Pets 'n peeves

Hi and bro-pologies for the delay in updating this Saw'mBitch blog. I have been crowdefucked with work and other matters of bastardly import. Nevertheless I aim to be your content provider for the next 5 to 10 to 15 minutes, depending on your need for read speed.

First, we talk about animals. Pets to be specific. The last time i had a pet was 92. Not my weight, the year 1992. I weigh 95, which is ok cuz of my huge Genus. He was a cat and his name was Garfield, but he wasn't orange and fat, he was grey and white and awesome. We found him curled up behind the entrance to a neighbour's building. He was a tiny little guy but he had a fighting spirit like no other cat i knew. Plus he was very friendly with his homes (me). I felt a strange kinship with this guy. We knew he was a guy cuz he had swonnicles. Swonnicles are different from regular gonads in that they cannot be kicked. That's cuz they aren't externally visible to the untrained eye. I tried explaining this concept to my family who kept treating him like a girl cat, but they just smiled and told me to "put your damn pants back on". Of course he's dead now. I couldn't harvest his skull. A cat skull is rather splendid. In a Mordoric way. The most evil thing I have ever seen is a femme dong. Being a gentleman I said nothing and proceeded to feel sorry for myself.

One for me, and one for my homes


Today we also discuss auto-fellatio techniques. Not. Let's leave that to canines and felines. What we will discuss today is people in our lives who got really REALLY fucked up by engaging in phenomenally unwarranted acts of idiocy, thereby damning themselves to lives of eternal suffering.

Take the example of my friend from school. Here was a lad who contracted an addiction to eating paper and one day instead of the standard issue foolscap sheets, he ended up eating acid-treated cardboard. He got raging appendicitis and a blocked duodenum. Completely fucked 'im up. But he went one better, the acid in the cardboard irritated his kidneys, both of which promptly told the rest of his body organs to fuck off by ceasing to function properly. This caused severe blood acidosis. Sir, there is high level of acidity in his blood and his kidneys are malfunctioning. Shall we proceed with treatment? No doctor, let him die like a small dog. Of course Yes you idiots. Luckily the doctors knew what to do. This was the first time I saw the real magic of medicine. This was also the first time I saw an Eno I.V. bottle. His skin began ripping open and his hair started looking like vermicelli. When the doctors were finished with him he looked like the bad guy from the movie Hannibal.

The bad guy who gets eaten by wild pigs in Hannibal

I don't think he looks like this anymore though. His face cleared up and his hair grew back. The smile is the same though. Was like that even before he started eating paper.


Moving on, another guy from the same class drank a bottle of bugspray to kill himself. The reason he wanted to kill himself was because he got caught with porno VHS cassettes in his bag in class. His parents got called to school and they sorted his shit out. But no, the shame of being caught with porn drove this man to consume a bottle of Baygon. He said it tasted strong. His exact words were "It tastes like a burning heat". Here's what Baygon boy looks like:

Minku, the immortal

They rushed the idiot to a hospital and had his stomach pumped. He now works, believe it or fuck you, as a successful general insurance salesman. Shit, has his own franchisee business and everything. I kid you the fuck not. Met him a few weeks ago and asked him if he thought it ironic that a suicidal egomaniac like him was selling general insurance. He threw a car registration book at me. I replied by telling him he should take up stunt racing his Kawasaki if he was really serious.

A small price to pay for awesome immortality


But I wasn't too happy about him mouthing off at me. So I told him to fuck off:

Vital organ failure is the Universe's way of telling you to fuck off and stop being an asshole


Dangerous looking things aren't always dangerous. Though they definitely have the potential to be so. Case in point: Look at this magnificent beast

Wendy, the Whippet

She's a gentle thing, look at her eyes. She's like, hello, my name is Wendy and i eat raw meat. This is how i look on a good day. I don't work out but I am double muscled. I'd like to think i'm awesome. Maybe some day I'll have little babies. If you come near them i will rip out your tonsils for them to play with. Cuz i can.

That's Potential.

Now look at this specimen:

Garth's dog 'Girl' from Wayne's World

She's a gentle beast too. Probably eats raw meat when necessary. But would/could she rip your tonsils out? I don't think so. Look at her hair. She's a lover not a fighter.

I miss the good old days when humiliation was seen as a tool for motivating slow learners. Not. But seriously, putting a dunce cap (fool's cap) on a child and making him/her sit on a high stool in front of the whole class would probably be enough to make the child pull up their socks to avoid that kind of shame again, no? I think so. Humiliation is a powerful tool. Isn't that what life is about anyway? It can knock you down, make fun of you, but then you get the fuck back up and keep fighting on. Or you drink a glass of baygon.

Terrible effect of Baygon on Minku

¡Vámonos! (¡I love that upside down exclamation point!)

The day I got pubes and straight

I just figured out how to feel normal on Monday morning. Sleep 10 hours straight on Saturday night. Wake up on Sunday morning and shred rhythm guitar and vocals with your brother. Eat lunch, sleep another 7 hours. Wake up, eat dinner and watch youtube videos with said brother. Update blog, lift weights, shower and sleep. Get up at regular time on Monday morning, drive at leisurely pace to work. Breathe deeply. Once work commences, don't give in to bullshit. If you need a week to do something, tell them you'll take a week. Don't give in to people trying to push you into a corner. If deadlines are crazy, have them extended. You're only human. Admitting it, is the first step.

Now that my organ has been played, let us embark on our customary wind breaking excursion. While it is common knowledge that at the turn of the 20th century, Schedule I drugs and their derivatives like heroin, were available over the counter (OTC) at your local general store, what isn't common knowledge is that even today the consumption and reverence of mild and wild psychoactives is widespread in the Indian subcontinent. From Kandhar to Kathmandu and Kashmir to Kanyakumari, the Indian propensity for mind alteration and the respect for the altered states of consciousness it brings is well known. I take the example of the great Indian mythological God Mahakala. He is the last line of defence, an impenetrable phalanx of darkness, if you will. In Star Wars speak, he is the dark side brought to do good. Permit me to quote from http://www.shivashakti.com/mahakala.htm

-----------------------------------------
Mahakala has four arms and three eyes, and is of the brilliance of 10,000,000 black fires of dissolution, dwells in the midst of eight cremation grounds, is adorned with eight skulls, seated on five corpses, holding a trident, a damaru, a sword and a kharpa in his hands. 

With a beautiful body adorned with ashes from the cremation ground, on various corpses he dallies with Kalika, fondling her and making love with her and fiercely kissing her, surrounded by numbers of loudly shrieking vultures and jackals, adorned with a heap of braided hair, in a deserted place.
------------------------------------------

These visions are reminiscent of DMT trips expounded in various books, the names of which I shall not utter here. But let us dwell on the image it conjures up. This God is purportedly the protector of Shiva, the protector of Tibetan dharamashalas, and it is said that he controls time. That ultimately all time shall be swallowed up into his emptiness and he in turn shall be devoured by Mahakali, the ultimate. In my opinion he is second in power only to Shiva, the czar of the gods.

Mahakala, the most fearsome, indomitable in 3 worlds:



Mind you, he comes in different flavours. This one above is my favourite.

On the subject of phantasmagoria, when i was a turd baby goblin i used to read a lot of Enid Blyton shit - the famous 5, secret 7, assorted elves, pixies, fairies and brownies peckerslappery (that was crass and i apologize) that helped me weave images of what were to become the ghosts, doppelgangers and talking animals of my dream world. Those stories led me to actually believe that my toys would come alive at night and fuck with my stuff cuz they were lonely. Of course it was fucking magical to me back then cuz i didn't know any better. Don't get me wrong, i am grateful. But one day i suddenly felt like punching the teeth out of Blyton's pants for writing what she did. There was this one particular series called "The naughtiest bitch in school", a story about a spoilt hag-child who tried fucking around with everyone's mind what came in contact with her. I'm not ashamed to say that i love that fucking book and the whole series. Looking back i realize it was just my mom's way of telling me it was ok if i turned out gay. But for a smear of testosterone, i certainly may have. However that's exactly where the tables were over-turned and sawed in half by the shark-tooth machete of male pubescence.

(Update: The damn thing really exists. Thanks Pu-239 for finding it)

Shark tooth machete

I was 13 at the time. One morning i noticed that my mickey mouse voice was deepening into a gravelly Barry White-ness. i further noticed that i could now see over the refrigerator without trying. My shoulders were broadening and my crotch hurt, but good hurt cuz my undies were too smallofasudden. I felt like i was turning into the Hulk and a bit of a lycan too cuz of all the hair. At this point i was between 2 volumes of that amazing series, the naughtiest girl returns or has chums or something. I stomped over to my seat and continued reading. I felt ashamed. Everytime i saw the word "shan't" used in isolation, i felt like beating something. Extreme confusion pervaded my mind. Why the urge to throw this giant-fonted book away and instead look at my dad's copy of sports illustrated? Should i just let go? I mean, what would you do if you were young and hormonal, and had an open invitation to peruse the pages of nubility? You'd open them up and read them in the loo and that's exactly what i did.

When mother and father got home i was at the dining table reading father's copy of Dahl with the Sports Illy on my lap. Mother took one look at me and understood that the hour had passed. Saying nothing, she walked on. Father patted me on the back as only a father could and asked me which Sports Illustrated bikini babe was the best. i answered 'the one with the big rear'. He was taken aback. they *all* had the big rear. 

my gonads had arrived.

That evening i touched my first copy of The Catcher in the Rye. I also began punching loose flooring tiles with my fists in small groups of fellow-hormonally deranged individuals. we would shatter them.

A schweinehund was born.

Poe and pee - overcoming shyness

I was wondering about beauty. The aspect of beauty. It's subjective, for one. I mean a pig might be beautiful to a pig farmer and no one else. A rooster might be beautiful to a hen. To me it's just an 8-piece chicken bucket. So the other day when I commented on a woman's necklace to a colleague at work, he looked at me like I'd just farted garlic. Made me realize that there are some things you just can't say to your home boys without having them think you're a butt pirate. Of course I immediately redeemed myself by following up with a sexist remark about how ornate my nethers would look with a necklace. They would really. Anyway here's why I like women's fashion:



Yes she is. Yes they did.

I am now gonna talk about something important. Being a crack of dawner (sort of), I come across the occasional municipal road sweeper each morning on my way to work. But of late there's been one particular dude who attends to our stretch of the public pathway each morning. This guy uses the same tiny broom everyday and ties a piece of old flannel around his muzzle to protect himself from the silicosis. He looks about mid-20s, small built, almost malnourished, but he sweeps a 100 metre stretch of concrete road in under 30 minutes (I asked him how long he takes, so that's how i know, fuck off). Well the guy has forearms like popeye, which look really odd on his tiny frame. Almost orangutan like. I bet he can climb water pipes like a mofo. I don't think he'd ever attack a widow and her daughter though (The murders in the Rue Morgue). And that's awesome. Sweepers, busboys, waiters, truck drivers and masons are all examples of people who should enlist for the world arm wrestling contests. Forearm strength is the shit. Sometimes i wonder whether he realizes his power. He probably goes to parks and challenges kids on the monkey bars. Makes sure his people was there to see him shame children. These are typical thoughts i have about Manohar Pawar while driving to work.

It gets better once i reach work. work is one place that allows a complete and utter decimation of the english language, with impunity. i'm talking about general fucking conversation. today for example, a room was being painted and the fumes were a bastard. 2 colleagues were discussing the merits of upper body strength for a job like painting walls. as i began tuning out, i distinctly heard the word "handjob". needless to say, my inner bastard took over. and yes, again i heard that magic word, only this time in a sentence:

sucker1: "actually handjobs needs a skeel (skill). you and i can't do like this kind of work".
sucker2: ya but we are more use to deskjob than handjob.
me: sorry guys but don't handjobs take practice? don't tell me you've never given a handjob.
sucker1: boss, plz, at my house i am doing all type of handjob.
sucker2: i also, but we learned at early age in my home.
me: what? u mean handjobs right? ur folks taught u?
sucker2: no, my brother. he is quite expert.
me: my brothers know jackshit about handjobs as far as i'm aware.
sucker1: yea but u must be knowing right, as u are production engineer.
me: look man, i don't want that image in my head. it was a bad experience.
sucker1: oh, sorry.
me: ya i just hated touching tools.
sucker2: why man? i laove tools.
sucker1: yea, me also.
me: you're both tools, right?
guys: of course.

i left it at that and awaited eternal damnation.

Another example of sheer butt clenchery that confronts me several times a day is any time i visit the men's room. I suffer from what is known as Paruresis or Shy bladder. First of all that's a stupid name cuz there's nothing shy about my bladder. It's the lack of privacy. I need solitude. Like a joey comin' outta his mama's pouch for the first time: Oh hello, is it safe? AAAAHH, strange fuckers abound with their offensive appendages in my airspace. Fuck you, i'm going back in. That's pretty much how it is. Freud says it's cuz i hate my mother. Actually i hate Freud's mother.

Let us end now with a gentle ode to that great ecrivant. I present to you, a tribute to Poe:

Tribute to Poe

All odd stanzas (1, 3,5...) are Poe-speak, even stanzas (2, 4, 6...) are gutterspeak:

The moors were dank under blackest skies
I reeled with the rattle of her festering lies
Ne'er such a day had i beared in vain
Ne'er such a night would i see ever again

I left kalamazoo in heat of gorilla
It refused my peanuts, i returned to my villa
Heart-broken, this butcher must return to his shop
The goats always beckon, this meat i must chop

The waters lap soundless through grains of sand
Should I awake by mine own hand
My knife knows not the richness of blood
My heart cries out in morbid flood

The PETA fights against the animal offers
Come you cutters, come bring your choppers
Bakar Kasai fights for the mutton galla
Uncle daddy wants the "badey ka nalla"

As black as the waters, my heart bleeds no more
I wept when the doors closed like hell's own maw
I now see the axe falling painfully low
I languish in life but death follows tow

Municipality wants money from my mutton shop
I say i cannot, money was taken by a cop
He came last night in the pouring rain
He threaten to take my chopper again

The smooth silver edge slices through my veins
I smile as i see the blackness again
It envelops me to the darkest degree
No need for escape once we are truly free

Omar was arrested for raping the beast
He sold the remains to a travelling feast
He said he want donkey, but he cannot yet find
I say, see your life, but he say he is blind

Only blood-memories now can I ever trust
The pangs of death soften my blood lust
My soul sags in this physical seat
I transcend us now, I die in defeat

Raju told he was marrying once more
I said 3 is crowd, he said Sex life is poor
Donate me money, I make life brand new
I said I am gutter, he said he espew

Ruminatia and Roald

I hate the bourgeoisie. They laugh at poor people. I like the petite bourgeoisie. They laugh at the proletariat. And that's ok. What's not ok is carelessness with communication. Deals fall apart because of wrongly timed jokes, or improperly placed commas. The spoken word is a particular bitch. My training in not fucking up began at home when mother would glare at us, in a state of shock, if we would ever commit verbal gaffery (sic). I'm not talking about Spoonerisms. She looked at those as a mild irritant. I'm talking about things like when you're a toddler at the park and you run up to your primary care-giver and say "I footed (kicked) the ball mama". Her reaction was similar to the way staunch catholics cross themselves when they're at an exorcism.

With this background, i would now like to reveal that there are times when i lose my composure. Blamelessness is a quality least desired:
"Actually, if you are taken the back road via flora bakery you can able to reached there more faster"
"Yesterday i saw a small utility vehicle of Nano"
"My wife is having shooger" (sugar::diabetes)
"da, plees dileete that picture of me da, my face is looking fat".

Yes man, that's why i captured your visage at that exact moment. I'm not gonna delete it. I hate people telling me what to do. Don't tell me what to do. In fact, help me out with whatever it is i'm doing and i'll be ever grateful:



It was the same when I was a swineling. People always asking me to do this and not do that. Come on bits stop eating your boogers, come on bits don't pick your scabs, come on bits don't beat your brothers, come on bits try not to crack your skull open, come on bits get up for school and learn to start hating your life, come on bits get out of that bathroom even though you're not done yet, come on bits try to eat this bowl of boiled ridge gourd for dinner and hate its texture forever after, come on bits polish your knives later and go buy the groceries, come on bits say your poem for uncle which you said so nicely in school. After "saying" a poem 50 times for practice it gets old. Even for the above-average attention whore such as myself, reciting a poem for a fawning elder is akin to swimming in prostate juice. Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, go fuck yourself. Have I any wool? I'm 5, so no bastard i don't have any wool. One time i actually did have some wool from granny's sewing kit, but i was saving it to see if i could tie it around a magnet and fetch coins from the floor. Ok, I didn't say all those things at the age of 5, but i did think them in different words. I also miss granny's hand knitted sweaters. I had a bitchin' blood red one. Those things kept me warm like hellboy. i hope mother's saved them somewhere. i lack the estrogen levels needed to remember these things. doesn't mean i don't care. effyewh. Granny always took care of us kids. she never let any of us feel left out. damn, that kind of unconditional love and caring i have never received ever again. Every Saturday from 1984 to '87, after lunch she'd sit me down next to her and she would translate for me in English from little comic strips that would be published in her weekly vernacular. This was a great lady, who learnt English simply by interacting with newspapers, her kids and her kids' kids. Hanging with Granny was akin to visiting Erana's peace in the PC game 'Quest for Glory I' (Hero's Quest) by Sierra. The same peace and calm would prevail when Granny was in the room. Here's a fantastic rendition of Erana's peace by OnewithTheClaws (Fredd Marshall) from deviantart.com. Reproduced without permission:



On the subject of books, my 2 favourite authors are Roald Dahl and Spike Milligan. Salinger, J.D. is of course very cool but i only ever read 2 of his books. Carl Sagan was a fantastic sage but his genre is limited. Nevertheless these are great men. What is a complete waste of time, however, is the Daniel Steele, Jeffrey Archer, fucking Sidney Sheldon sewagery, and the super fuckwaste epics by Ayn Rand. Long and winding books that involve a hundred characters and make you feel like you've just wasted a month of your life. These pillock-smacks require a strategy to be read. Otherwise you end up leaving it unfinished, unless you're a really, really boring person and actually read books cover to cover. Every time i picture someone reading the last sentence of a book and shutting it with a smile when they're done, i also picture myself walking over to them and throwing a cup of warm rape into their mouth. in reality, what i do is, i read the last 2 chapters first. they make very little sense, and it's almost impossible to remember them. But it helps because u know you don't have to worry about reading it till the end.

Which brings me to, perhaps, the only fictional author worth reading. I speak of none other than Dahl. This man is the reason i believe in good writing. I'm too old for Shakespeare now but i'll admit it, that Victorian bitch was quite the wordsmith. However, Dahl is the ubermensch because he weaves his stories like a ruthless mage specializing in orgasmic mind-rape. Don't compare Dahl to the epic greatness of Tolkien because they're not in the same genre. Just don't do it.

I'll end today with a tribute to Spike Milligan, the man whose World War II autobiographies taught me the meaning of funny. The seven volumes are:

- Adolf Hitler: My Part In His Downfall
- 'Rommel?' 'Gunner Who?'
- Monty: His Part In My Victory
- Mussolini: His Part In My Downfall
- Where Have All The Bullets Gone?
- Goodbye Soldier
- Peace Work

The humour within the writing can only be Milligan - the same can be said for the style of war reporting and commentary, the accounts of friendship, suffering, kindness and vulnerability, and the underlying despair at man's tireless pursuit of self-destruction.

When Spike Milligan died the world lost its greatest genius. This picture is from "Rommel? Gunner Who?".



Spike Milligan, the late. He told you he was ill: