The Word Cloud

Usual warnings, blah blah blah, bad taste, blah, blah, swearing, blah, blah, schmah.



You know when a song comes on the radio and you have a little side dialogue going on at the same time? What do you mean, ‘no’? Oh you so do. You know you do. I know you do. Hell, even the other readers of this tripe know you do. You so do.

Well, anyway, I was prodded into a Christmas blog and was thinking seriously about a deep and meaningful expose of the virtuous nature of the season... and then thought, ‘nah’.

Instead I thought I’d bring you to a Police station probably somewhere near you, on the eve of Christmas, at two in the morning and the charge of assault and battery following a works festive party. It seems our anti-hero has lost his temper and, collecting his statement, PC Anybody realised that it was a familiar tune but he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

According to the transcription, here’s how the end of a promising night went…

‘I really can't stay’
Ok, bye then
‘I've got to go away’
Riiight. Bye then.
‘This evening has been, so very nice’
Ta. Close the door on your way out.
‘My mother will start to worry’
And that interests me because…?
‘My father will be pacing the floor’
He’s not the only one
‘So really I'd better scurry.’
Yes, you said.
‘Well maybe just a half a drink more’
Oh for fucks sake make up your mind will you?
‘The neighbours might think’
What?
‘Say, what's in this drink’
Rohypnol. What will the neighbours think?
'I wish I knew how’
What?! What will the neighbours think?
‘To break the spell’
You can’t just start saying something and then not finish it!
‘I ought to say no, no, no, sir’
Oh for heavens sake, what is it the neighbours will think?
‘At least I'm gonna say that I tried’
You’re certainly trying something woman…
‘I really can't stay’
Oh I give up! Are you bloody going or not?
‘Ahh, but its cold outside’
Of course it’s cold outside! It’s Winter and three degrees below zero!
‘I simply must go’
Well bloody go then!
‘The answer is no’
I didn’t ask you anything
‘This welcome has been’
What? This welcome has been what?
‘So nice and warm’
Oh. Right. Ok, thanks. Wierdo.
‘My sister will be suspicious’
Of what? You just got here and now you want to bugger off home
‘My brother will be there at the door’
Why? Hasn’t he got an XBox to play with?
‘My maiden aunt's mind is vicious’
What?! Who cares? Maiden aunt? Who uses that term anymore?
‘Well maybe just a half a drink more’
Oh for fucks sake; you’re just taking the piss now
‘I've got to go home’
YES! YOU SAID! Off you go, then!
‘Say, lend me your coat’
What? No! Fuck off! Get your own coat, you cheap cow
‘You've really been grand’
I’m warning you, bitch, get out
‘But don't you see’
You won’t see in a minute, I’m telling you if you if you mention its cold outside one more time, I swear I’m going to batter you
‘There's bound to be talk tomorrow’
About what?! We didn’t do anything!
‘At least there will be plenty implied’
Well whoop-de-fucking-do; implication? As if that's going to clean my pipes
‘I really can't stay’
GAAAAAH! Then FUCK OFF then!
‘Ahh, but it's cold outside’
Right that’s it, you’re fucking dead meat

*cough*
Soooo, that’s what goes through my head when I hear that song…*cough*

What goes through yours…?

:o)

Ez

WARNING: Contains foul language and disturbing imagery. Not to be consumed whilst... consuming.



Some of you may know that EzBird has me on one of these new fangled things called a “diet”. Well, I’m here to tell you that, cheese aside, it’s not all that bad. See this is based on lifestyle (sedentary to comatose), height (5’ 10” – and almost that around the belly too; in truth I’m starting to look like a bloody Christmas tree bauble…) and weight (17st 6lb when I started, which is the heaviest I have ever been) and a website that tells you what you should be doing – exercising more (or “at all” in my case) and eating less. (Like I didn’t know.)

It seems that my calorie intake for my lifestyle and height may be a tad… high. According to the website if I want to lose weight (well, it’s not me really, it’s EzBird; she wants me to lose weight. Sigh.) I should be consuming no more than 2000 calories a day. Easy, I thought. Weeeeeeell… no. See before this “diet” do-woppy-thing I appear to have been consuming around about, and not in excess of, some where in the region of, um… *cough*… three, er, calories a day. Oh sorry, my mistake. I mean four. Thousand. Seven hundred and forty nine. Ish.

See bacon sandwiches for breakfast are all well and good and set you up well for the day but they just don’t last. Lunch could wander between MaccyD’s, The Colonel, Subway, Pizza hut or, if I was feeling righteous, another bacon sandwich. Not all on the same day of course. Well… except there was that one time… Anyway… Oh and on Thursday lunch it was “all you could eat for a fiver” at the local Thai restaurant and I’m a sucker for shredded duck. Not that I did that *every* week. That would be silly… *cough*

Then home for tea and whatever delights EzBird had cooked up for me. Or maybe a takeaway.

Then there were the weekends… obviously I don’t drink alcohol. Copiously. So no worries there then…

Not any more.

Now my diet hovers around 2000 calories. I still have a rice crispy square and I still have chocolate; one Rolo in my pack up because EzBird loves me (who made vomit sounds? Who was it? You know who you are! Go on, get out!) and a two finger (steady) kit-kat. I still have crisps; just the one packet though. But most of all I have a hand made salad (with salad cream, granted) of chicken, plum tomatoes, pea shoots, baby spinach leaves and red or yellow pepper. Every day. And you know what? It’s bloody handsome. We eat healthy in the evening too. So food is no longer an issue.

But…

I drink two litres of water every day. Two whole litres. I go to the loo every five bloody minutes and watch it change colour as the day progresses from a deep golden (de-hydrated) to an almost drinkable clear-with-a-duluxable-hint-of-yellow…

See, here’s something I just did not know; the signal “feed me” or “hunger” is the exact same signal for “I’m dehydrated, water me.” What’s the point of that?! Every time I got the munchies, and duly satiated same, it wasn’t bloody munchies! It was drinkies! I was thirsty, not hungry! It’s farcical! Talk about mixed sodding messages. You’d think biological evolution (unless you believe in creationism in which case you should blame God as opposed to blaming Darwin like I am about to…) would have made the two signals far more clear wouldn’t you? I mean, what if your diet only ever consisted of, er, dried food…? Hmm? You’d dehydrate to death… or something…

Anyway, not only that but also…;

I now park far away from work and it takes me ten minutes brisk walk up hill to get to my desk. (A journey I perform at lunch too. I must be mad.)

And I’m rewarded with what? The pleasure of sitting at my desk in my own sweat for five minutes, not daring to go downstairs to the gents because cold damp shreddies are ok when in situ but are gross when they return to position after a brief sojourn floorwards, and five minutes of terror waiting for the palpitations to turn to stabbing pains, for the pounding in my ears to turn to sirens and the flashing lights in my eyes to become blue – the same colour as my lips?

I figure it takes one and a half hours of sweat-free, are-you-sitting-comfortably, chewing and swallowing (easy girls) to chuck four thousand seven hundred and forty calories down your (well, “my”) gullet. A day. However, ten minutes of walking up hill until the sweat seeps through my expensive (£12 from Matalan) shirt and starts to wick into my even more expensive wool (but not a loose knitted) suit and the pedometer reads one and a half miles…vertically (ok, maybe I’m exaggerating but it bloody feels like it) and the calorie counter gloriously exhorts “Congratulations! You have burned 46 calories…” Forty-six?! Forty-fucking-six?! What I just farted would burn more than forty-fucking-six calories! I’m taking in two thousand of the insidious little bastards and nearly killing myself crossing busy roads and walking up half a mountain for forty-pigging-six calories burnt? Give me a break!

On hindsight, though, we decided the calorie counter may be buggered. I think it stopped working after I sat on it. And in four weeks I have lost 9lb’s…

Anyway, according to EzBird, next week I’m going to be jogging round the block after work. God help the local neighbourhood; if their houses didn’t have subsidence before I’m bloody sure they will afterwards.

So, keep an eye on the news and listen out for the words “seven point two”, “Richter scale” and “Kettering.”

Sigh.

Ez
You know what? I really need to post a blog about writing...

Is it just me or is The Cloud behaving itself these days?

Ever since The Vaporous One humbly recognised our frustrations and intimated that, omni-patient as It is, the situation was, and I’m paraphrasing here, getting right on The Cloud’s tits as well, all seems to be lovely and, unlike most of you, stable. I have to admit that I did feel somewhat bad about my whinge after that, and despite my family motto “non sodomatium non sodomatius”, (not even remotely translated as “never do anything you’ll regret and never regret anything you do”) I did regret posting my drivel.

So a heartfelt apology to The Cloud in general, the administrators in particular and specifically any lurker that buggered off after reading just one, poorly considered, blog.

In light of the note from the powers that be, and the remarkably positive change that has miraculously occured, I would sincerely like to apologise to everyone for my lack of big lottery win. I am as disappointed as everyone reading this and would like you all to know that it is not within my direct power to rectify the situation despite, and I understand this is key to the process, only buying my first “ticket” last week. Just to say I share your frustrations and will be unlikely to contact anyone at Camelot to complain... so as to avoid looking a complete twat.

Re above paragraph; please do not read between the lines, as that way madness lies. The paragraph above should be mentally filed under EzWishes not under EzSarcasm or any possible negative connotation that I was comparing the running of this magnificent site with a lottery. Which I’m not. So don’t think that. And despite re-reading it again and it seems to scream “piss-taking bastard”. Which I’m not. Well, in this case anyway. This time I’m genuine and just being silly with the principle of shortfall recognition and resolution. (This place is bloody hard work sometimes; having to explain yourself to avoid upsetting anyone. Sigh.) All I was hoping was that the magic that fixed The Cloud washes over my bank balance and leaves large pools of high-life-giving glory. Knowing my luck, though, it will probably be deposits of human waste upon human waste; excremental deposits as it were… (See what I did there? No? Incremental/Excremental? No? Suit yourself. Sigh.)

Anyhoo. The point is, and always is, and always will be; one day soon I shall be as rich as Croesus and will then post, from my private yacht moored sedately off my private island nestled seductively in The Maldives, a suitably contrite and heartfelt apology for the situation up until then. I shall also regale you all with the insanely funny tale of my Angelina Jolie indecent proposal and the many wonderful days I subsequently spent in intensive care. Unless she says yes… in which case it will be un-gentlemanly to kiss and tell and certainly not PC to shag and tell. But, I’m presuming she’s going to say “no”, anyway… and, thinking about it, what the hell is an indecent proposal for the likes of Mrs Pitt? I’ll bet she’s got a quid or two so could well be insulted at the offer of a couple of million for five minutes of passion. (I originally wrote “night of passion” but then thought who am I kidding? Even five minutes may well be stretching it a bit; just the thought of that body, naked and in close proximity to my portly six-pack-if-it-were-not-for-the-packaging-(and-cheese-obsession), is almost enough to make me cream...) A couple of million for a thought that I could have for nothing at home were it not for EzBird asking “what are you doing?” or “Shelley? Where’s all the Kleenex gone?” seems a tad high. I wonder if I could haggle? Can you haggle with an indecent proposal? How?

She: “Oh go on then if it’s for a couple million.”

Me: “Ah, damn, forgot... have my other trousers on, so I’ve only got this tenner on me… what are my chances?”

Although... I do understand that the Hollywood ilk are very charity conscious. Maybe I could tempt her with a charitable donation? It’s at this point, disgusting reader, you are on your own and the disturbing path you follow leads to the woods where the bad people walk their dogs (you know who you are). No, I meant, despite the desperate and pathetic subject of this drivel, I wondered if I could offer the charity some money in exchange for a night (read five minutes) of passion with the Jolly Angel? No? No, I don’t think so either. Mind you, if she did say yes, that would be a charitable act in itself I suppose…

Anyway up until then you’ll just have to put up with me sulking and whinging and whining and moaning and groaning and grumping (whatever that is). And apologising afterwards. Just like sex then really…

Ez