The word is out that Stacy and I are an item. It doesn't matter that the word is Robert Plant's ugly lovechild's lie. The word automatically makes me a dealer by default. Can I get Darren Harvey an eighth? Of course I can. My sister is looking after the class gerbil. A few of its pellet-like droppings in one of those little plastic draw bags and I have a generous eighth of exotic to sell.
Darren Harvey wanted to smoke a joint when he came round to pick it up, but I told him my mum would be back soon and it was pretty strong smelling stuff. I advised him to eat a pellet instead.
"It doesn't taste so good, so try to swallow it whole" I said.
By the time we had listened to Fool's Gold 10.59 (12 inch) he was feeling very stoned.
"This is good shit" he beamed, showing a speck of brown on his teeth.
"I know."
I walked with him to the tube station, as I was going that way. He didn't tell me he was meeting Karen Plower there. They kissed passionately. Good for them.
I hope they got completely shitfaced.
Monday
Wednesday
wanky costner
Yesterday, I went with a load of people to watch Field of Wank. I only went because Karen Plower is fit.
The premise of the film was that if baseball fields were built on all the farms, obliterating perfectly good crop fields, America could sustain itself on baseball, nostalgia, and regurgitated hotdog. This is probably true.
Kevin Colostomy starts hearing voices, and because there are no psychiatrists in Iowa and they believe in hick voodoo, everyone comes down to his Psychofarm and watches ghosts play rounders. Meanwhile, Darth Vader has retired and settled down in the countryside with his phone off the hook. Killing the Emperor sent him too much the other way, and he is now some crumby phoney hack writer. The subplot is that Colostomy stalks him until his brain bleeds and he agrees to write another crumby phoney book if Colostomy will fuck off.
In the end, everyone goes back to the thirties and dies in a giant dust storm.
I'd rather fuck a blender on full power than ever watch shit like that again. I hope Colostomy drowns. Actually, I hope he almost drowns but survives, goes broke, and ends up in obscurity working as a postman. Ha, I'm a sick motherfucker.
Apparently, xxxxxxxxxx likes it. Another reason to hope she dies. Karen Plower cleverly missed most of the film by spending the majority of it swapping tonsils with that prick Darren Harvey.
The premise of the film was that if baseball fields were built on all the farms, obliterating perfectly good crop fields, America could sustain itself on baseball, nostalgia, and regurgitated hotdog. This is probably true.
Kevin Colostomy starts hearing voices, and because there are no psychiatrists in Iowa and they believe in hick voodoo, everyone comes down to his Psychofarm and watches ghosts play rounders. Meanwhile, Darth Vader has retired and settled down in the countryside with his phone off the hook. Killing the Emperor sent him too much the other way, and he is now some crumby phoney hack writer. The subplot is that Colostomy stalks him until his brain bleeds and he agrees to write another crumby phoney book if Colostomy will fuck off.
In the end, everyone goes back to the thirties and dies in a giant dust storm.
I'd rather fuck a blender on full power than ever watch shit like that again. I hope Colostomy drowns. Actually, I hope he almost drowns but survives, goes broke, and ends up in obscurity working as a postman. Ha, I'm a sick motherfucker.
Apparently, xxxxxxxxxx likes it. Another reason to hope she dies. Karen Plower cleverly missed most of the film by spending the majority of it swapping tonsils with that prick Darren Harvey.
Tuesday
a wanky saturday
By Justin Ditler.
July 1989.
I was listening to Joy Division and staring out the window at the dirty grey cloud over the roofs of Camden, but I got bored so I phoned up Stacy, who is a bit of a hippy, to score a teenth.
Her light green scratchy sofa bulged with cheapness. She was wearing some kind of horrible waistcoat I swear made of the same material over her unclean yellow T-Shirt. I swear she was listening to fucking Donovan. She just plays her mum's records; they all have this bubble writing in shitty blue or green or faded yellow. All the instruments are organic I shit you not.
Stacy was taking a whole concept album about some hippy farm in Bulgaria (I shit you not) to roll a spliff. She has noticeable eczema. She was packing the resin in with a biro and talking some shit about how much she loved the first joint of the day. She had on one of those 100% artificial smiles that no hippy would eat, ironically. Like she was chewing a coathanger, exposing her gums like she had no shame. The laugh came about two seconds behind the smile, just a little fart of a laugh, like she repeated some mungy bean growing in her sad hippy stomach.
Anyway she finally got the fucking thing lit, and she was smiling like a space cadet and waving the spliff around, looking like Robert Plant's ugly lovechild, going on and on about this fucking ashram she grew up (was molested) in. Eventually she passes the j to me, and now she's gurgling about how draw makes her horny. Well, we get about three quarters of the way through when she makes some spastic playpunch move that ends in her stroking my arm like she's seeing kittens in it.
So she blurts about how much she loves blowjobs and giving blowjobs, and then I have this fucking hippy sucking me off on this nursery school sofa in her mum's general nightmare living room that might have been designed by Donovan himself in collaboration with a French teacher and the gang from Rainbow. Yellow is not fucking mellow, mister, and purple and green rags thrown over shit don't help in the fucking slightest.
We used to have a little dog called Terence. It would jump into your lap when it was wet, all stinking and shaking its curls madly like a flid at a rave. One day I threw it off too hard and it broke on the wall. I had to take it outside and lay it in the road and wait for a car to run it over.
“Shall we have another spliff, now?” she smiled at me all goggle-eyed. What a wanky saturday. I need to find a new dealer. I think I might be gay (now).
July 1989.
I was listening to Joy Division and staring out the window at the dirty grey cloud over the roofs of Camden, but I got bored so I phoned up Stacy, who is a bit of a hippy, to score a teenth.
Her light green scratchy sofa bulged with cheapness. She was wearing some kind of horrible waistcoat I swear made of the same material over her unclean yellow T-Shirt. I swear she was listening to fucking Donovan. She just plays her mum's records; they all have this bubble writing in shitty blue or green or faded yellow. All the instruments are organic I shit you not.
Stacy was taking a whole concept album about some hippy farm in Bulgaria (I shit you not) to roll a spliff. She has noticeable eczema. She was packing the resin in with a biro and talking some shit about how much she loved the first joint of the day. She had on one of those 100% artificial smiles that no hippy would eat, ironically. Like she was chewing a coathanger, exposing her gums like she had no shame. The laugh came about two seconds behind the smile, just a little fart of a laugh, like she repeated some mungy bean growing in her sad hippy stomach.
Anyway she finally got the fucking thing lit, and she was smiling like a space cadet and waving the spliff around, looking like Robert Plant's ugly lovechild, going on and on about this fucking ashram she grew up (was molested) in. Eventually she passes the j to me, and now she's gurgling about how draw makes her horny. Well, we get about three quarters of the way through when she makes some spastic playpunch move that ends in her stroking my arm like she's seeing kittens in it.
So she blurts about how much she loves blowjobs and giving blowjobs, and then I have this fucking hippy sucking me off on this nursery school sofa in her mum's general nightmare living room that might have been designed by Donovan himself in collaboration with a French teacher and the gang from Rainbow. Yellow is not fucking mellow, mister, and purple and green rags thrown over shit don't help in the fucking slightest.
We used to have a little dog called Terence. It would jump into your lap when it was wet, all stinking and shaking its curls madly like a flid at a rave. One day I threw it off too hard and it broke on the wall. I had to take it outside and lay it in the road and wait for a car to run it over.
“Shall we have another spliff, now?” she smiled at me all goggle-eyed. What a wanky saturday. I need to find a new dealer. I think I might be gay (now).
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