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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The emphasis is on “look” gay as opposed to being gay, or even acting gay.
I am an espresso-drinking straight man who happened to catch a reflected glimpse of myself today in a café. My entire frame is wrapped around a tiny little cup, and unless I tape in the little finger to a bigger one it involuntarily sticks out and makes me look gay. My clothes are too crap to be an aristocrat or a gay man, so at best I can pass myself off as metro sexual.
The general rule is the bigger the bloke, and the further away from Paris he happens to be sipping an expression – the gayer he looks. Gay men and theatre directors should be the only men drinking espresso in the UK.
DT
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Every city has bums begging for change – fact. Sometimes I give and sometimes I don’t. There’s no hard and fast rule for me in dealing with bums other than to try and momentarily work out if this person is really in need of help or just a lazy bum who has dropped out of society. How does one go about actively becoming a bum anyway? I have often fantasised about turning up one day in an unfamiliar city and just sitting on the pavement amongst soiled chewing gum, rolling up cigarettes and slowing growing one big flat dreadlock.
I do give change to drug addicts – and yes, I know they will buy drugs with it. All judgement aside, here’s a guy begging for change in the rain under an ATM machine. There’s no dignity here and his life is evidently far, far shittier than mine so I can spare a few coins to ease my own guilt if nothing else.
We’ve all heard the same stories before, and you may begrudge this bum some change for a meal or a bed for the night, but would you begrudge him a dump? With public toilets in London now charging between 20p – 50p, where does a homeless man take a crap? I may not care if this guy starves to death or sleeps in a bus shelter but I don’t want him having to take a shit in a multi-story car park. Come on, give the guy a break and give generously. When was the last time you had to take a shit on tarmac?
DT
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Brain cells, brain cells. I’m sick of hearing about how clever and efficient the brain cells are. When it comes down to efficiency, you can’t beat the anus cell for work ethic.
All biological cells in the human body are universal and define themselves and their job by those cells around them. They all contain the required elements to determine what they should become and apply themselves accordingly. Isn’t that amazing? This means each and every cell is capable of doing anything it’s asked to do. If you’re assigned to work downstairs in the rusty bullet hole then you’re an anus cell. If you’re in the left ear shoveling earwax then you’re an ear cell – simple.
What a utilitarian paradise our bodies are. There’s work for all; no unemployment; no need for unions; one wage for all; and no need for holiday leave. Our cells do everything they’re asked without any tea breaks and never complain about the long hours. The brain is the boss, and would probably have a large human resources section where all new cells report for their first day at work. A new young cell turns up for his first day at work in his dad’s suit with clean socks on. The conversation would go something like this:
New Cell: Hello. I am a new cell reporting for work today.
Human Resources Cell Manager: Hello young cell. You are to report to the supervisor in the Anus this morning. Do you know how to get there?
New Cell: Yes. I know a blood cell that is car pooling and is leaving on the jugular express this morning for the Anus.
New Cell (later that morning): Hello Anus Cell Supervisor, I am a new cell reporting for work.
New Cell Supervisor: Yes, good morning son. Please get into that astronaut suit over there and go to the Svinkter where there’s a pile of brussel spouts that need turning into shit.
… And that’s his job for seven years. Every seven years, each of the trillions of cells in your body will replace themselves, so this little anus cell will drop dead at work and a new one fills his boots silently and automatically on a continuous basis until you eventually drop dead.
We could all learn a thing or two from the Anus cell about efficiency at work.
DT
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A few years ago when I was working as a housing officer, I had a drunken tenant in a block of flats that was up all night causing the rest of the block sleepless nights. After several unsuccessful attempts at resolving the problem I decided to move him immediately or risk finding him lynched one morning. He wasn’t a bad bloke – just a repentant drunk who didn’t know what he was doing after two litres of cider. I don’t think anyone else would either! I had one available empty ground floor flat that was proving hard to occupy as the woman upstairs was a raving drunk. Voila! Two raving drunks who can’t remember a thing the next day. Perfect.
I moved him in and things went exactly as I thought they would, but with an added twist. They fell in love. It was an affair sponsored by Strongbow, and I don’t think either one of them knew the other one’s name. Then one day, the bloke dropped dead and I had the task of telling the woman upstairs that her brief love affair was over. Not only did she not believe me, but she carried on acting as if he was still alive, stuffing love letters through the letterbox and proclaiming her desire for him through the carpet at the flat downstairs.
The moral of the story is – the distinction between being dead and being dead drunk resides in the fact that even though you’re dead, there may still be someone who is dead drunk that wants to shag you. Don’t ever underestimate the power of beer goggles.
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As the advice goes, how do you actually go about meeting someone at a supermarket? Which aisle is more amenable to love? There is something very romantic about dairy (cow’s tits, milk maids, etc) so I would personally opt for midway down the cheese and margarine aisle. Single people have cats, so look out for the cat food in their trolley.
Have you noticed the basic flaw in this theory – people do not speak to each other in a supermarket, so unless you’re stacking shelves and someone asks you where the gluten free pasta is, starting a conversation could be tricky. You’ll need a better icebreaker than ‘can I help you carry your cheese,’ or “haven’t I seen you by the McVitie’s biscuits before?”
Real supermarket love is offering your ticket at the deli counter or making eye contact in the dried fruit section. In a world of consumables and bright lights eye contact is king. Dress for the occasion. Walking past the bleach dressed in a backless ball gown might be overstretching the limits of subtlety, and will make you shiver uncontrollably by the frozen peas.
