Jolly Dreaming 1

So last night I had this properly awesome dream.  It's happened a few times in the last few weeks and I've been determined to start writing them down.  Unfortunately, this intention was never followed up with the act of actually writing them down.  I would remember that I had some bizarre nighttime narrative, but I wouldn't actually remember the content.  Anecdotally, remembering that you had a good dream isn't quite as engaging as the dream itself.  But this morn I wrote it down.  I'm not a dream analyst so make of this what you will.

The dream started in Salisbury.  It wasn't Salisbury, but it was a city playing the part of Salisbury in the dream, and I was heading down the A36 in my Mini Cooper.  It was red (it gets better than this, just stay with me).  So I'm in my Mini and I pull up at the Castle Road roundabout which has three lanes of traffic, and a white van pulls up alongside me.  The light goes green and the van tries to drag race me.  Initially I decide not to participate, but eventually I make the move to teach him a lesson about racing Minis.  This was a Mini Cooper S, by the way.  The fastest of all the Minis.  I make him look a fool.

The reason for my journey in my Mini Cooper S is to go see Alan Sugar (the British twat at the centre of the original "Apprentice").  Think Donald Trump, but with more hair and a face that needs a good slap.  I made my way to his underground lair, where he is sat at his desk at the back of a cave hollowed out of a mountain.  Hollowed out mountains are few and far between in Salisbury; that place must have cost a fortune.  I'm arguing with him about something, I think it was KFC, and was throwing around some pretty cleverly constructed insults: "Oh, my God!  You're such a twat!  Is there something wrong with you?  I hate you!  You're everything that is wrong with people!"  In retrospect, not my finest lines, but I think it gets the point across.  It was like one of those dreams where you're punching someone over and over again and it doesn't even phase them.  They hardly seem to notice but you really want them to take stock of how much you hate them; you know, 'cos of the punches.  But Alan Sugar could give a rat's ass about my abuse.  He just calls over his henchman Vinnie Jones who escorts me out of the building.

(It's at this point that I sincerely hope other people have regular dreams in which they relentlessly pummel people with their fists.)

I'm escorted to a huge escalator where there's a line of people, presumably being kicked out of the cave also.  When I was in Japan I went to the largest escalator in the world and this one was considerably bigger.  Unfortunately, its construction was not to the same specification of the Japanese one.  Parts of it were made from wood and swayed from side to side.  It was then that I noticed the man in front of me was none other than Stephen Fry.  Stephen Fry was mere inches from my face!  He's in my top five of "famous people I'm going to force to be my friends!"  My excitement lasted all the way up until the escalator started giving me electric shocks.  The shocks became more frequent and increasingly intense the higher the escalator got, although I seemed to be the only person that this was affecting.  About two thirds into the ascent I can feel myself passing out from all the electric shocks, and I collapse on the escalator.  My eyes open to see Stephen looming over me with a look of utter contempt.  As he rolls his eyes he simply mumbles "pathetic..." and walks off.  Oh, God, no!  Stephen!  No!

And I wake up.

Jolly Blog 11 - Much ado about everything PART TWO

Additionally to this blog, I’d like to talk, if I may, about the Olympics.  First off, if anyone has any tickets lying about, I want them.  But to the Paralympics.  I’m not interested in the able-bodied one.  I really wanna see para-volleyball - it’s probably the best sport in the world.  Wheelchair basketball is a close second.  Compared to the Paralympics, the Olympics is watched by more people, more money is spent on it, and a lot more money is made from it.  I am one of the few who actually thinks the Cripple-ympics is more interesting.  The games are far more competitive, and, I believe, more awe-inspiring.  And thanks to the wars in the Middle East (and an acute observation by Jimmy Carr) our, already phenomenal, Paralympic team has recently become even better.  So if y’all know of any para-tickets going let us know... assuming of course that due to the ineffably under-staffed security they haven’t all been blown to smithereens [again].  I’d like to say ‘I don’t know what imbeciles G4S have in their employ’, but I actually know exactly which imbeciles they’ve hired.  How’s the job going, David? :) 

So the big news, some of you already know.  Some of you I’ve told, some of you heard it through the rumour mill.  In either case, I have finally found myself a job that I don’t hate.  For the moment I’m still at the pub, but for the last couple of months I’ve been going through the application process for the BBC’s Production Talent Pool.  From over 3,000 applicants, I am one of 120 people who have a place.  Essentially, when producers need people for running and/or production assistant jobs, they’re encouraged to pick people from this list what I’m on.  That means that at any time they could offer me a contract.  It could be a long weekend in Cardiff, or eight months in London.  I just have to wait and see.  This is also the reason why I’ve been forced back onto social networking sites.  Remaining anonymous is not going to help me stand out from the crowd when it comes to securing a job in this field.  This all means that in the very near future I could be moving to Lundun.  I play the part of an obnoxious, self-centric tosser pretty well, so I should fit right in.

A few weeks ago I came to the conclusion that I wasted too much of my time doing nothing.  I spent all of my time at work or asleep, and on my days off, I just slept a bit longer.  So I decided to develop some hobbies.  If you’ve read my last post you’ll know that there’s a girl at work who’s teaching my sign-language.  Here are just some of the things I could say to a deaf:

‘Hello’

‘How’re you’

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name is...’

‘Shut your black mouth’

‘Go fuck yourself’

‘I wish you would die, you stupid retard’

All the day-to-day essentials, basically.

I have also bought, and am teaching myself to play the guitar.  Thus far my repertoire includes:

‘Your Song’ - Ellie Goulding

‘Our song’ - Taylor Swift

‘You Belong With Me’ - Taylor Swift

‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ - Bette Midler

‘Hot and Cold’ - Katy Perry

‘Chasing Cars’ - Snow Patrol

Some are saying I’m the new Johnny Cash.

And then there’s my final hobby and my last bit of news.  I’ve spent literally thousands getting to this point in my final hobby.  It was seriously worth it, though.  Youtube’s online editor was just tolerable enough to edit this one as a video... t'ra for now.

Jolly Blog 11 - Much ado about everything PART ONE

Right now it is 17:17 on Tuesday, 17th July and I’m sitting down-stairs in the pub what I live in ‘cos this dodgy guy has come in and the waitress on duty is scared; and with good reason.  This guy is one of those genuinely unhinged weirdos, who’s somehow managed to slip through the cracks in the mental health system and is allowed out by himself.  The last few times he’s come in, he would buy seven or eight Guinesses then try and pay with an expired card.  I was by the bar once when he came in and he decided to strike up a conversation with me which mainly consisted of asking me inappropriate questions about my lifestyle.  Then he asked one of the waiters for a arm wrestle before he followed me into the bathroom when I went to go pee (I’m seriously not making this up).  So now I’m helping to guard the pub while we wait for the manager to get back and tell this guy to go do one.

In any case, it was my genuine intention to do a vlog today; I filmed about half an hour of footage then came home to edit it together.  It didn’t occur to me, however, that I’ve not tried to edit a video since my old laptop broke and I got a Mac.  iMovie (for anyone who cares) is seriously shite.  I could get Final Cut Pro X, but I don’t have the money at present, ergo, what was going to be a video blog is now just a regular old blog.  C’est la vie.

You may have noticed that I am back on Facebook, and I also have twitter and Google+ accounts.  The first two I’ve had to drag back into my life for reason which I will explicate later.  Google+ I have for the very reason that no-one else does; I can trawl through trending topics and recent news without having to listen to whatever inane drivel my generation feels the need to vomit onto the internet.  Please tell me again how shit your day was, LOL!

So first news happened about three months ago, when I finally cut off my hair and donated it to charity.  I hate it when I have a drastic change in my hair.  It’s comparable to the feeling of post-coital guilt.  That sinking you get after climax; the feeling of loss, of loneliness, the feeling that somewhere, somehow, my mother is disappointed with me.  So I donated this hair and all I got in return was some stinking certificate, which didn’t even have my name on it.  When I first decided I was going to grow my hair for charity, I figured ‘meh, it costs me nothing to grow it.  The length of my hair is inconsequential.  Why not just grow it and then give it to some kid who ain’t got no hair.  One of them rubbish ones with cancer, or alopecia, or one of those kids who’s so annoying that their parents shook them until their hair fell out?’  But I’m telling you now, growing hair is not free.  Hair brush, hairbands and bandanas for work, hats for when it’s dirty, shampoo AND conditioner, and then ANOTHER shampoo AND conditioner, because if you only use one it ‘builds up’ and goes greasy.  It does, it actually does.  I spent a fortune on this damn hair and for what?  For a certificate?  I want a photograph of a diseased child, in a god-awful, greasy, Jesus wig and a hand-written thank-you letter telling me how great I am.  I want it now or I’m gonna thump someone in the throat.

In other news, my mum is getting re-married, and she’s asked me to give her away.  She claims that it’s to stop my Grandfather from being offered the opportunity to draw focus.  He will do a speech, and he will find a way to play his trumpet at least twice if he’s not properly attended to.  She also claims it’s because she wants her children involved in the wedding.  My younger sister, Alice, is a bridesmaid, and my older sister, Emily, is a witness.  Whatever the reason, just so long as my mum is happy... and I get the suit she’s promised me.

I also have a new tattoo, which I got a few months ago now.  It’s something I’ve thought of getting for a while, and I positioned it as a segway into getting my Hong Kong one on the top of my right shoulder.  As soon as I forget how much it hurt, I’ll get the Hong Kong one.

END OF PART ONE

Offending my honour

The comedian, Jimmy Carr, said once that he thinks offense is taken, not given.  If you’re not British watch this to familiarise yourself.  I was thinking this evening about what offends me and why, and I reached an impasse; nothing does.  Nothing causes me offense.  I can literally think of nothing you could say to me that would upset me.  I am essentially, untouchable.  Go after my mother, my intelligence, my looks (good luck finding an angle on the last two) and it rolls off me like drool off a window licker’s tongue.

The whole concept confuses me.  Rude, hurtful or ‘offensive’ behaviour essentially means to cause someone psychological harm through your actions and/or language.  Take ‘nigger’ as the quotidian example of an offensive term.  It’s offensive because at its offensive origin, the implication is that the target of the term is somehow inferior to the user of the term.  By sheer association of the word to the concept, the word has become just as unpalatable; as is the case with most offensive terms.  We find people who think that way to be offensive, we therefore find the associative word offensive, even if the user doesn’t necessarily believe in the concept.  Nigger, Kike, Spastic, Wog, Chink, Fag and I think I already used Window Licker.  Similarly, jokes about sensitive subjects like the Holocaust or Gay marriage, leads people to assume that the joke-teller is anti-Semitic or homophobic.  This is simply not the case, and this is where my confusion is seated.  Blacks (or anyone else who takes offense) aren’t offended by the word, ‘nigger’, but by the underlying concept of hatred.  They are hurt by the viciousness of the opinion.  If I had to sum up offense in three words it would be ‘hatred of haters.’

Having said all of the above, I suppose it would be prudent to take notice of the fact that I’m not a member of any real minority; I’m white, I’m middle class, I have a job, a car, and am in full control of all my mental faculties (although, I fear this article is one day going to be used as evidence to contest that).  I don’t really know what it means to be on the receiving end of such ignorance-induced hatred.  You could argue that I'm therefore not qualified to discuss such matters.  Or, alternatively, you could claim that my lack of bais gives me the perfect non-partisan credentials.  Let's go with the latter, shall we?

I think the hurdle to overcome here is to focus on the fault with the offenders, not the damage done to yourself.  The problem lies with the person giving the offense.  What does it matter to me if there are people so obtuse that they still have a staunch belief in xenophobia, racism or sexism?  It’s like the deeply religious taking offense what they consider to be blasphemy.  I curse and routinely point out the absurdity of religion in general.  Come the apocalypse, and I’ve made some terrible mistake and am now abandoning all hope as I enter the seventh circle of hell; what difference does my blasphemy make to the Christians stood around chatting the shit with Saint Peter.  Right now, my opinion means precisely dick to those Christians, despite all the time they spent being offended by them.  We need to stop worrying about the imaginary damage caused by offensive words, but by the actual damage caused by dangerous beliefs.  

Perhaps the vantage point of absolute nonchalance with regards to offense affords me the opportunity to point out the ridiculousness of it all to those who still take offense.  I think this is why I like to cause offense; I don’t like needlessly upsetting people, but I do like to highlight the absolute absurdity of the concept.  There’s a girl at work who’s teaching me sign-language, and when she started I though it was hysterical to ask her ‘how do you say that in deaf?’, or to refer to deaf people as ‘deafs’.  Within a couple of months, other people at work are now using the same terms.  The state of affairs which I have quite brilliantly, albeit unwittingly, brought about is to disassociate the term from the concept.  Calling deaf people ‘deafs’ has become the norm.  It’s not British Sign Language anymore, the language that deafs speak is called ‘deaf’; i.e. ‘how do you say “hello” in deaf?’  To an outsider I’m sure it would seem incredibly offensive, but what the hell do they know?  They’ve not read this article, they’ve not met me, and they’re probably so ignorant that they don’t even know that it’s OK to be as offensive as you like so long as you make an overly wordy argument, justifying why it’s not just OK, but in fact right for you to be as rude as possible.

Drawings 'n' that 6

This is an Owl, but it has cutlery instead of wings... I may have had a few drinks.

Drawings 'n' that 5

This is a picture of me pointing a gun at Ed's head.  Ed is on his knees begging for his life.

Jolly Blog 10 - Tales from across the pond

Hello, all.  So I just checked, and it's been more than six months since the last Jolly Blog.  I'd fill you in on what you've missed, but in the last half-year few of you have bothered to ask, so I see no reason why I should tell.

Today I was thinking about my recent holiday to America, 'bout some of the amusing stuff what happened, and I decided I should write it down, lest I forget.  I'm gonna have to leave out a lot of stuff, but I'll make sure that every detail is included in my memoirs.

The trip began at the end of December in LA with my chum, Chris.  We were only in LA for a day, and other than having to pull my hair back to convince two border officials that I was who I said I was, not much happened.  We did see an old guy get roughed up by the LAPD during their inordinately heavy-handed traffic stop, but I should think that happens all the time.

First stop was San Diego to stay with Chris's friend's boyfriend.  Spent a few days there just bumming around, not doing much.  New Year's Eve was spent in some random bar where the only free table was next to the band.  Literally next to the band; we were so close we were high-fiving them at points.  Then some little Turkish gay chap came over and started making some shapes.  The 'shapes' in question were arrhythmically bobbing up and down and occasionally lifting up his knee.  He was thoroughly unspectacular, but a joy to watch and more than a little interested in Chris.  Chris spent most of the evening slowly unbuttoning my shirt for no reason; then two days later on our flight to Vegas he complained that I was being gay because I wanted to hold hands across the isle.  We did.  People saw.  Chris pulled out first.  I won...  Or lost.  And my hands are NOT clammy!

Vegas was a right laugh.  Saw Deadmau5 at some club.  Calling them 'Deadmau-five' stayed funny a lot longer than it deserved to.  I met a guy there who also looked like Jesus and I took a photo with him.  Then I made out with a girl from Israel who gasped with delight when I told her that I thought Palestine were dicks; it really was that easy.  On the way back to our hotel we met this girl who was really up for having some fun with us.  She seemed very nice, lovely skin, seemed genuinely interested in me.  Just a pity that she was a whore.

From Vegas I went to San Francisco and stayed with Christy in her amazing place.  Met up with Christine and Rich and spent a few days wandering around San Fran and ignoring every word that fell out of Christine's mouth.

Got the train from SF to LA, where I stayed with me mate, Becca, and then with me mates Mason and Katie.  I saw the obnoxiously large, blue headquarters of Scientology and fulfilled a long-held ambition to see the Goodyear blimp.  Of all the things I saw, thems was the best.  Went to an art event on Friday 13th organised and hosted by Becca, and went for a '4 courses for $15' at Red Lobster with Katie and Mason.  Plus all-you-can-eat cheese biscuits!  I did find it difficult to call them 'biscuits', as I was clearly eating scones, but so long as I'm not paying for them they can call them whatever they like.

Amusing anecdote #1.  So while in LA, I was wandering around Venice beach and decided to go into this hat shop.  It was a little too trendy for me - fedoras and the like - but I thought I'd check it out anyway.  I should have gone with my first instinct.  The obviously-working-for-commission guy started following me around giving me hats to try on, to the point where he was actually throwing them across the shop at me.  This man actually threw hats at me.  He decided I needed to be shown how I should wear the beanie I came in with, and demonstrated this to me by yanking on the back of it.  The back of it is where I keep my obnoxiously long hair.  He threw hats at me, then he pulled my hair.  Then he decided that I should definitely 'invest' in a trilby.  I did not.  His attempt to persuade me failed miserably.  FYI, if any of you want me to buy a hat in the future, you're not going to achieve it by telling me that 'it totally goes with your lovely red hair'.

From LA I went back to my favourite city on Earth, San Diego, and checked in to my favourite Hostel, Banana Bungalow.  Right on the beach and a stone's throw away from dozens of bars (and an inexplicably large number of tattoo parlours).  One of the reasons I like SD so much came to me in an astute observation from Chris, who pointed out that no-one living there was less than a seven.  And by 'a seven' I mean 'out of ten' on a standard hotness scale.  Some outstandingly good looking people live in San Diego.  That facet was underscored by the fact that I had come on holiday to a relatively warm part of the world, whereas back home it was winter.  I could see ankles.  Sometimes I got the odd glimpse of a shoulder.

While staying at the Banana Bungalow, a  few amusing things happened.  Went out, got smashed, passed out at fourish, you know the story.  The Australian guy in the bunk above me came back shortly after and passed out.  That would have been fine if he hadn't thrown up on my legs before he did so.  The worst of it was, I got blamed.  I was woken up by a guy who works there, who had to strip my bed and mop the floor, while I stood there and yelled 'the Queen shall hear of this!"

There was this Chilean guy called Matias who arrived on the same day as me; we were talking to this ABK (American Born Korean) guy called Mike (I think).  It was about 8:00, Matias was hammered, turned to Mike and said, "I bet you're from China, aren't you."
Mike: 'No, I'm not' (in a very apparent American accent)
Matias: 'Japan?!'
Mike: 'No'
Matias: 'Thailand? Philippines? Mongolia?'
Mike: 'No.  No.  No.  I'm from LA.'
Matias: [rolls his eyes and sighs] 'No, I mean like "where are you from".'
Wow.  Just, wow!  I didn't think conversations like that really happened.  Only in America.  Home of the free, land of the incredibly racist.

On a separate night, I met this proper red-neck, hill-billy, idiot, fatso (he was very nice otherwise), and while we were talking it came up that he didn't believe that the moon landings actually happened.  The two particle physicists who were sharing our table and I spent an hour trying to convince him otherwise, to the point where if he said 'but the flag is waving' one more time I was going to slap him.  In what could have been a very foolish move, I told him that I didn't actually believe people could be so stupid, and that it really irritates me when people call in to question achievements, which in their wildest dream couldn't do themselves.  He was much bigger than me, and I was being a smug, know-all, English tit.  In retrospect he probably should have punched me, but I think too much of his brainpower was being taken up with conversation for him to be able to clench a fist.  It upsets me that he's been allowed to procreate.

So drove to Phoenix for a bit to see the BFF, and decided to go read my book in a park.  I read my book, making sure I picked a bench that did not directly face the little girls playing volleyball or the little boys playing football.  After choosing my bench, it occurred to me that I spend a lot of time and energy making absolutely sure that people don't think I'm a pedophile: making sure I never look at babies, that kind of thing.  Anyways, after my read, I suddenly felt rather sleepy.  It was warm, the bench was cleanish so I decided to take a nap.  I was awoken half an hour later by a Mexican couple shaking a bag of nuts in my face, because they thought it would be nice to share their snack with the homeless man asleep on the bench.  Annoyingly, every item of clothing I had on was designer, and I genuinely thought I was looking pretty sharp.  Apparently, even at my best, I still look homeless.

I've held a few stories back to give me something to talk about when I next see some of you, but those were the highlights.

T'ra, douches.

Our father, who art in Kentucky

If you're well into religion and that, stop reading now.  You're not going to like any of this.


So I was chatting with a friend a couple of months ago - the previously mentioned, Scott - and somehow the exchange headed in this direction. 


At their core, almost the entire gamut of religious writing are works of pure fiction.  The Bible, the Koran, the Book of Mormon: just a collection of stories.  I'm not calling them lies.  'Lies' implies that their intent is to deceive.  I actually believe that there was a man call 'Jesus' and a man called 'Mohammed' and that they were genuinely pleasant people.  I also believe that the books which serialise them are based on real events, but I don't believe that they hold any more significance other than figuratively.


People read these books as if they were naught but fact and live their lives according to what they teach.  I don't personally believe that these books are inherently wrong, or backwards.  Quite the opposite.  They have a lot of good stuff to say.  It does however, seem ludicrous to base your ethics, your morals, your entire system of beliefs on an anachronistic work of fiction, about events which happened thousands of years ago.  It's this blind belief in religious texts which leads people to maintain ridiculous convictions like the Earth is 6,000 years old.  But trying to convince people not to take the Bible literally and derisively poking holes in these flimsy works of fiction is not the raison d'être of this article.  I believe that battle has already been won.  What's more fun is to take the ethos of living your life by a story and to pick another work of fiction to lead your life by.  


This phenomena is by no means confined to old books.  Modern history has seen just as many examples of people coming up with works of the most incredible nonsense to define the parameters of their lifestyle.  Hitler did it with Mein Kampf.  Marx and Engels did it with the Communist Manifesto. Unwittingly, L. Ron Hubbard did it with Dianetics.  I'm am merely the most recent in this very long line of idiots.


Unfortunately I have neither the time nor the inclination to write a whole book.  But the Gods of post-stucturalism are full-square behind my mission to find a book which I can redefine to mean whatever the hell I deem it to.


I'll cut to the chase.  The book I have chosen is Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.  I picked it because it's well known, it's popular, it has a lot of messages, and even if you haven't read it you've probably seen Jonny Depp's appauling portrayal of Willy Wonka in Tim Burton's terrible remake of a film which wasn't very good the first time round.  What follows is an air-tight system of beliefs which I drew from my thorough analysis of its content.


Charlie Bucket and his parents live in a some horrible little tumble-down house, with four elderly relatives.  The primary wage earner is Mr. Bucket, whose job consists of putting tops on toothpaste bottles.  His meagre earnings means that they all live in extreme poverty.  Poverty which, perhaps, could be overcome if Mr and Mrs Bucket's parents would hurry up and die already.  This is a clear allusion to the overpopulation of the planet.  People are living longer and becoming an ever increasing drain on resources.  I have inferred from this that population control is essential, and from this we can glean that stuff like AIDS, morbid rampant obesity and starvation are all part of His plan to push back the shore of ever increasing seas of people.


The children who go to visit Mr. Wonka are analogous to the new 5 deadly sins;
Augustus Gloop: Gluttony
Mike Teavee: Laziness
Veruca Salt: Being bratty
Violet Beauregarde: Overly-ambitious
Charlie: Poor


The first four children all met their ends because of the sins that they represent.  By the end of the book, Charlie had overcome his dismal existence by shedding himself of his awful, refugee-like lifestyle.  He stopped being poor, and started being happy.  Ergo, greed is good.
Willy Wonka is the deity at the centre of the book.  Much like the Gods of every other religion, Willy Wonka is imaginary and entirely fictional.  My new life will be entirely reasonable and rational.  In the character of Willy Wonka, Roald Dahl is clearly alluding to some actual person who is my new God; the person I look to for strength in times of need.  Willy Wonka is enigmatic, elusive, a bit paedofiley, and his cholesterol is probably through the roof.  I can think of only one person that this could possibly be.  From this day forward, I will devote myself to the KFC guy.


Now onto the Oompa-Loompas.  The Loompas were led away from their native home to the promised land which was, of course, his chocolate factory.  On this pilgrimage it seems as if Willy Wonka in His infinite goodness, has saved the Loompas from a very real hell.  Or has He?  What are their opportunities for promotion?  When was their last pay increase?  Have they been told they can't unionise?  They are living lives of complete subjugation under a glass ceiling they can't even perceive.  But.  They're small.  They're orange.  They're different.  The implication is that this is something they deserve.  Colonel Sanders is obviously in favour of slavery.


Now, how should I behave to my fellow man?  Willy Wonka did an incredibly generous thing by opening His factory to a group of children and offering His chocolate empire to the most deserving.  What have we learned from this?  That it's nice to be nice to other people?  That kindness is its own reward?  No.  None of these.  Those wretched children were guests and caused thousands of pounds worth of damage to a state of the art factory.  What did Willy Wonka get from the whole endeavour?  An astronomical repair bill, and custody of a malnourished child, a man with no ambition, a woman with zero culinary skills, and four pensioners all one cold winter away from death.  Do you know how expensive a funeral is, let alone four?!  The lesson here is to look out for number one.  Willy Wonka did everything in his power to ensure the survival of his business, so that the people of the world could continue to eat His, apparently quite good, chocolate, and now look at the mess He's in.


So if I have to sum up my new lifestyle in eight sentences, here they are.  Slavery is OK.  Small people are creepy.  KFC is heavenly.  Johnny Depp sucks.  Old people are a burden.  Children are good for nothing.  You are the only important thing in your life.  Being nice gets you nowhere.


Now I've got all that straightened out, I'll get on with overhauling my life.  Forget Christians, Muslims, Seeks and all that other made-up trash.  Cut me open and I bleed chocolate.  Until the sweet release of death, I pledge spend the rest of my life trying to be the world's biggest Wonker.