Randomised Wanderings of a Verbose Observer

Kim Jong Il certainly is looking at things

Festivus drew to a close 53 minutes ago, i have just awoken on the floor of my living room, underneath the festive aluminium pole. The feats of strength went accordingly:

Aluminium Pole: 1st place

Me: 2nd place

The Dragon Lady: 3rd place

Next door neighbours: Disqualified on account of having run away.

the feats of strength included holding your face in icy water, wrestling (at which the aluminium pole is deceptively good-once in a pinning position it proves heavier than expected) clipping pegs to one’s face and blind orange cutting.

The Airing of Grievances went accordingly:

The Dragon Lady shouted incoherently at great length, overturning the dinner table and throwing hot apple sauce over the Guests (nextdoor neighbours) who then made a hasty retreat. I then aired my Grievances by swooping upon the Dragon Lady and setting about her with the remnants of a Plymouth Gin bottle, dousing her firey breath.

The Opening of Everyone Else’s Presents went thusly:

I opened everyone’s presents.

I ate the majority of the chocolate

Thhe chocolate which i could not eat I smeared over a dressing gown someone had bought for someone and the walls.

I burned the majority of the children’s toys and a PS3 at the base of my washin line-pole.

The Dragon Lady excreted copiously on the christmas tree

I danced around the Festivus Pole until it’s unsupported weight fell on me, detaining me until such time as I awoke to accurately recount the evening’s events.

My cousins didn’t know what hit them.

i am forced to live with a moody, violent and unrepentant dragon-lady who repeatedly curses, breaks things and slams doors in anger. Currently she is furiously martyring herself at the dishwasher whilst listening to BBC news infuriatingly loudly. We have entered into a war of attrition from which neither of us are prepared to back down. I had until recently been playing the submissive, non-committal sweeden. My apathetic pandering was ceased upon my retaliation at an unprovoked rage enduced (it would appear) by my spilling of a negligible amount of water on her socks.

The ensuing tyrade was enough to send any man willingly to the hot place, seeking refuge amongst the more sympathetic Lucifer and his minions. Endurig with boggled eyes and clenched teeth this thermite explosion I felt rage similar to that which i feel now as the muffled, low hub-bub of a male recorded voice of Radio 4 throbs through my room, disturbing any thoughts of sleep and dislodging nails, screws and window panes from their rightful positions. It is not unreasonable to say that i hate with every sinew in my body the menopausal witch bumbling around below, raging at her own inadequacies and venting extrovert turmoil.

Her continued retorts to any reasonable request or form of communication that “i’ve done so much” or “if you were more helpful and thoughtful…” are all too true, which, i must admit, rather guns me down as a man of reason. Furthermore her maternal positioning prevents me from stabbing, blowing away, throttling, concussiong, burying or otherwise eradicating her. I feel exasperated faced with such a classical catch 22. To give in to the furious impulse coursing below my turgid, gentlemanly veneer would be to deny the millions of years of motherly love, and vice versa which have held the humans in such good stead (not to mention serious ramifications for oneself). No, drastic action will not yet be taken.

I have decided that, as eradicating the cackling abhorrence is not possible, and eradicating oneself is damaging and tricky, and the current war of attrition is unsustainable in a similar manner to that of the world’s oil supply, the only viable option is to proceed (in the true spirit of festivus) TO THE LICQUER CABINET…

imbibing copious amounts of alcohol will fortify my bibling self sufficiently to either eradicate the issue in a rather article 41 fashion, eradicate myself in a Van Gogh manner or at least allow me to maintain the chaotic equilibrium for a while longer. Furthermore, if I don the attire of a majestic hawk then I will no doubt strike fear into the heart of my foe and gain the element of surprise.

onwards…

Festivus is Sienfield’s alternative to the forced jollyness of the celebration of an implausible birth.

In getting very drunk, you open your spiritual self to the ether of chaos. In opening everybody elses presents you shatter the venere of christmas and in using those presents inappropriately you demoralise others, degrading them to your level.

Finally, in dancing around a pole (preparation needed/your washing line) and shouting at onlookers all the things about them that piss you of one demonstrates the uselessness of jollyness in a hate-filled, grindingly repressive world.

whilst the above is occurring it is important to remeber:

• none of your goals are achievable
• you will never succeede
• nothing good that ever happens lasts
• you hate your job
• you hate your family (a necessity for the success of festivus)
• your family hate you (not quite as essential as they will do afterwards)
• you are alone, solitary and desolate in a tumultuous tempest of misinformed, impulsive, susceptible, gullable cretins
• In realising the true spirit of festivus (for the rest-of-us) you blast aside the propaganda-fuelled monotony of financial striving, hard labour and such like.

my three year old cousins won’t know what hit them.

feel wrong on the inside. Something’s going on in there. Maybe a really tiny man who’s really good at everything is inside, and he’ll come bursting out on New Year’s day like a greyhound from a starting block…

or maybe i just need to go to the loo.

throughout the millenia, humankind has been faced with many decisions: Venture from the trees for food, water and prosperity, or remain in safety; Hunt larger, more aggressive creatures to reap their rewards or continue to subsistance forage; venture into the unkown wester, northern, southern and eastern wildernesses in search of greener pastures or linger within the confines of Africa; go to Ikea to get those curtains the front room needs or watch Howard’s Way repeats; Find an excuse for invading Iraq or fabricate one? Now, i am faced with one such decision.

Should I buy a bear costume or a fly costume?

The bear-suit would allow me to roam the local forests, singing Disney Classic’s tunes and devouring small children, romans and an indefinable yellow sphere known only as a “paupaw”. Much fun.

On the other hand, the fly costume allows for much buzzing, general acrobatics and an excuse for attraction to sweet/pungent objects. Also much fun.

Both are affordable, both are in a similar price range and both result in much fun.This desperate crisis dwarfs the insignificant, clearly resolvable issues previously endured by humankind. I shall consult the U.N.

On pondering the many wonders, intricacies and bamboosling qualities of Life, the Universe and Everything in it, I realise the innate ability of the Human Race to gossip, “bitch” and dish the dirt on just about everything. From discussing the socio/economic spider’s web of a non-selective Independent School with a fellow greenhorn in the art of Public School diplomacy to idle chat with an accquaintance on the bus ride home, we, as humans, manage to slip in some interesting, risque and often highly inappropriate topics of conversation, normally related to shared accquaintances. Why is this, I wonder? Is there a physical/metaphysical need for the rush of gossip? Do we crave some indefinable chemical released in sharing confided information one another? if so, where does this impulse come from? does it stem from a more primitive time, when information regarding other members of a group would need to be divulged? QUestions, questions, questions. But currently the muffin sitting on the kitchen table but an arms reach away from me seems more pressing. Au revoir