Friday, May 9, 2008

You can hang me in a bottle like a cat

Friday, May 9, 2008

My constant search for an image that matches my obsessive misanthropy has come to an end. The beardy huge hairiness bum bit was all too obvious and more suited to my future lunatic raving on the street corner career. Have you noticed the huge gap in the raving street corner lunatic sector? I haven't seen the weaving white haired crazy lady on O'Connell Street for quite some time. Maybe she just does Saturdays. Maybe she's fucking dead. Either way, as soon as Common Law gets over her New Moan Ee! Ah! or the children grow up (whichever comes first) I'll be stepping into her dancing shoes and blue frock. I'll save the face ferret and fungus folicles for then.

The stoner sculpted almost mohawk was almost ok, but right from the get go it was clear that there was something missing as far as looking like a dickhead went. It was a safe, whisper it, trendy cut, with nothing that caused strangers on the bus to gaze at me with pity and ask ever so politely, 'Jesus, dude, what the fuck were you thinking?'. And if a rug rethink fails to produce this kind of reaction then a Gimme haircut it ain't. For ten whole days I have not been myself.

But fear not. Common Law, concerned that my normality was eating me up inside, grabbed a bottle of L'Oreal Über Blonde during yesterday's Tesco trip and held me over the sink with her weak and sickly arms while I did some fake protesting.

And now I look a Belgian Nazi. Like Tintin. In fact the picture above is an almost perfect replica of my current physical appearance. The hair colour is right. The hair shape too. The dead eyes? Check. The 'o' shaped mouth, going 'oh', all the livelong fucking day? You betcha.

'Dinner party tonight.'


'Your mother called.'


'Your leg's on fire.'


I have the cut off trousers and the white socks too. And I do stride purposefully, despite, in fact to disguise, my total lack of purpose. All that I lack is the trench coat. And a dedication to the destruction of Jews everywhere. I'm sure i can pick those up in Tesco too.

Today's Title

9 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

V said...

Why did Tintin look like a flasher though?

fatmammycat said...

I...fucking CLICKED on that link! I actually listened to almost a FUCKING MINUTE. And this was after the Cole and Bowie combo I was subjected to this morning.
How could you?

Sam, Problemchildbride said...

Have you no shame?

White socks, indeed.

Medbh said...

I never liked trench coats on men. The signal office drone or flasher for some reason.

How was the dinner party?

V said...

Especially seeing as a brown mac is quite useless to hide the stains, ideally you need some type of waxy white ensemble. Ahem yes, how was the dinner party? My German wants to know..

savannah said...

*ack* you'll never be tintin to me, sugar! ever, ever, ever..that's what we called the daughter's first husband..*shiver*

gimme a minute said...

You'll have to ask Hergé.

Just trying to broaden your musical horizons. Shock therapy seemed to be the way to go.

They are worn with trainers. And they match. This is progress of which I am proud.

A full report coming. We're all alive and unevicted at least.

It won't last long, I'm sure. I'm changing looks about twice a week at the moment. Must be the weather.

emordino said...

Surely Captain Haddock is a better match for obsessive misanthropy. Shit, I'm gonna buy me a sailor's cap and get loaded.

gimme a minute said...

Damn straight, but having looked like Captain Haddock for the past six months, the time had come for a change.

Professor Calculus by Christmas.

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