Cutting the slack

Okay people, it's been a while since I posted on either site and to some this may seem reasonable, given that I am out in the world, but others that know me will know that my time management sucks. And given that I brought my laptop out, I have no real excuse, so this is another blog rant.

About me.

Let me tell you about me. I am shit with time. Yesterday, the boys were doing their thing. I was alone in the room. We had no plans for the next hour or so but I'm in Chiang Mai, Thailand. We have two days left in this city and every time I leave a place, I leave it feeling I didn't take advantage of it. So, knowing this I potter about the room. I take a few steps forward and stand in front of the window. I turn and pick up a book but don't read. I try to play guitar but my fingers are blistered from the climbing wall. I need a shower. I don't take one. I walk to another corner of the room. I continue like this, without showering, for about half an hour.

"So you're travelling, why worry, relax," I imagine some saying, and some would, but this is me. The great destroyer of precious time, for time is indeed precious and there is no doubt about that. But my inability to motivate myself to do anything is a massive problem I wrestle with each day. It's easy for most, the desire to succeed and reach goals. If I set myself goals, I fail them. Simple as that. I wrote a list of things to do before leaving. Limited myself to no more than five things a day. I barely got three most attempts. My whining about this is ridiculous, so I'll leave it there. But I devour time, I gorge on it and once it is through my 'quality of time' digestion tract it comes out as one of those unsatisfying pebble shits that you hold in for ever, the type that stings your colon as you're sat on the back of a bus or tuk tuk or whatever and when you finally get to the toilet you have nothing to show for the pain of holding it in, the shit retention. Just a couple of pebbles. Sure, they're a healthy colour and solid enough, but where's the rest?

It would appear that only I could take something so simple and complicate it to the Nth degree.

(a half finished post from my travels, call it spring cleaning.)

Phase 3 of The Regression to Childhood...

Toilet humour.

I should be above it by now but there is something about bums and willies that is unshakeably funny.

Let's gloss over the farting thing because it's always funny when your grinning friend stares you down and you can't think why until the smell wades into your nostrils. It's never nice but even when you're told about it before it can be smelt, your instant reaction is to take a whiff, just to see if it really is as bad as they're saying it is.

So when I was on the toilet at work and heard the scurrying feet, the rushed opening of doors, the rapid handle check on my cubicle and the quickstep over to the next, i couldn't help but smile. It's not funny, but it is.

Which reminds me of this time in Niagara.

Dave and I had decided on a toilet stop before heading to Detroit. Two of the biggest black guys you have ever seen, and I'm talking bigger than fat suits, bigger than Big Momma's House and The Nutty Professor types, come in. They are BIG. B.I.G.
So we all but one of the bigguns go off into cubicles, the second biggun being a couple away from me. Within seconds, he's heavy breathing and squeezing. I can practically hear the toilet seat creaking under the weight and power of his giant buttocks clenching and unclenching as he grunts to no avail. I am sat in awe of this magnificent beast. Finally, a couple of wet sounding farts. I have to ruffle my nose. And then, just to add to the excitement, his friend starts to sing. But not only does his big fat friend have the sweetest voice, he's singing something similar to that R Kelly parody, words to the effect of "I wanns piss on you".
TV ain't got shit on what is happening in this moment.
After a couple of lines from the angel voiced behemoth, his friend's arsehole seems to open up, as if gently coaxed by this beautiful falsetto. He squelches and rips, it's like Louis Armstrong descending from his bum in the guise of a giant, wet, wailing wave of turd and I'm stuck facing the cubicle door which is now a projector screen and I am in the drink beneath his all-eclipseing arse, waiting for the shit to hit.

I pull up my trousers and exit, trying not to laugh. His friend continues to sing, a shuffle dance, eyes half closed. Lullaby for a toilet baby.

What toilet joys await me in Thailand...

Really Great Ideas No.2

Inheritance Tax

So the government have this awesome thing, right, and it goes a little something like this:

When you die, Da Guv take 40% of what's left for your family. You spend your adult life paying taxes and when you die, you hand over almost half of what you had left. Yeah, that makes sense. Because you need someone to empty your bins in the afterlife. No potholes on this road, only pots of gold.

The fact that it was brought about to fund war against France hundreds of years ago and is still in place does wonders for my faith in government too.

Government, I doth my cap to thee.

A year passed...

So this was written as a reaction to a London craigslist post aimed at me.

Rhythm, rhyme, constriction, bollocks to poetry as I suck balls at it.

But here it is anyway. I've designated this little space of the internet as my personal cyber-toilet, so here comes the big shit.

I promise I will get away from the scatological theme soon.




to tell you truth
it’s not an easy shape
sorry to say it doesn’t fit
this beautiful piece beating lip shaped red

this heart beats tetris
while the band plays…
‘tears of rage’

love is a lie
this vile basket of organs
was not meant to be mine
throw them back to beat breaking red

this heart bleeds bloodless
while the band sings…
‘tears of grief’

a heart is shared
breaks in a distant city
if i’m not there to hear
then it was not mine to break

this heart less heart
and the band sighs…

‘tears of rage,
tears of grief,
why must I always be the thief’

RAW FUCKING POWER!!!

I'm monged, driving back from a mate's house. The ipod is on shuffle. I don't wanna listen to any of this, it's way too cold. I skip every song for about a minute until 'Search and Destroy'. How fucking ace is that guitar sound!? That glorious noise! The overdrive, the chaos, the precision! I clench up inside my gilet, a stoned half gurn on my jaw... this is fucking incredible!!
I don't wanna stop driving, I don't wanna turn but if I don't I'm gonna end up penetrating that wall . My whole body is a hard on. I want to fuck that wall with my steely wheeled beast. I want to destroy everything. I feel like a 6 stringed bitch on heat. THIS IS TOO FUCKING GOOD!!!!!!!!!
AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

Sharpteeth on: Hygiene

Pet Hygiene Hate: stray hairs.

So I'll shave or trim the beard or whatever is needed and I'll do it in a rush or a haze or whatever and I'll find myself out with that stray upper lip hair that tickles my cheek dimple when i laugh and can't help but be annoyingly aware. When the lower lip hair (the 'soul patch' if you will) gets unruly, this can usually be tamed by sucking in the lower lip, pinning the offending hair/s with the top lip and chomp-snipping the strays with front teeth. It's not perfect but it works.

However, when the offending hairs are half way across your face, far out of the limited T-rex jab reach of one's teeth, it's Houston. Thank Bowie i carry a mini grooming kit in my bag.

"What are the contents?" I hear you ask. I'll give you a run down...

- Mini emery board. For the gent who has decided against the pain and bloodiness of having bitten his nails too short but would like to keep his nails a suitable length to be able to play guitar comfortably.
- Tweesers. Shit quality but handy for those nose hairs that tickle when you breathe and other random annoyances.
- Metal nail file. It was just in the little case. Handy for when you need something kinda long and pointy to jam/pick/whatever something. Appaling as a nail file of any sort.
-Victorinox mini Swiss Army Knife. This bad boy has a mini knife, mini decorative nail file, mini scissors, little red light and a tooth pick (with which I ate my melon earlier as the office has seemingly forsaken forks).

Every time I start up a new blog (which is twice now) I seem to have to start by being horribly metrosexual.

Anyways, I trimmed the stray hairs. I'm just paranoid now.


And now a hygiene tip. People overlook this one simple thing that is as essential as carrying a condom in your wallet. The wet wipe. You know the type, the little square freebie you get with every greasy meal. I can't tell you how many times I've been saved by one of these.
You accidentally touch dog shit on your shoe, you pull out the wipe.
You get messy when you're getting sexy. You're out of toilet roll. Uh-oh... pull out the wipe!
You take a particularly nasty number 2 and you're wearing white boxers. Oh shit. Wait... pull out the wipe!

See? A million handy uses.

first light of a new day

AKA first blog on a new site.

So I've migrated from wordpress (http://sharpteeth.wordpress.com/) only to find that someone has stolen my name here on blogspot (http://sharpteeth.blogspot.com/. What's worse is that they haven't written since new year's eve 2003. Grrr...

Never mind.

On with the grind...