Drunken Function

It is truly unbelievable how drunk one can be and nevertheless function. It makes me wonder at the low level of expectancy. Has the bar been set so low, in the name of progress?
Honestly, I could arrive at work smashed, sozzled, sloshed… my co-workers might notice, but my boss would not be able to tell a difference in my productivity. I once sat in front of my boss and demanded a great bloody smacking raise, still completely pissed from the past night, and got it.
Hell, I notice the difference, I feel the slightest hesitance along the way, but no more; and, in fact, I get the same amount of work done in the same time.
Ahh… but I notice, on the days when I am rarin’ to go, that I have not enough to do, that I am not in the least challenged… well. I suppose I should be thankful. After all, it leaves me the mental energy to write. You are thankful for that too… aren’t you, dear reader?
Listening to Changing Of The Guards as rendered by Patti Smith. Damned good.


Hop, Skip…

The horrible thing about a blog is, you have to figure out something to write every few days, otherwise no swine will visit your fucking blog because they are all so damned impatient and constantly bored that their attention-span amounts to the length of a hunch-backed flea.
So, here I sit, thinking about what to write, and not a damned thing occurs to my somewhat addled brain on this fine Monday morning. I hate Mondays. Which reminds me of a Banksy piece. For those of you who don’t know it: tough shit. For those of you who do: tough shit. 
Just the Way it Goes from Jaya the Cat.
 Now that we have dispensed with the cancel (ehhh, I hate it when my fingers type something they think I meant when I meant something completely different) CYNICAL formalities, how about a drink? 
And a jump.

Do Not Offend

One should not offend, except in the service of freedom. Where is the border there? Oh, I forgot, you may also offend in the service of satire. Whoa, baby, in the service of satire? What you say? Can one serve satire? Oh, yes, my little porcupines, one can. Satire is such a flexible little beast… almost anything is allowed in the name of satire. Even the most tasteless things.
But I try not to be tasteless. Mostly. I might make fun of God, whichever God you prefer… but probably not to your face, out of common civility (or out of fear of being punched). Faced with you and your beliefs, I will not ridicule them. I might spar with you a little, if I am bored, but otherwise I will leave you in peace with your beliefs.. Actually I find gods quite nice, in their quaint little way.
The funny thing is, I still say „Jesus!“ when something surprises me or „oh my God!“ when I am shocked, and so on. I’ve grown up an atheist, but nevertheless I am woven in to the Christian net.
My Son is an atheist as well, but his religion teacher says he knows more about the Bible than any of his classmates. Yeah, so why is that, you fucking Christians? Because the atheists tend to think about it all, for Christ’s sake. Because they know a little bit about what stands in the fucking Bible, because they actually (well, some of them at least) read the fucking Bible, because they have actually thought about God, and what the existence of God, true or not, actually could mean. My son’s classmates say: I believe in God. But they probably haven’t spent a single thought on the subject. My son knows about God. He knows about many gods, Christian, Greek, Roman, Norse… he hasn’t learned much about the Eastern gods yet, but he will. If he wants to believe in whatever, so be it. He is free to choose.
If I seem offensive to some people, that’s fine. All I am doing is exercising my freedom of thought and expression. There are times when one has to be offensive, in order to rattle people out of their preconceptions, and that is what satire is about. When your freedom to be offensively satirical is curtailed by threat of reprisal or death, that is bad news for you and your society as a whole. It’s all part of intolerance, of trying to dictate what people must believe. In the end, we have a simple equation: satire = freedom.
Listening to Helter Skelter from the Beatles.


The older I get, the more sentimental I get. And looking back, I wonder at what an unforgiving bastard I was, as a young man. I had as many failings as the next fellow, but do you think I saw them? I gave them lip-service: I always did say that I am, myself, an asshole. But did I truly believe it? I don’t think I really did. And now I know: I was. I was an arrogant fool. Gad, those were the days, when I could be a self-assured idiot without second thought. I really believed I saw the big picture, when in fact I didn’t know squat.

Going Overboard

Like, in the sense of, doing too much, like hey, no don’t… no! Too late. You already have.
Excess leads to wisdom. The problem is, when you’ve excessed enough to get that far, you can’t spell wsdion anymore. You’ve gone overboard. You no longer know or care what wisdom is. Perhaps that is the quintessence of wisdom? No, it can’t be. At the very most, you know the morning after what wisdom is: don’t drink more than you can hold.
The funny thing is, excess has other advantages as well! It allows you, for instance, to forget all those wonderful women you have been acquainted with… at least for a while.
Now, I don’t want you to think I am a misogynist. I really like women; sometimes I love them. Some of my best friends are women. Heh. But they do seem to have a penchant for hurting me, and they always manage to make me feel like it’s my fault in the end, even though my reasoning part tells me that this is not the case. Perhaps I just haven’t found the right one. Perhaps my reasoning part is just a complete idiot and doesn’t understand a fucking thing.
Listening to Babubudu, from Leningrad.


There are a couple of songs I really love where the singer screams. The Pogues’ Turkish Song of the Damned, Los Lobos’ Mas y Mas, just to name two examples. I often scream along, if I know that my landlord is out at the moment. It helps, it’s a release to do so.
God knows there is enough to scream about in this world. There is even scream-therapy, which just seems ridiculous to me, because when I do scream, it’s spontaneous. Can you imagine sitting there with ten other people, and the therapist says: so, now we will all scream. Sorry, but I am rolling on the floor laughing just thinking about it.
Just recently I let out a right royal scream. It’s a bit complicated explaining why, so I’ll just keep it short and say I was extremely frustrated and exasperated by a woman and a man both at once. I opened the window in the top floor of the house I was visiting and let out a relatively short high scream, really, really fucking loud. I can be damned loud, like yelling-to-be-heard-two-miles-away-loud if necessary, and it was necessary to me in that moment, though no one was listening.
There was some slight satisfaction in answering everyone who asked „did you hear that scream a couple of minutes ago, what the hell was that?“ with: Uh, no.