The Return to Form Black Magick Party – Pop Levi

I don’t usually gush over music but this… this is just epic. When I first put it on, I caught myself – Mr Make-Me-Dance-and-I’ll-Set-Your-Ears-on-Fire – bopping my head to it which, unfortunately, is like catching Madeleine Albright having sex. It’s a once in a lifetime event but that won’t stop you from turning away.

It must be said that I have no idea what type of music this is but I have gone on Wikipedia and it says that it’s “funky alt-rock”, whatever that is. It doesn’t matter. Buy this album and put on a neck brace as well because I’m quite sure that you’ll be bopping your head off.

I need a new pen

I have lost four of them thus far and my last one’s gone all scratchy. Sure, I could easily snitch one from the office stationery pool but that would be like prancing around in someone else’s underwear – it would work but you’d somehow feel all dirty.

I used to write with old fountain pens which gave me an air of intellectuality. But in primary school, an air of intellectuality is about as useful as shorts worn up to the midriff, which I also had. And then there were the gifts from previous girlfriends with engraved messages such as “TYFBM” (no, I’m not gonna tell you what that stands for). Unfortunately, filled with love or not, they made writing about as pleasurable as scaling a fish.

So, off it is to Muji then for some of their Gel Ink Pens. I adore these. Every scribble feels like you’re autographing Maggie Q’s tummy – deliciously smooth and with just the right amount of tautness. No Pilot or Stabilo or Papermate could give me the same degree of pleasure. Why then don’t I consider a proper long-lasting pen like a Parker or a Mont Blanc? It’s simple. I’m not 45, still have a full head of hair and don’t have a Chinese mistress tucked away in some condominium. Then again, just give me twenty more years.

Children are a waste of time

As I was listening to Tenacious D on the train this evening, another sort of scream pierced my Cresyn earphones, blew my ear drums out of my nostrils and then proceeded to bounce around inside my cranial cavity. It was a child. And I, along with a whole cabin of disgruntled passengers, wanted to kill it. And yet, its parents seemed curiously unaffected. I assumed that they must be deaf but then deaf people don’t talk on the phone. They must be stupid then because they didn’t realise that about fifty people were quite ready to forcefully wring the air out of their windpipes and then do the same to their offspring.

Frankly, children ought to be disciplined from as young an age as possible. Crying might be a child’s way of asking for a feed or some otherwise legitimate attention. But children learn to lie young and some cry just so that they can rejoice in some parental fawning. Plainly, we can’t have any of that. Crying for anything other than food or a nappy change should be rewarded by mashing the culprit’s head into a grater. If your child still fails to change its ways, then you should turn Christian. Because then you’d have an excuse to stone it.

I, though, wouldn’t bother with children. Certainly, looking at myself, I wonder why my mother ever bothered with me. And anyway, if you believe all the horrific predictions that are floating around the cable news ether, bringing more human beings into this world probably isn’t worth it. After all, in fifty years, we’ll all be swimming around in one huge ocean because the bloody ice caps have melted – if we make it that far. A far likelier scenario is that George Bush and his madcap rightwing loonies would have long ago condemned us all to hell in one huge nuclear inferno.

And besides, not having kids means that I’ll never face one of those “Yes, Daddy surfs porn too. Now get out!” moments.

Children, then, are a waste of time and we should all be content with having cats. They’re far less noisy, far less smelly and they won’t mind even if you spend all your time looking at naked women.