A brief interlude into the real world...

Since I made reference to it over on Weeding out the Idiots, I thought I would present you - my loyal readers - with some choice selections of the many things people have googled to find my blog. Some nice, normal people appear to have stumbled on it accidently while searching for Giant Jenga. I did a post on the subject some time ago, so that at least makes some sense. Here are some of the more unfortunate searches:

A tick-box.
Not really like a list at all...
Image via Wikipedia




• hating seagulls is like being racist or homophobic (A good start, wrote a post about that, makes sense.)
• water pipe in blogspot (Well, not too bad)
• hungry hungry hobos (Again, not awful. Did use that as a title for a post)

Then things get worse:

• 4D porn (Well, again, I did use that in a blog)
• 4D dog porn (Ah... Oh dear)
• Dog waterpipe porn (Hmm...)
• any combination of the words "dog" and "porn" with other words that you care to imagine.
• Lord of the Rings porn

Here are some phrases no-one used. They will now attract twisted, sick individuals:

•  Hobbit waterpipe gangbang
• Naked jam-covered dog
• Fecesbook
• midget hire
• mime buggering badgers
• Ben Tyson

This concludes my list-based post. As you can tell, it has been a rousing success. Even now, I can hear the townsfolk shouting up at by gilded bedroom, demanding more.
 "Give us statistics!" They yell.
 "Let them eat pie-charts" I reply from within my corset.

Why not suggest your own 'searches you'd like to see'? I'll republish them here, and I promise I won't tell your mum what they say.
 Some entries:

• hobbit humping dog pipe! (Homemaker Man)
• Dog getting piped in the water! (Homemaker Man)
• Lord of the Things (Homemaker Man)
• Araporn and the dog banging hobbits (Homemaker Man)
• Paul Blanchard wanker (Ben Tyson)
• dog on acid sex (Ben Tyson)
• I love the KKK (Ben Tyson)
• Hulk dog sex (Ben Tyson)
  

Am I on acid? I don't think I am...

Image via WikipediaThe disco continued to disco. I know, that isn't an verb, but I just don't care anymore. I was in a discotheque. Not a club, not a bar with music. A disco. Like you would see in documentaries about the past.
 There were Afros and shirts unbuttoned really low, men with hairy chests and women in heels and sequins. I was awash with fear.
 Near the middle of it, my prey. The person I'd been following for some time. I realise that actually sounds pretty suspicious, but once again, I can assure you I'm not a rapist.

 In fact, my prey was a middle-aged man, his face still contorted in sullenicity. Sullenness? He still looked sullen anyway. He was dancing, slowly, mesmerised by his partner.
 His partner, slime trailing behind him, held the middle of the dance floor. It was his domain, no-one dared enter it. His eye-stalks turned and twisted, fixing on the other occupants of the discotheque, then fleeting away. Clearly, he possessed dangerous, hypnotic powers. Also, he was a giant snail.

 I approached him. Years of psychological training and a botched frontal lobotomy granted me immunity to all eye-based hypnoses.
 "What's going on here?" I asked him. Mainly, I imagine, because I was interested.
 "I." He replied, "Am A giant snail, and this is my disco. As you can tell, it is the 80s every night here. Please, have a drink."
 Gesturing with a small snail arm, he pointed to a drinks tray brought towards me by quintessential 80s robots.
 "Incidentally" he added without incident, flourishing his small, unnatural snail-arm in front of my face, "These are not the droids you're looking for."
 "Your snail mind-tricks don't work on me." I replied, "But seriously? What the fuck?"
 "Ah, well." He replied. "I used to be a bin-man. My name was Kevin, I wasn't happy really. One morning, I woke up and found I was a giant snail with hypnotic powers. What else could I do?"

 I stood and pondered Kevin's question for a few moments. He had a point, there seemed little else a giant, mind-controlling snail could do.
 Except, perhaps, create a more satisfying conclusion.

My return, and the tribulations it conceals...

Image via WikipediaThe sand battered around the magic walls.
 Seriously? What? He's going to open with a line like that? He doesn't write anything for a week-and-a-half, and that's what he opens with?
 Midday sun scorched the already burned sand. Obscuring the heat in the East, sand blew strong over the desert, rising in angry clouds and battering near the rock. Perched on top, an old man, his arms outstretched and his head lolled, Christ on the cross, but sitting on a rock. Around him, 8-10 feet of peace. Then the walls rose spherically and invisible, the sand smashing and battering them.
 I watched the wizard work. After a few moments, he looked at me and smiled a sad smile, the look of a man who has a new puppy, but has already eaten far too many.
 His eyes, full of puppy, focused on me, piercing my skin and drawing information, which is substituted for blood in this metaphor.
 "How long has it been?" I asked.
 "A thousand years." He replied. "Slightly over a week has passed for you, but outside, the world is a thousand years older. It is ready for you to return to it now."
 I nodded, noticing the wind had died down and the sand had retaken it's natural position, lazing on unending beach.
 The wizard chuckled, and sand swooped up and surrounded him. After a moment, it fell lifelessly and without life, spilling across the rock and back onto the sand which was around it but different to the first sand we talked about. But the wizard was gone.
 I noticed no change around me. After a few minutes, I got bored of waiting for society to find me, and crossed a sand dune.

 I was therefore surprised to mind myself in Ipswich. A bus pulled up to a stop near me, and a group of people got off. I approached them, and asked a small man in a hat what year it was.
 "2010" he replied sullenly.
I cursed. That was the last time I trust a wizard who demands payment in sand. Why did he need more sand?

 A few minutes passed. I followed the short man in the hat. I wanted to know why he was so sullen.

Children in adult clothing are creepy

A small ripple spread across the surface of the oasis in front of me. I was perched on a rock though, so it didn't worry me. After a second, more rippled began to spread from near the surface of the small pond I'd found sustenance in. A few bubbles rose as well, as if something was coming to the surface.
 I straightened an imaginary tie. Of course, I was not wearing a tie, I was in the desert. No-one wears ties in the desert. I was actually naked. Not in a gratuitous sense, I'd just stripped down and washed myself from the oasis. Actually, I decided it would be best not to mention that to whatever emerged, seeing how I'd just soaked my genitalia in its home.

 After a few seconds, a small child - maybe 3 or 4 - emerged from the middle of the oasis and walked to the shore. He WAS wearing a tie, and a small adorable suit. The water ran down his body, dripping into the sand, his body drying instantly, his suit unblemished. He approached me, and I quickly moved a rock to cover my shame. I know the situation is completely innocent, but it would probably be best to not be found alone, naked and with a child.

 The child reached the nearest rock to me, and regarded me thoughtfully.
 "You're naked." He remarked scornfully.
 "I was hot, needed to cool down." I replied abashed. Then, regaining my metaphorical balance, "Anyway, what business is it of yours?"
 "Do you think we should be naked naturally?" He demanded I answer
 "Well, yes. Naturally. I mean, clothes have many adva...." But he cut me off.
 "I mean, does God want us to be naked? If God wanted us to be naked, would we be born dressed?"
 "What?" I replied, confused.
 "Look at my suit. Do you think this comes from a shop? The result of a cash transfer? No! I was born wearing this, and only remove it in the privacy of my laundry room, where I instantly change into another suit while the first one washes."
 I looked at him. This was stupid. Still, I needed to know:
 "Were you born with a spare suit?"
 "No! How dare you! Those born with a second suit are an abomination to the Lord!" He yelled.
 "Then where did you get it?" I asked.
 "Oh, I bought it." He replied. "Now, why not give this a read?"
He passed me a small pile of pamphlets, before turning on his heels and walking back into the oasis. I watched him go, before casually flicking through the literature. It showed a lot of babies wearing suits. Some of them even had little bowler hats.

 The sun began to set, and I dressed again. After a while, I burned the literature for warmth. Then I crawled under some rocks and tried to get some sleep.

Sand, tears and melodrama

Some sand. Image via WikipediaThe desert stretched out in front of me like a big desert, spreading from horizon to horizon like Lawrence of Arabia. Or a big desert. Sand, filling the area like a bathtub fills with sand, stretched across this aforementioned area. I'd wandered from the road. Where I was going, we didn't need roads.
 Still, I'd noticed some tracks heading off into the distance about 3 hours ago. Having no sense of direction, nor natural compass, I decided to follow them, falling step after step into pace with the ghost of my predecessor. As I walked, I began to study the tracks. They were... strange, to say the least. Long, sideways strokes that I'd at first taken to be snake, and also large paw-claw prints. You know, feet shaped like claws, but more padded and cuddly? But still not quite paws. Those kind of footsteps, intermixed.

So that was 3 hours ago. Now, after that time, I noticed something in the distance. A spec at first, as all things are when first conceived, growing into a blob of uncertainty as I approached. I drew nearer, still unable to understand the scene ahead. If I had know what tragedy lay in front of me, on that lukewarm desert, I would probably have turned back. Or maybe not - as I say, I have no sense of direction.

 The scene unfolded in front of me like a pop-up book of tragic proportions. This wasn't one for the kids, unless of course, you hate your kids. Two figures were ahead of me, animals flat in bestial movements. The Octopus, long and red and squidgy, lay prone on the ground. His eyes were glazed like solid ice, a substance he would surely have greeted gladly some time ago. His stare looked upwards, asking the Gods themselves, "why?".
 I looked into the eyes of his companion, and saw that no reassuring answer was forthcoming from the heartless azure that stretched above us. These eyes were fluid, melted ice that filled the wells and traced a path down the face of the Armadillo. She looked up to me, her tears still spilling and pooling on her companion's otherwise drenchless body.
 "What happened?" I asked.
She looked at me, her eyes -as I have mentioned - filled to the brim.
 "My parents told me it would never work. They were old fashioned like that."
 I nodded. I didn't know what was going on here, but this didn't seem the time to bring that up. Best just to let her talk.
 " 'Marry one of THEM?', they said. Back home, they don't like us inbreedin' with Octopus."
 I nodded. It was all I could really do.
 "So we runs off, Olly and me. Heads for America, got an aunt out there. Of course, the desert ain't for Olly. But he didn't say, never did like to complain. And now look at him! Look at him!"
 I looked at the dead Octopus. Secretly, I was impressed he'd made it this far. Resisting the temptation to fry him, I patted the Armadillo on the back and began to walk on.

The desert goes on for miles. Otherwise, it would just be a sandpit of a little beach without any water. Up high, we all look like ants. Desert ants. From the clouds, the Gods watch as one ant walks on. Behind him, there's a figure - could be two ants, could just be one really fat ant. After a while, a pool of salty tears forms. Eventually, a lake spreads out and drowns the two ants. The years go on, and life begins anew, trees spout by the lake, grass grows. Eventually, helicopter, pilot blinded by a reflection from the lake's surface, crashes into the pool. The oil leaks out, destroying the Oasis. But the Gods watch on, impassive. All live has it's place, and what can an ant do but play his role?

 Probably not run off with a Octopus into the fucking desert, I suppose.

I felt I should recover my decorum after the madness...

The owls were dead. That's all the closure you're going to get.

This isn't me. From here...

The rain was light, nothing to complain about. I shouldn't open with the weather, I know, but it's all there was in the desert. The rocks moved slightly underfoot, thin gravel and small road boulders running around my feet. The rainwater filled around my feet as the time passed, even the lightest of falls make torrents with time. Also, I was walking in a gutter. I'd decided it was time for a break, time to control the beast within me. Not a real beast, although my departure, shirted and bag on back down a desert highway was rather reminiscent of the Hulk.

 No, the beast was one of metaphorical proportions. It was anger though, like Bruce Banner. But stupid anger, anger towards Max (Which isn't so stupid) and anger towards most things. I mean, ok, zombie owls attacked my house the other day, and a lot of other bad shit happened to me in the past. But really, it's nothing worth complaining about. Besides, it'll do me some good to have a break. Meet new people, see interesting new places.

Ahead of me, in the road, a vulture sat watching me. I began to worry, could he be the Devil? Pissed him off before, probably best to avoid him. But then again, he'd been wearing a suit and was red. The vulture was not, and I didn't figure the Devil to be the kind of person who'd try to trick you.

 "Caww" Said the vulture.
I stopped and looked at him sadly.
 "Caww!" He said. Note, please, the excitement he said it in.
 "I'm sorry," I replied. "I don't speak vulture."
 "Caww!" He repeated. I shook my head again, and he pulled a knife from his feathers, waving it unsteadily in my direction.
 "Caww! Give me your wallet!" He demanded.
 "You bastard!" I yelled. "You spoke English the whole time! Where's the nearest train station?"
 "Caww! Wallet!" He yelled.
I was bored, and began walking again. As I passed the vulture, he lunged at me with the knife. Fortunately, he had no hands, so the stab had no force. Dropping the knife, he looked embarrassed and retreated behind a nearby rock.
 After a few seconds, the bitter-sweet noise of animal crying filled the air. I too became embarrassed, and set off again on my journey.

Ok, so I drank a lot of energy drink and I'm a little off my head...

What are you winking about?
Wait until I get my hands on you...
Image via Wikipedia

Well, I should be writing an essay. But it's ok, my girlfriend won't find this blog post. I mean, she doesn't have a computer in the kitchen, does she? Do you know what I'm saying gents? wink wink, nudge nudge.
 Anyone who laughed because they agreed with that, not because it was ironic, should be ashamed. Bad men! Bad!
 Anyone who laughed because it was ironic should also be ashamed. It wasn't that funny.

Anyway, where was I going with this? I don't think it's about corporatism in Fascist Italy, that's another writing in thing... Oh yea, I remember:
 I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME NEIL!
I mean, seriously. This isn't a profound blog. I just ramble madly. Like this. Except usually less madly, because right now I'm full of taurine and caffeine. Anyway, yea. Not a profound blog. Ramble. And so on.

Sorry, this isn't personal abuse. Unless you're a Nazi or something. Nazism was a unique variation of fascism, characterised by biological racism and anti-Semitism. Damn, wrong page... Anyhow, so no to reading this if you're a Nazi. Or Glenn Beck. Or the people who stole my flatmate Steve's bike last year.

So yea. I'm sorry, but I think you're approaching the blog the wrong way. It's probably my fault - the fact I use a persona and the same characters again and again probably makes it seem like this is somehow based in reality. Using random characters who don't seem properly fleshed out would probably express the madness better. So I'm sorry for that. (Incidentally, that was Hayley's point. I just wanted to shake you and shout "It doesn't make sense! It doesn't make sense! I don't even know what it means!" Over and over again.)

But yea. I think that's where I was going with this. Sorry to most people who won't understand what this means. I certainly don't know what it means either.

What's taurine anyway?

Running. Running Fast

This is not my door. Image by digiyesica via Flickr

"Panicking, we boarded up the doors. It was cold and the rain beated down on the path. The duckpond flowed over with water and ran into the drains and the gutters. The man looked at me, his name was Max. He was an idiot, fear spreading from his eyes. Lips aquiver.

There were noises outside. The thud of light claws. Hooting of beaks angered but impartial. Flapping..."
It was then Max slapped me around the head:
"Stop talking like that, I'm meant to be the stupid one. This isn't the time to be talking like your Cormac McCarthy or something.
I was silent - Max was stupid, Cormack McCarthy is a far worse writer than me. Everyone is. Ripped my style off, all of them. Stole my ideas. But that's besides the point. Another point that's beside the first one is that Max, for a foolish fool, was remarkably well-read. Anyway, back to the first point, which is surrounded by other points.
 Outside, we could hear them clawing at the doors and windows, hooting through the letter box and doing other shit. Using the nails and wood I keep for such an emergency, Max and I quickly boarded up such orifices as my house possesses, retreating to the living room where my miniature train set might offer some protection. But to no avail! The door, yielding under the incessant clawing and repeated dive-bombings, flew open. The hoard entered.
The undead, a fearsome advisory, but one we'd fought and overcome before. But these, these were something different. Something new. Twit-twooing, flapping their wings and pecking their beaks and the air. Their heads rotating at odd angles. Hungry for flesh and brains.
Zombie Owls.

My life is so fucking stupid...

For Neil, a truly pretentious reply to make me look like an asshole.




A picture of a letter, Image via Wikipedia.
I know, I know. But I like to use pictures now...

 So, as you'll all know, here at Dog in the Water Pipe offices, I spend night and day fillling through a huge pile of fan mail. As such, I'm going to publish one such piece. This letter, by virtue of being the only letter I've actually received, has secured a place in my heart as my favourite piece of correspondence.
 By the same logic, it's also the most hate-worthy, anti-Semitic, cow-raping letter I've ever seen. But that's besides the point. So read on, gentle reader:

 Dear Mr Paul
                      Since choosing to follow your Twitter, I have lately become intrigued by the nature of your blog. However, I completely fail to understand the topic matter. For instance, where does Mr. Potato come in? Who or what is Max? Why do none of the posts seem to make any sense?!

 I hope you can help me understand by clarifying some of these issues, so that I may continue to read it and actually understand what is going on!

Yours,

You see, the problem here is that my reader - whom I shall refer to as "Neil" from now on - is under the misapprehension that my blog is actually the thought-out writings of a sane individual. Now, I'm not saying that my writings are without purpose - once, I think someone laughed out of sympathy at them, and if a laptop were to be opened on my blog, then folded over the head of a tramp, it would provide some shelter from the elements. However, I feel I have been neglecting my loyal reader, so please have some answers:

1.  Where does Mr. Potato come in? Mr. Potato was an idea I had in the shower. You see, that probably doesn't satisfy you. You were probably looking for an in-depth analysis of Mr. Potato's symbolism of the Peruvian proletariat. Mr. Potato does not represent anything - he is a potato, imbued with certain characteristics common to humans, who happens to have a deep, burning hatred for Peruvians. My original post for Mr. Potato, I'll admit, did look at the differences in his overall character compared to what we take away from studying him - Mr. Potato was a good man in general: he loved his family, cared for preserving buildings of historical interest, and supported various charities. If we met him running a tiny charity shop and talked to him for a while about his home life, we would think him a sweet, kind man. However, if we mentioned Peruvians, we would see an angry, hate-filled man twisted by an anger the source of which is unidentifiable to us. So perhaps Mr. Potato is an examination of the duality of man, and of how our perceptions of an individual are shaped by certain events and ideas, rather than the course of a man's life. Or maybe I just wanted to draw a racist potato.
2. Who or what is Max? Max is the comic foil to my straight-man persona. It's a common, over-used literary technique - he does something stupid, which elicits a humerous response. My character then shows up the flaws of this stupid deed, and more humour arises. Basically, the very existence of Max should have you crying tears of laughter all across the large carpet of your bedroom, which I've been in when you were out, your entrails spilling out of your sides, which have split with laughter.
3. Why do none of the posts seem to make sense? Well, don't really know how to answer this question in a pretentious manner. They don't make sense because they don't. Often, they're ideas I have when bored and write about. Usually, I just write then on the spur of the moment, half-heartily spellcheck them, then publish them. This is probably why they don't make any sense. There is no great purpose that I'm building up to, no political agenda being pushed most of the time, no demands for the sacrifice of my readers' first-born children

So there, I hope that's managed to clear things up for you, because it certainly hasn't for me.