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Hello. The concentration of wealth that has accelerated ten-fold in the last years discombobulates me. It is like the Ancien Regime, Louis XVI and that slag Antoinette, risen from the ashes in it's new corporate finery. The Oscars struck me as this grotesque spectacle where obscenely over-paid fuckwits preen and fatuously pose for the epilitic fit-instigating legions of cameramen, whose job it is to relay their images and quotes to the enthralled masses. Look how they live! How beautiful they are! Who's at the door? The repo man? Fuck!

I tell you want though, what really brings it home is fucking Sarkozy. The little bug-headed peacock strutting around pissing on any sense of grace that was left in his schizophrenic country. What a fucking tool. The epitome, the klaxon, of elitism at the expense of the 'ordinary' man or woman. See him at a country fair insulting a farmer who refused his handshake. The President of France telling a farmer to piss off. Let them eat cake in-fucking-deed.

Yeah so anyway I lied to you. I believe in my first post I listed shit I might look at. Well fuck that. I need to stay away from that stuff for awhile. The last six or seven years all I've done is my own private investigation into the world, and it's fucking done my head in. Friends became fearful, when I did make it out, that I would have a few and start railing against the world, which was often the case. There's times in a motherfucker's life when a motherfucker needs to come back to a motherfucker. Cocksucker?

One time back in the day in Holland I got fucking lamped by a huge bouncer outside a club. I'm only 5'8", and this cunt was all of 6'3" at least. It was like he was bowling in a game of cricket, a real over-arm haymaker, with his hard fist cracking into my upper lip with enthusiastic enthusiasm. I woke up in the morning in my bed at home in a village fifteen miles away. (The club was in Haarlem). To this day I have no recollection of how the fuck I got there. Anyway, there's nothing like waking up fucking fully clothed, absolutely drenched in blood. What really adds a delight though is moving one's mouth, to yawn perhaps. You ever tried screaming without opening your gob too much? It's a throat thing, and you sound like a mule who is suffering very, very much. It was the dried blood and scab tissue that had formed overnight in the deep little cleft of blunt-forced lip. It really hurt. And it didn't scar either thank fuck. I've got enough of those cunts.

Since I've become quite reclusive and I'm not in a sexual relationship, I've been wondering if while masturbating, giving it the quick five-knuckle shuffle, having a Sherman, talking to the hand, polishing the rod, spanking the monkey (ooh you cheeky monkey you), playing pocket pool, choking the chicken (If you are of the female persuasion then of course buffing the muffin while polishing the peanut should suffice), maybe I should stick something up my arse. I've known men who like their women to digitize that so-personal tightness. I don't think I'm one of them to be honest. I was horny in bed the other night and I was just getting into it and I thought, what if? My hand moved from my mammoth pole to my upper thigh, and suddenly I froze. After a minute or so I turned to face the wall and gently fell asleep. I tell you what life is a mad laugh.

I bet in the olden days the word 'turnpike' was derogatory.

Laters.