Steve's alias Kumar

Mobile Phone technology rampantly rams me up my own posterior. It's a fabulous sensation, penetrating me with the full flow of exorbitant phone bills, overpriced call rates, lovely customer service representatives named steve who are really just aliases for all the sanjeevs and kumar's in the office.
I serverely love the thrush i receive from a certain consultant who promises oh so much and yet each bill i receive bears no resemblance to the signed contractual agreements? An extra 100 dollars of calls to make to my gynacologist? Free internet to check out the latest in xxx rated midget pony porn?
Nope none of those exist in the surreal, invisible, ziggy stardust ethereal world of mobile phone technology. Just papers with phone bills that cost as much as second hand cars, hundreds of texts that ruin my fungal fingers, 2.50 a minute to check my latent homo voice mails.
Look it may just be that im still in the closet for mobile phone technology and not yet come out to fully vent my bleeding vagina's rage. No i'm not lesbian, homosexual or Sanjeev, I'm just seriously ticked off at not only my own obsession with instant communication, just enraged by my inability to control my pouncing urges to rape my phone with my hardcore love.
I can't wait for the day when instant social networking and communication devices (which double as uber advertising merchants) turn to telecommunications and shake up the status quo of having to pay 70 cents a minute for a phone call.
If stem cell technology is going to mean i will live till im 135 (and no longer working full time) i don't want my arthritic hands and legs to be paying for for telephone calls until the day i die.
Richard Branson, send a FREE satellite to MARS set up a PHONE SERVICE and PLEASE make calls FREE.

THE PEASANT LIFE

Today, my business partner and i were cruising along a thoroughfare when a bus cut in front of us at a busy intersection. After shouting token slurs stereotyping him as an asian who can't drive, we ended up rolling up by his side and hurling actual abuse and saliva at him. Rob called him a PEASANT and asked him quite concerned how a bus driver's wage supports his peasant family! Fair quesions no?
WELL, the peasant driver decided to coin a brilliant comeback, accusing us of being PEDOPHILES! Shock, hurt, horror, gasps we went through it all - we were touched to the deepest pores of our SOULS man..but anyway, it was a pretty crude argument and best of all as we driving along our seperate voyages through life, a big fat green golly of a spit landed on his window just as he licked his index finger as if to go tttttttttttttssssst.
So suck on that all you peasants living peasant lives feasting on scraps and generally feeling like the dregs of society that feel like they have accuse random 20 year old's of being pedophiles.

P.S im not knocking all bus drivers as peasants, i think they do a stirringly BORING but necessary job, I am just talking ot all those extraverted and closet PEASANTS that block access to public urinals, that wipe our winshields on main streets, that ramble and rave with themselves, who's best and only friend is really a ragged mut of a dog.....
The Peasant Life.

a challenge.

So i have a lovely friend right, G-UNIT, who's having a party next week and feels compelled to let everyone know about it joyfully, ruefully and consistently at every turn and every silence. Her intense voice will perforate any silence in any situation with either a reminder to wish her a happy birthday on her birthday and NOT TO FORGET MAN or to rekindle on our diaries to COME TO MY PARTY MAN!!! Don't worry G UNIT - ill be there, pimping, maccing, snitching, bitching, blunting and definately niggering it up (oops)...
Parties are a bitch man, tell me about your experiences of having parties!?!? My personal ones at "THE STUD" are mean, mean, mean affairs.
Love.

THE GODFATHER OF SOUL

When you think of soul, funk, disco and all manners of uber chic hero's of yesteryear -what types of things spring to mind? Disco Stu, James Brown, Afro's, John Travolta - They were all channeling their inner uber's, or as i like to now call it inner Fabio's. To most people that means absolutely fuck all, but to my select inner cirlce of refugees - it actually does make sense.

I need a night out wearing disco clothing. I tried, once, as a temperemental and hormonal teenager to dress up as John Travolta, but failed miserably due to several key things: WAY too much hair gel - COMPLETE lack of dancing skills - a really LOUD (some would say uber) leather jacket - no LEATHER PANTS and just a general lack of cool pizzazz to pull off my inner fonz. eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii.

i'm one of THOSE guys hey, a blogger.

Meet me. I'm that guy that's a blogger. Leave now, it's up to you. I don't mind, i'm another fixture in the herd, another wannabe reeled into the system. For so long i steered clear of homogenous forms of communication like blogs and social networking. But the forces that surround us are too strong man. Ha, a vagabond one day - a slave to the man the next. Fuck me, stop listening - but if you do stay, i guess i should state my intentions now: As this blog will focus on all things unholy, ceremonious, hedonistic and fun that comes into my life. The things i say, things i do, things i've done -they'll all be here.
Again, leave now...


Wait, maybe this post should be a little longer. Maybe i should introduce myself. Maybe i should try and learn the art and politics that go into making a blog PHAT. Or just tie myself to my seat and write write write and share all my musings with all you lovely, faceless people. You are not invisible my dear friends, it's just that fortunately for you, you can't see me. But i hope you will virtually fall in love with my innanities. My bone dry humour. My arrogance. Humour. Silence.