Documentaries

I watched two documentaries on string theory yesterday and the only two things I’ve learnt are that (1) the Universe is a wonderfully intricate and mysterious place and (2) I am incredibly stupid. Because I really had, and still have, no idea what all those damned physicists were going on about. Matter isn’t made up of particles but instead of tiny vibrating strings? What?! This isn’t something you can just shrug and accept. And while I’m still reeling from the discovery that I am basically one huge guitar, I get bombarded by the revelation that for string theory or rather all the variants of string theory to be unified, there needs to be eleven dimensions in what is called the M-theory, Eleven! The only thing I’ve ever known with that many dimensions is Pamela Anderson.

All this wackiness has made me suspect that despite their straight-laced appearance, scientists really do know how to have some fun. No one knows what the “M” in M-theory stands for. It could be magical or mad or master or membrane, but I know for a fact that it really means marijuana. Therefore a Big Bang is what you experience when you inhale too quickly and fall off your stool. A supernova is observed when you repeatedly use your lighter as an ashtray. And black holes are people who’ve suddenly quit and taken all their weed with them.

Having had my ego demolished, I then decided to watch a documentary on stupidity. Initially, this was fascinating in the I-like-to-see-people-crap-on-other-people type of way but, trust me, the fascination quickly wears off. And then I got asked the question: “What is stupidity?” whereupon my brain tried valiantly to fend off the inevitable with moves like “Huh?” and “Whassat again?” before giving up and yelping like a dog.

So I don’t know what stupidity is and I don’t know what string theory is. But then again, I don’t think you do either.

I'm old

As of today, I am 27 years and two days old. This sucks. One day you’re a strapping young lad and the next you’re a geezer. Of course, I was never strapping but at least I was young. I remember a time when I could stay awake for eight hours straight without drooling into my pocket. Now I line them with cellophane. Oh, the humanity.

Still some people tell me I can pass off as a student. These are very nice folks even if they are utterly blind. The truth of the matter is that I am old. A geriatric in a sea of youth. I am the type of person delinquents will now try to mug as I cling feebly to my walking stick, cursing hoarsely for them to buzz off forthwith.

Of course, a few lovely people have made efforts to help ease me into my golden years. Pat bought me a sumptuous dinner along with a wonderful pair of jeans with which to keep the cold from seeping into my legs. My CD and Joanne gave me two voluptuous nymphs to help keep the old blood pumping and also, very thoughtfully, a booklet of MCs so that I could have an excuse to spend all day in bed with the aforementioned companions. My mother also chipped in with some money that will no doubt be stolen by those damned delinquents.

And now if only this accursed rain would stop. I’m feeling it in my bones already.

On newly-weds and bad breath

A few days ago, I met SB on the train to work and we got around to talking about a couple, let’s call them K (the husband) and Y (the wife), from our JC days who’d just gotten married. After the usual “they’re gonna have ugly-ass children” comments which, in this case, will unfortunately be accurate, SB let me in on a theory of his.

“I have observed that newly-wed couples tend to have bad breath.” he announced.

“Huh?” I said, intelligently.

“It’s not just K and Y. It’s every newly-wed couple I’ve met this year. Their breath stinks.”

“I wonder why.”

“I mean, they can’t all possibly have decided to stop brushing their teeth after marriage, right?”

Which is when inspiration struck.

“Perhaps, it might have something to do with a number.” it was my turn to announce.

“Eh… what?”

“You know… THAT number. After all, what do newly-weds do the most?”

*nervous laughter*

“Don’t be disgusting.” he finally managed to mutter.

“That means that all the time you were talking to K,” I edged him towards the abyss “you were actually smelling Y’s…” and pushed.

“Fuck!”

“Exactly!”

An excerpt from the novel I couldn’t be arsed to finish

With NaNoWriMo over, I guess I might as well publish some of what little I wrote. You might like to know that the story revolves around a whistler named Charles who somehow winds up trying to get laid in Africa. I don’t know if he’ll be successful or not quite simply because I haven’t written that part yet. This excerpt is taken from quite near the beginning where Charles is about to perform a gig with a rock band.

“The Dachshund is a pub five walking minutes away from where Charles lived. It was originally founded in 1936 as The Greyhound and occupied a whole terrace house along with a vast yard which was quickly turned into a massive outhouse. Wherever there was a tree, you could count on there being a man facing it, usually accompanied by the sound of running water. This was put to an end in 1939 by a massive fire started by someone who had the ill-conceived notion that a vodka fight would be fun. Naturally, The Greyhound was burnt to a crisp within three hours.

However, just two months later, it was reopened as The Weimaraner, the name of a German breed of hunting dog that also gave the pub the added distinction of sounding like a sailor with a heavy bladder. Ironically, this was ended in 1941 when a German bomb landed squarely on its roof which was, perhaps also ironically, painted with the Union Jack.

It then returned as The Border Collie which was killed by a lightning strike, The Pit Bull which was flattened when an oak tree collapsed on it, The English Foxhound which was bombed by the IRA and then finally The Dachshund, which the current owner hoped sounded too cute and, being a sausage shaped dog, too ludicrous for anything calamitous to befall it.

The band was just warming up when Charles stepped in. In their younger days, they had idolised Kiss and with the help of a thesaurus and an impressive lack of imagination had decided to call themselves The Smooches. It was the front man of The Smooches who now attempted to chest bump Charles, who promptly fell over.

And there. It’s crap, I know, but I had hell of a lot of fun writing it. Until the couldn’t be arsed part, that is.