all bodily, emotional and spiritual needs are catered for here. Hold a conference call or burn CD’s on the outside of the bowl, whilst you burn your bowels on the inside. Japanese toilets are basically Ipods you can shit in. When I was in Tokyo last year, I couldn’t figure out how to use one for the life of me. No, I don’t want to Skype my friends, or watch a DVD – I just want to take a shit, ok! In my attempt to find the flush on a control panel of Japanese instructions, I started randomly pressing stuff. Half a dozen plastic tubes and appendages would emerge from hidden slots to spray all manner of aerosols up arseholes! I mildly escaped having my arsehole pedicured. I suppose there’s a button on there somewhere for a crack, back and sack.
What a load of crap!
DT
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I am 34 and I have lost my jaw line. I don’t quite know when it happened but I remember last seeing it when I was 33. Where did my jaw line go?
I am not exactly fat and I didn’t chase it off my face with a cheeseburger that’s for sure. I notice Facebook photos of some old school friends that have also lost their jaw lines too. How did this happen? Does the mid-thirties jaw fairy come to claim your jaw? I’ve since realized that the chin area has been colonized by the expanding neck, which is somehow attached to a pair of man boobs. A process that can only be described as a middle-age spread has attacked my body from the waist up. I have the legs of a chicken and the midriff of a robin redbreast and it just seems to be getting worse. In my mid-twenties, I was once told you could slice cheese on my cheekbones. Nowadays, they look like two large balls of Edam cheese. My body is changing and soon the final shame will be upon me – ear fuzz!
DT
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I know many jokes. The problem is that my dirty jokes are just too dirty, and my clean ones too clean. I am a man of extremes; I have either family-friendly jokes or utterly disgraceful ones. I don’t really have anything in the middle worthy of a laugh.
On one end I’m all clowns and balloons (Q. How do you tell which end of a worm is which? A. Tickle it in the middle and see which end laughs!). And on the other end my ice-breakers are more like icebergs (What’s your star sign? I’m a faeces!).
For some reason, there are very few things that offend me, and it’s the taboos that are normally funny. As comedian Bernard Manning says: “funny is funny. If you don’t it like it then don’t laugh!” I’m a firm believer that you can say anything with a cheeky smile on your face and get a laugh. An old friend and I had a completely different tactic to pull girls in a nightclub when we were teenagers. We used the element of surprise by being so acutely offensive it was actually funny. I could see that most lads get piss wasted to get up enough courage to say something utterly banal and incomprehensible to girls in the blind chance they will get laid. I could see this didn’t work, so I employed a bit of sober creativity and would say something so downright rude and insulting it was actually funny. Rather than hang around the dance floor or the bar in the hope that girls would talk to us, my friend and I went to the one place where girls were guaranteed to be hanging out in abundance – the ladies toilets. We would wait outside the door and when the girls came out – because of course girls always go to the toilet together – we would deliver the carefully constructed sentence with impeccable innocence: “Hi girls. Have just been for a shit?”
This may seem a little unorthodox but we had done some maths here and we were working on the same principle that if you ask 100 girls to have sex with you – 99 will slap you across the face! Actually, the odds were far higher as woman love a man with a sense of humour, and we really didn’t care either way as we were having a laugh!
DT
