Jerker

To err is ok
But to jerk is jerky
jerker jerky



God Bless IKEA. Are you a Drawer Unit Jerker, or a Desk Jerker?

Breastgot

Prescott

It’s taking me a while to catch up with actual events happening and me posting them up here. I went to Prescott the other day.






Prescott reminds me of where my grandparents live. It has all the positive sides of life, such as clean air, no noise pollution, amazing stars at night, incredible skyscapes in the day. But it also makes me consider living there, which strikes fear in my heart.

Appropriately, my heart is the relevant place for this fear. If, for example, I had a horrendous heart attack, I would be concerned about the distance I would be from the nearest heartspital. This would cause even more stress, and may even bring on a further heart spazm, irreparably melting my platelet-pump to a platelet pulp before they even get the shocks on me.

It’s also so quiet I can’t hear myself think. And there are gen’yeine bone fide RATTLESNAKES there. All rattly and belly-y. No thanks.

My grandparents live in Halwill Junction, 20 miles from Bude. This hamlet – literally no more than a junction – boasts a post office, a ‘convenience store’ (never before have I realised this could be so literal) and a pub. Which used to be the train station. The only truly feasible way of leaving via public transport. It used to house a rather nice bed and breakfast, which closed. Alas, no more breakfast in bed. But breakfast inbred is likely still to be extremely common.

I ate an item called a pollo. It was so good. So so good. Not so good for vegetarians, or those on a diet. I felt my heart tighten with every wonderful gobfull. But, of course, I was in Prescott. And as we have learned, this is a stupid place to have a heart attack.

A Special Birthday Wish

A very happy 76th birthday to caroline Ward.

Haught Daughg!

I remember, some time ago, taking part in something of a game during my working hours with a certain National Health Service. It involved searching for examples of logos for food products in which the animal in the logo had been used rather inappropriately to advertise its own, fine, arseflesh.

Nutgroist and Friar Cous-Cous kindly allowed me to contribute, and these were the eventual results of the research conducted (scroll down a bit).

Anyway, this has stuck with me ever since, and it gives me great pleasure to present the following example:

Hey, this cool 'dog' knows where it's at! Wearing his own embellishment as clothing, he's fashioned for your supper, and he looks thoroughly delighted about it, too. It also appears that he is the chef at Dave's Doghouse, presenting both the moral problem of his cannibalism and the logistical problem of his replacement following what appears to be his imminent consumption.

Have you ever noticed how minimal effort is put into the footwear of most mascots and logo creatures? I like his though. I would like to think they're perhaps made from the same breadcrumbed porky exterior as scotch eggs.

Panda-ing to the Mascot Enthusiast

A special thank you to Friar Cous Cous for reminding me of an additional breed of mascot about which I had clean forgotten. The drunk mascot.

And a fine example of such a mascot can be found here, at the Mascot Grand National web site.


I forgot to mention that another wonderful trait of the mascot is their inability to change expression. Therefore, a grimacing mascot serving a child ice cream is just as funny as a smiling mascot being punched in the face.


My favourite character, however, is Benny the Box, proving that you do not need to have money to be a mascot for the ugly:

He may not be up to the high standards of his giraffe, elephant and hippo friends, but at least he's happy. Right?


But, while we are on the subject of mascots, I feel this is a good time to thank Jaime for capturing this fine specimen. Walking around the vicinity of ASU, this panda was called in, balloons in paws, to advertise the new Chinese fast food chain opening on University Drive. PANDA EXPRESS.



Now, all relevance of the panda aside – I think that Panda Express is a very poor choice of name for an eatery. I was worried for a moment that they were ACTUALLY serving panda! Ho ho! Well, my mind was put to rest when they assured me that they were not in fact serving panda, but cat and dog just like every other Chinese restaurant. Phew.

Not my last post

Hello there to anyone who is listening. True to form, it’s taken me a month to finally do what I said I’d do and create a blog about Arizona. However, it has also taken me a month to do anything interesting and actually get bothered to write about it, and what better time than my BIRTHDAY to be motivated?

I’m going to begin with my trip to Austin for the AWP Conference. AWP stands for Anal Winter Period, which is something a bit like a nuclear winter, but this one smells all faecal and is much browner. A bit like your history teacher in relation to your biology teacher.

Anyway, it’s a writers’ conference, and we stayed in a Hilton. This was the view from my window:

The view was considerably different in the day time. Cars went around with their lights OFF, and the crane moved. There was also a glowing orange orb in the sky, heating the surrounding water and making for sticky, sticky air-muck.

Here are some little shots about town:

No! I knew they would come, but I never thought it would be then. Their army had been lying dormant for many years, and they had always implied imminent attacks. We should have been prepared.

This is actually nothing amazing. I have, in fact, been supplying free smells since 1980, and to date this is about as much fuss I’ve made of it. No neon signs for me. This is yet another example of how much more reserved we are in our home land of Belgium.

No, in fact, I don’t got slam. Nor do I got films:

Nor do I got milk, beef or pork (apparently THIS is the other white meat). However, one thing I DID got was the following picture. Jaime had pointed out to me before that she had spied a mascot doing the rounds, presumably part of the SXSW festival whose HQ was in the same convention centre. As most people are aware, I have a love for mascots, particularly if they are able to fall into any one or more of the following categories:

• dirty, grubby or badly-kept mascots
• badly made or fitted mascots
• uncomfortable, or miffed mascots. Mascots who clearly wish they could escape their life as a mascot, and pursue a career which does not make them ill with heat exhaustion
• mascots in fights with other mascots
• mascots being kicked and generally abused by those they are supposed to be catering to, e.g. children kicking Mr Wimpey in the nuts
• Mascots whose object of manifestation does not align with what they are promoting. See the Sexual Harassment Panda episode of South Park, which is, in my opinion, the funniest ever.

Well, the Podcast Pickle fell into at least the latter category, and I’m guessing the one about hating one’s job, too. In the taxi on the way to the airport and flight back to Phoenix, and knowing of the Pickle’s existence, I was delighted to spy the little green bastard awkwardly strolling in the midday humidity beneath 100lbs of polyester. Like a paparazzi cunt, I whipped it out, and then reached for my camera. Ladies and gentleBen, I present the Podcast Pickle, the most pointless job in Texas:

I hope this bastard got into a fight with the Blogging Banana. Podcast Prick.

Ok, first post over, and thank God I’ve broken the seal (by that I mean I need to piss) on this blog-awful God.

And remember: I’m eating in Chili’s tonight. You’re not. (Unless you’re Jaime or Charlie, or any number of white trash Americans across this here nation). More specifically, CRAIG, you’re not having a Chili’s tonight. I AM.

Drippingly,

John