Paris Part the Fifth


I’m looking back at my last couple of posts and I’m feeling a certain vibe. I should probably explain where this angry ‘tood’ is coming from. But, you know what? I’m not going to. Not yet.

I really don’t feel like explaining anything anymore. I’m tired of backing up every opinion/fact/thought to every jack ass sucking worm turd fart knocker (i.e. every boss I’ve ever had).

I’m a smart guy.

I can video people like this little Dancing Frog and upload it to YouTube!

I’ve got skilzzzz!

And I went to college something like three times! I’m totally qualified to spot a shithead (that was covered in my first semester of sociology (by the way- sociology is NOT a real subject. It’s all made up. Might as well study religion. I’m just saying…))

Anyway, let’s say that the anger I’m feeling now has a direct target. And I can’t tell you how good that feels. The last six months have been something of a blur to me (again, I’ll explain later) and to feel pure, delicious, meaty piss-off-ed-ness is the most amazing thing EVER.

I totally can’t explain it.

I no longer feel overwhelming panic attacks. I feel DIRECT killer insticts.

And it fucking ROCKS.

Anyhoooo… The pic above (waaaaay above, like at the start, dude) was taken at the tunnel that Princess Diana was killed in. I kinda thought that maybe… Oh, I wasn’t thinking at all.

I’m just a morbid son of a bitch.


1 Comment

  1. Wayne, you are indeed a morbid son of a bitch. But then, as I had the opportunity to be driven through the crazy underground tunnels of Paris last weekend, I couldn’t help cracking the usual joke (to my French driver) about all English people being scared in Parisian tunnels.

    Some mediocre pics from my time in the Parisian suburbs (the weekend after you, I guess) are finally online:

    with lurve,


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