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
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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 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
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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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If I was writing a thesis for a psychology PhD, then I would surely conduct my research on the London Underground. Apparently, we evolved from monkeys and missed picking lice off each other so much that we are now on our way back again. Any semblance of civility, nobility, dignity and even common sense migrate like flamingos when we decide to cram our frame onto a London Underground tube carriage at rush hour with enough available space for a field mouse. In fact, the field mouse gets off on the platform, unfolds its legs from the back of its ears and says – “f**k that. I’ll walk.”
There’s the restrained panic at the sound of the doors closing when we realize that this sardine existence will be our lives for at least the next two minutes – but more like ten. Avoiding all possible angles of eye contact, I stare at this woman’s coat button like it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve seen in years. I realize that someone else is also staring at the same button in equal fascination, so I quickly switch my gaze to a steel screw on the handrail that nobody has yet claimed. Adverts must make a killing on the tube. Then there’s the businessman who has been living this nightmare for so many years he’s desensitized to it. He’s actually trying to read the newspaper. I love these people because their attempt at opening the newspaper means reading it in three inches of text from an origami swan. Novels are good – stick to novels, and get someone else to be your page turner for you.
One Christmas I saw something that was so incredulous I still can’t believe it. I was on the platform at Bond Street on the Central Line when this guy walks out onto the platform dragging a12ft unboxed Christmas tree behind him. Picture the scene – three shopping days before Christmas and the platform is as frenetic as a termite mound that has just been chopped in half by a chain saw. I had been waiting for 20 minutes just to get close enough to a train in the vague hope of actually getting inside it. You could just about slide a playing card from one end of the platform to the another, and there was this cocksucker with the tree. I could hear the piercing sound of vocal objection as commuters were being harpooned by trees branches. This guy had somehow managed to squeeze his way to the front of the platform, mainly due to people diving out of the way of the sharp branches. The only thing funnier than witnessing the grimaces and moans from the platform, was the utter shock and disbelief on the faces of the people inside the train as the doors slide apart to reveal the tree. Mouths gaped open like feeding coy carp mouthing silent expressions of ‘wadthafuk’ as this dude tried to force the tree onto the carriage. At this point, the guys in the CCTV booth must have somehow summoned enough strength from rolling around choking on laughter, and were on the platform removing the man and his tree before someone’s eyeball became a Christmas bauble.
Some people!!
