Pucker up.

The game Lips. Holy Jumpin's Jesus has that piece of digital entertainment given me pain the past couple of days. It's a rather girly karaoke game containing tracks of a popish nature. Which I have nothing against. Too each his own, and so forth.

What annoys the hell out of me is the little snippet of music (and I use the term so loosely here that I dare say it has lost all of its damn meaning) that plays between the bouts of singsong. It's monotonous. Not just monotonous, but short. Shorter than the average sneeze. Without the joy of neurologically resembling an orgasm, or so the urban legend goes. Anyhoo. A couple of thumps of bass and then the thing starts over. Ad infinitum.

Was it too expensive to extend the length of this turd to a whopping 10 seconds? Let's say, the duration of a protracted yawn. Breath in, shape your mouth and exhale a little ditty. Whatever comes to mind, no longer than 3 seconds. Record it and play it back to yourself on a loop for about 2 minutes, with 3 minute intervals, for the next 10 of your waking hours. At the end you'll be jamming your housekeys into both ears. A pierced eardrum or two being a small price to pay in order to escape such an auditory hell.

Sidenote: A little bit edgy today. No coffee in the mornings here,  badly missing my sweet cup of Swedish java. And my sunny vacation time is drawing to a close. How are you?

Michael Jackson, and the bullshit that followed.

So Michael Jackson died. My reaction to this is one that swings like a damn pendulum between utter apathy and surprise. I'm not surprised by the actual death, mind you, but by other people's reaction to it. Yes, he did write some snappy pop tune in his day. No doubt about that. But he also molested children. That's right. He was a fucking pedo. I think there's little doubt about that anymore. Him being acquitted equates to very little for me in this case.

Just like the OJ Simpson trial, Michael Jackson's two highly publicized trials only proved that a rich person can get away with anything in Los Angeles. It also helps your case if you are insanely famous. And that you would be raped, murdered and then raped again within 10 minutes of your incarceration. Who could pass up the chance to rape the King of Pop? I know I couldn't. My tone is harsh and brutal. The memories the kids have of the King of Pop placing their genitals in his mouth is probably a whole hell of alot more harsh and brutal, on top of being disturbing beyond all belief. The only way MJ could become any more disgusting and creepy would be if he returned from beyond the grave as some sort of unstoppable child-molesting zombie. Let's hope the kids can find the magical pendant until then.

The social convention to celebrate someone when they've died no matter what they did in life is one I cannot fully understand. Let's just be honest. Which is worse: being remembered as a troubled yet brilliant man with personal issues, or a two-dimensional character dancing on a stage in glittery pants? On a personal note - I'd rather be remembered as the asshole I was than some magical nymph-like creature that spread good will and tidings to all the world's people while maintaining a killer bod which smelled of chamomile and thyme. Bullshit seems to be rampant in this area. Prune it just a little, please.

Sexually Transmitted Vengeance.

Finally, we have our revenge.* Nobody messes with humans. Especially not our junk. When we were asleep, in the jungle. And in no way molesting monkeys of any sort. So you hear that you damn dirty apes? We're coming to get ya! It is only a matter of time before we perfect the virus. Don't try and disguise yourselves by wearing hats and monocles, as amusing as that may be. We can tell one bipedal primate from another. Most of the time. Unless they're some kind of minority or something. *It is commonly believed that humans originally contracted HIV from monkeys. How is yet unknown, but sources inside of my head tell me that it happened through inappropriate sexual contact.

Accessorize, exercise, jizz.

Sex as a subject has become rather pathetic, to be frank. The myth that those who sleep with a lot of random people are really confident is complete and utter horse shit. In my experience men and women who behave in this way are in fact incredibly insecure. Constantly seeking confirmation and reassurance that they are as beautiful as they have convinced themselves. Is that acting secure? Turning sex into some sort of power game or just immediate gratification drains it of all passion. I don't want sex to just be pieces of meat flapping against one another. Marinated in alcohol and anxiety. People shouldn't be picked up like accessories. You are not the centre of the cosmos. Your fleeting happiness is not the answer to the mysteries of life. Get over yourself. And the two of you clumsily jamming your genitals together on your room mates well-worn old couch is not passionate and sexy. No matter how many times you repeat this lie to yourself in an attempt to maintain that  hard on/stay wet. I gave up one night stands some time ago. At first it wasn't a moral choice or even one that came out of any deeper introspection. It was just a path taken out of a practical nature. People in general are absolutely terrible at fucking. Just awful. The quality was never as good as with someone I got a little bit familiar with. People who have such low self-esteem that they pathologically need to swallow another human beings bodily fluids every weekend tend to not have been in many meaningful relationships of any greater lengths. Therefore they have, out of a strictly numerical standpoint, fucked far fewer times. Practice makes perfect. There appears to be a tipping point where the quality of the bedroom shenanigans and the quantity of sexual partners converge and then invert. Both in a grander scheme and in specific situations. Taking pride in appearing sexually attractive to people who will fuck just about anything is like being proud that you are Garry Glitter's search engine of choice. It's at best quite meaningless, at worst loathsome. Tickling the fancy of someone you find to be truly unique. Having them share their innermost contrivances. Being able to disappoint in a painful way. That is sexy. That is beautiful. Poking someone in the groin while trying to refrain from spewing because of the motion and too much tequila is not. Unknown people are not. Acting tough will never be.

An Ode to Odious Drinking.

Having fun with a rhyme for rum. Less and less glum. If only whisky would have told me, vodka is the only thing that can hold me. Sipping, drinking, chugging, heaving, burping, downing, gulping, pouring, puking, restarting. A cheer for more beer - hooray! That burning liquid hits your stomach with a splash. Squish squish, the start of a rash. It nestles up next to that half-eaten kebab. Pulling it close, pretty soon it'll come out your nose. Hugging the sides of your innards. Making room for wine. Don't worry about the double vision, you'll be fine. Stumbling about town, every stranger with a frown. Get out of my way lady! I'm looking for a clown. Good ideas when drunk, thunk with a handful of skunk. He's bound to be around here somewhere. Get out here, you son of a bitch! Hey, what's that itch? A billy club opening up a stitch. A crack, a rattle and a sound. Here comes the ground. Why is it called The Tank? It's not even partially filled with liquid.