I am bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. B-O-R-E-D.
So bored in fact, that the word bored has now become a meaningless entity, an empty, hollow shell of a once-was word, devoid of all prior meaning. A definition-less term, if you will. Actually, it's pretty weird when that happens, isn't it? You know, when you repeat a word a zillion times, and you find yourself wondering not only if it's the right word for the job, but if it's even a word at all. But then you eventually get yourself (and you vocabulary) back on track and convince yourself it really is a word... but, then you begin to wonder if you'll ever be able to see it in the same light again. Has this word changed forever? Will you ever be able to use it as it once was, or will you one day in the distant future see it in passing, and avert your gaze lest it recognises you, makes eye contact, and initiates some kind of awkward conversation? Alas, it will all blow over, and you'll both be able to get on with your respective lives, almost as if nothing happened. Unless it's that nasty word 'mortification'. Ughh! What a fucking cunt.
In fact, if words were people, I'm fairly sure this guy would be the physical manifestation of mortification. Would you stop to talk to it in the street? No fucking way. Man... can you imagine that dude trying to get his morning coffee?
Mortification: I'll have a large latte thanks. Takeaway.
Coffeemonkey: Argh!
Mortification: No, no! Don't be scared, I always look like this... Don't worry, I tip well to make up for it! Wait! Come back!
You know that this is the guy who everyone avoids sitting next to on the train, because, while he probably doesn't smell like old cheese, there's a higher possibility that he does than anyone else in the carriage, except, perhaps, for the homeless dude napping in the corner. Some may even switch carriages in fear of Mortification flying off the handle and perhaps taking a hapless passenger hostage, garrote-style, with his own sensible business sock for reasons unknown.
The upside is that he'd never have to deal with beggars and street salespeople alike, with the exception of those nasty Amnesty International ones who would probably consider themselves as doing some sort of social-justice favour to unpopular people. I really don't understand why they do that. When I walk past them with my best angry-face on, armed with a hot drink, and moving at a walk best described as a sprint, they obviously think that this is some sort of clear indication that I really, really want nothing more than to speak to someone who's sprinkled just a little too much speed on their cornflakes, just so I can give them all my money - no, not today, but on a regular month-by-month basis that involves me working out what my fucking bank account number is. I don't get it. Do they report their actions to their manager, in hope of receiving 300 Bono points for use in case of third world crisis? Do they get a sash, or some sort of ribbon? If they do, then for what exactly? Smiling patronisingly at a walking word who is highly unlikely to sponsor a Ugandan playground at $50 a month, and frankly, will probably respond to your actions by threatening to eat your face off? Fools.
No wonder the churches are dumping them. It has nothing to do with their stance on abortion, but more so their inability for a bit of old school Spanish inquisition-style conversion of pedestrians into third-world wells for starving African converts. If history has taught us anything, it's that Amnesty will never get anywhere by standing on street corners - at least, not until they start arming themselves. You want my money? You'd better have a crusade or two up your sleeve, you jammy bastards. Orange shirts alone will get you nowhere, and frankly, until I see you lot running around our city streets as a sea of orange, equipped with clipboards and straddling cannons, I won't think twice about you or your damned donation forms. Instead of smiling at Mortification, try teaming up with him instead and have him chase people who don't pony up the cash. Maybe have him throw underfed alley cats at them at the same time. You can keep a net strung around the closest corner so they get stuck and then you can pick 'em off one by one. Sure, there might be a few assault charges laid, but it's got to be better than going back to rattling buckets.
Think about it... Deep down, you know I'm right, and it's a tactic that'll win back the churches... and goddammit, now I can't take the word Amnesty seriously. Still, no love lost I suppose.
So bored in fact, that the word bored has now become a meaningless entity, an empty, hollow shell of a once-was word, devoid of all prior meaning. A definition-less term, if you will. Actually, it's pretty weird when that happens, isn't it? You know, when you repeat a word a zillion times, and you find yourself wondering not only if it's the right word for the job, but if it's even a word at all. But then you eventually get yourself (and you vocabulary) back on track and convince yourself it really is a word... but, then you begin to wonder if you'll ever be able to see it in the same light again. Has this word changed forever? Will you ever be able to use it as it once was, or will you one day in the distant future see it in passing, and avert your gaze lest it recognises you, makes eye contact, and initiates some kind of awkward conversation? Alas, it will all blow over, and you'll both be able to get on with your respective lives, almost as if nothing happened. Unless it's that nasty word 'mortification'. Ughh! What a fucking cunt.
In fact, if words were people, I'm fairly sure this guy would be the physical manifestation of mortification. Would you stop to talk to it in the street? No fucking way. Man... can you imagine that dude trying to get his morning coffee?
Mortification: I'll have a large latte thanks. Takeaway.
Coffeemonkey: Argh!
Mortification: No, no! Don't be scared, I always look like this... Don't worry, I tip well to make up for it! Wait! Come back!
You know that this is the guy who everyone avoids sitting next to on the train, because, while he probably doesn't smell like old cheese, there's a higher possibility that he does than anyone else in the carriage, except, perhaps, for the homeless dude napping in the corner. Some may even switch carriages in fear of Mortification flying off the handle and perhaps taking a hapless passenger hostage, garrote-style, with his own sensible business sock for reasons unknown.
The upside is that he'd never have to deal with beggars and street salespeople alike, with the exception of those nasty Amnesty International ones who would probably consider themselves as doing some sort of social-justice favour to unpopular people. I really don't understand why they do that. When I walk past them with my best angry-face on, armed with a hot drink, and moving at a walk best described as a sprint, they obviously think that this is some sort of clear indication that I really, really want nothing more than to speak to someone who's sprinkled just a little too much speed on their cornflakes, just so I can give them all my money - no, not today, but on a regular month-by-month basis that involves me working out what my fucking bank account number is. I don't get it. Do they report their actions to their manager, in hope of receiving 300 Bono points for use in case of third world crisis? Do they get a sash, or some sort of ribbon? If they do, then for what exactly? Smiling patronisingly at a walking word who is highly unlikely to sponsor a Ugandan playground at $50 a month, and frankly, will probably respond to your actions by threatening to eat your face off? Fools.
No wonder the churches are dumping them. It has nothing to do with their stance on abortion, but more so their inability for a bit of old school Spanish inquisition-style conversion of pedestrians into third-world wells for starving African converts. If history has taught us anything, it's that Amnesty will never get anywhere by standing on street corners - at least, not until they start arming themselves. You want my money? You'd better have a crusade or two up your sleeve, you jammy bastards. Orange shirts alone will get you nowhere, and frankly, until I see you lot running around our city streets as a sea of orange, equipped with clipboards and straddling cannons, I won't think twice about you or your damned donation forms. Instead of smiling at Mortification, try teaming up with him instead and have him chase people who don't pony up the cash. Maybe have him throw underfed alley cats at them at the same time. You can keep a net strung around the closest corner so they get stuck and then you can pick 'em off one by one. Sure, there might be a few assault charges laid, but it's got to be better than going back to rattling buckets.
Think about it... Deep down, you know I'm right, and it's a tactic that'll win back the churches... and goddammit, now I can't take the word Amnesty seriously. Still, no love lost I suppose.
2 comments:
I wonder... if you were to run over 8 Amnesty collectors in a row, would you get a 'GOURANGA!' bonus?
Hrmm.
I laughed and laughed and laughed and then my head felt...mortified...
But on a completely different issue...when is the next poll coming out? I want a new poll and I want it now and I'm willing to fight for it.
Post a Comment