I’m Still Here…

Hi all!

Yep. It’s me. How the hell are ya?

Sorry about my chronic laziness but I seemed to have taken an unexpected turn into the real world (which is a place I pretty much don’t like. Reality? Bah!).

However, I see light at the end of the tunnel and it looks warm and fuzzy. Oh, wait. I’ve got a piece of carpeting stuck to my contact lens.

No matter. I will be with you shortly.

Take it easy.

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Today I had the unique, some might say joyous (well, I wouldn’t say it- I didn’t exactly hire a choir to sing praises to the heavens or anything) experience of visiting a U.K. doctor for the very first time.

I went, not because I had once again managed to slice open a major type appendage with an X-acto knife trying to get pork gristle from between my incisors, but because I wanted to and my wife would divorce me if I didn’t.

While I was waiting in the cold mis-matched furniture museum of old folks with sniffles that they call the ‘Waiting Room’ for my name to be called I thought back (insert the fog of reminiscence) to the very first time I went to a medical type doctor person…

THE SCENE:

Little Wayne.

3 years old.

My older brother, on a dare (my dare unfortunately), gleefully slams the lid of the toy chest at my Aunt Cornillia’s house (yes, that’s her real name.( Sorry, Corny!) (You old bat.)) on my poor tiny and ever so cute pinkie.

*SLAM*

Silence.

If memory serves, at that precise moment, I honestly thought that I had escaped unharmed.

I felt nothing!

Only a tiny tingle!

I was fine!

Then I tried to casually enter the living room in that cool 3 year old swagger way and I found myself sweating and leaning for support against the dishwasher which was only halfway to my destination.

I thought to myself, “Three-year-old-Wayne, something tells me you are an idiot. Call Mommy! Stat!”

Luckily, even at such an early age, I was a master of communication. I was able to relate my plight coherently, succinctly and effectively thusly:

‘WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’

Part of me still wanted to believe that I was OK. That was until my mom took me in her arms and rushed me to the bathroom and tried to rinse the blood off my hand into the sink.

Then there was a *PLOP*. My finger splashed into the basin like a sad guppy who had met the business end of a stiletto heel.

The next thing I remember was some doctor or another wrapping a bandage around my newly stitched up finger and saying something like, “Dumbass. Next time I’m gonna throw yer pinkie in the garbage myself. Dumbass.”

Anyway…where was I?

Oh yeah, this morning I braved the NHS system and I was treated promptly, professionally and friend-nally friendlynally like a human being with feelings.

And I’m OK with that.

(And, no. I’m not going to tell why I went in the first place.)

(No. Really.)

(I’m not.)

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(GEEZ! You’re nosey!)

I Promised Myself That I Wouldn’t Do This

They say that there’s nothing more boring than watching paint dry.

I disagree.

Someone writing about paint drying has got to be more boring-er.

So I’ll save you that misery.

Instead, witness the comedic stylings of…

Fuck it. Who am I kidding? Nobody, that’s who.

Listen, we (meaning my wife and I) have spent a lot of time working on our new flat hoping that it will be semi-livable in the next week or so. And even though things are working out pretty much according to plan (touch wood) we’re still on the ‘it’ll be a shithole if you move in now’ side of things. We have until the end of the month to get our crap together and have a sorta-decent homestead to call our very own.

Thank goodness for Jett at Letter to America who has graciously volunteered to help me pull up carpet and drag crappy old, left behind furniture down to the curb for pickup on Friday morning. (By the way, Jett doesn’t know this. He thinks he’s coming over for a Chinese and maybe a ‘B’ movie on cable. Heh heh…sucker!)

You Can Buy Anything At Murphy’s

Because I was such a good little soldier last Saturday and went into work, I was given the day off. (This day. Friday. Yes, I know that it’s now Saturday but I wrote this yesterday. Friday. But I published it today. Saturday. You follow? Good.)

That suited me right down to the ground. Not that I mind working the occasional weekend but when someone throws me a bone in the sub-context of the dynamic I will run it up the flagpole and take ownership. That’s just how I work.

However, today was not a day for me to lie around in my jim-jams watching soaps. No. Not today (that’s more of a Monday kind of thing). Today, I got up at my normal time and took the wife to work and went on a reconnisance reconnasiance had a look-see at the new flat to try and figure out what all needs to be done.

In a word: everything.

It needs paint, new carpeting, wallpaper either taken down or shown to a mirror so that it dies from the shame of its own hideousness (yeah, I’m stretching it on that ‘joke’. Sue me.), floorboards to screw down and, to my surprise, electricity to buy.

Yep. We actually have to get a swipe card and buy electricity before we use it! Amazing!

You’ve heard of “Pay as You Go” phones? Well, welcome to “Pay-n-Glow” (as I have dubbed it) electricity.

It seems that if you pay your electricity with these little top up cards you’re saving a whopping 2.5% over the lazy sods who pay what they owe at the end of the month.

Oh, how I suddenly pitied those poor, poor souls! Just think, for every 100 pounds they spend I am spending a mere 97.50! By the time I retire I will have save almost 50 pounds more than they will.

And that’s real money, folks. (This is purely an insider joke. If you were in on it you would be pissing yourself with laughter. Sadly, I cannot explain it to you. I do apologize. Tee-hee…real money! Classic… *murppph snort*)

But where was I going to find a store that sold electricity? They weren’t listed in the phone book and you can’t exactly spot them from a distance because of the sparks flying around or anything.

So to make a long story slightly shorter, I went to the one place that always has everything. You guessed it…Murphy’s (see, that’s why I called this “You Can Buy Anything At Murphy’s”. Clever n’est pas?) I’ve always believed that they had everything and now I know it’s true.

They have everything except an interesting ending to this post.

Oh well.

Welcome to the House of Wayne

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Well, we got the key to our new flat this week.

Have I mentioned this? I think I might have. Did I? I can’t remember.

Anyway– we did. We got the key. It was like magic. Well, not like magic. It was like somebody handing us a key.

Only I wasn’t there.

My wife picked it up on her lunch hour. She said it was nothing special. No ticker tape or anything. Just a law-type person handing her the key and saying something like, “Don’t lose it” or “It’s just a key, ya know”.

Either way. We got the key and it’s looking pretty damn shiny to me.

And now we’re going to be painting, tearing up carpet and generally making a mess for the next 2 1/2 weeks until we move from this shit-hole with the gaping roof (no, they haven’t fixed our ceiling yet) to an old 1960’s flat that may not be perfect, but dammit! it’s ours.

(Expect lots of interior disaster pics during the next couple of weeks. I’m just saying.)

Ted Haggard– May You Rot in Hell

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I don’t like to get political (faithful reader(s) know this) because my anger usually gets the best of me and I sound all unreasonable and shit.

But this fucktard Ted Haggard is the epitome of why I think poor Jesus is spinning in his grave.

I was raised to believe in the so-called “Christian” bullshit way of life.

Unfortunately, the people that taught me this way of life were also liars and hypocrites and sodomites and weirdo dip-shits that clung to a spurious (at best) interpretation of a book that had been edited, re-written and generally bastardized by a “council” of political ass-wipes in a bid to control the mass populace. (This goes back to the ancient Romans. I’m not making this up.)

And what’s up with these lying assholes like Ted, who make millions of dollars out of their preaching gigs? Haven’t they heard the story of how it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Heaven? This guy is a multi-millionaire! Who did he blow to excuse himself from that rule? Is God gay too? Does Ted have his 800 number?

So let’s get this straight: Ted is gay, he’s a drug addict and he’s rich? But he’s leading a church and a congregation that believes he knows how to get into Heaven? Even though he’s supposed to be against all these things? Holy fuck! Now that’s what I call faith!

I’m not an atheist (not yet, anyway) but I seriously can’t take Christians seriously anymore. The Protestants think Catholics are idolaters, the Catholics think they’re drinking the actual blood of Jesus, Mormons are just weird and everybody thinks that everybody else is going to Hell.

And they all think they know “the way”.

Well, I tell ya what. I’m pulling outta the game and I’m going to live my life in a way that treats ALL people with respect.

But Christians… and Ted, I’m looking your way…you’ve got some making up to do.

Why not admit that you’re human? Maybe then we could all just get along.

My Glorious Fantabulous Totally TOTALLY Perfect Sunday!

I’m here to tell ya that this day was so…ah screw it.

I got nothing…

Except this picture of our incredibly sad Christmas tree (fake, of course (the tree, not the pic (the pic is real (if you consider digital a “real” format))) from last year.

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It somehow sums up my feelings at the moment.

It probably has something to do with a big build up to a climax that feels exactly like you just accomplished something completely meaningless. (I mean there’s only 3 gifts under that tree! What kind of Christmas is that???)

I will know more about how I feel by Tuesday.

Until then… Merry Christmas! (Sorry. I’m dealing with Xmas radio ads and junk at the moment. I forget that normal people outside of the advertising world still have 3 or so weeks of denial to go before the big Ho Ho Ho. So, um… Happy Thanksgiving! (Which we don’t have over here. Dammit!)