The Dissemination of Thought

Just because it's in print doesn't mean it's intelligent…

Posts Tagged ‘WTF?

Caffeine, fast food and a lackadaisical mood: a blow-by-blow of a boring day

with 9 comments

Today’s The Dissemination of Thought piece is the result of an unusual combination of writer’s block, laziness and a simple yet incredibly amusing blog post I read last week. More specifically, it was this piece from Miranda Ryan of The Naked Envelope fame.

The concept is simple. It’s a blow-by-blow account of how she spent a day in her life. Nothing overly exciting happened to her on during the 24-hour period but it was fascinating to see how someone can make the seemingly mundane entertaining by just looking closely and taking notice of what goes on around them.

This is what happens when you mix three espressos and an energy drink before 9:00am…

I’ve decided to follow suit. I want to be able to sit back and reflect on how much time I actually waste in a normal day. Hopefully, you’ll find my minute-by-minute account of June 25, 2012 at least slightly engrossing.

Yes, I draw in my diary at news meetings when I should be paying attention.

6:21am – Open my eyes and try to figure out what day it is. When I determine it’s Monday, I contemplate staying in bed all day and wonder whether I’ll be missed in the newsroom.

6:22am – Ask myself why it’s so dark. Fumble aimlessly for my BlackBerry, check the time and realise it’s stupidly early. Throw aforementioned device back on the bedside table and curse my stupid body clock.

6:23am to 7:18am – I have no idea. I can only assume I drifted back to sleep or was abducted by aliens.

7:19am – Check BlackBerry again and die a little bit inside when it dawns on me that I’ve got less than 60 seconds before my alarm goes off.

7:34am to 7:45am – Mentally check off possible jobs I’d enjoy in lieu of being a journalist while having a shower. Hot shower tester is high on the list, as are professional bed warmer and drunken, disgruntled novelist. Notice I need to buy more body wash.

7:51am – Realise I had an 11-minute shower and consider the negative impact on the environment.

8:03am – Walk into the newsroom with my first latte of the day and loudly sing the first lines of ‘Peace Train’ after confirming I am alone.

8:06am – Stare at a blank page in my diary. Consider the benefits of being more organised. Reassure myself that organised people aren’t any happier than me and continue to drink my latte.

8:21am – Start writing a story about golf and stop to check Twitter.

8:28am – Close the internet browser and tell myself I have to avoid social media and get my work done. Pat myself on the back for being so assertive.

8:30am – Check Twitter on my BlackBerry. Quietly swear to myself about social networking and its addictive qualities.

8:31am – Notice my latte is gone. Think about writing a piece investigating the electronic heroin that is Twitter as I wait patiently for the espresso machine to provide me with another caffeine hit.

8:32am to 10:02am – This period of time is a little bit hazy because I forgot I was compiling a blow-by-blow account of my day. Judging by the number of empty cups in my bin, I had another latte. Judging by the random doodling in my diary, I wasn’t paying attention in the news meeting. Again.

10:31am to 11:06am – Interview a 12-year-old tennis player who is the number one seed in his club’s A grade competition. Watch him serve and feel ridiculously inadequate about my ability with a racquet.

11:19am to 12:48pm – Do boring journalist stuff. This includes checking emails, adding finishing touches to the doodle from the news meeting and contemplating what to have for lunch.

1:37pm – Send my final story for Tuesday’s paper to the sub-editor. Mentally fist pump the sky and refocus on what’s on the lunch menu.

1:39pm – Decide on something healthy for lunch.

1:44pm – Find myself placing my lunch order at Red Rooster.

2:03pm – Finish off the last of the chips and congratulate myself on a fantastic choice. Almost burst out laughing when reflecting on the fact I was contemplating a healthy option.

2:11pm to 2:28pm – Have a hot chocolate while sending witty text messages and wonder why there are so many boring people on Twitter.

2:31pm – Check my latest mobile phone bill.

2:34pm – Try to figure out how the hell it’s physically possible to send more than 5200 text messages during a one-month billing period. Send a text message to a friend asking them how many they send. Quietly thank the mobile phone gods that my plan includes unlimited SMS.

2:47pm to 5:03pm – Do a few interviews and complete the sports stories for Wednesday’s paper while scoffing Turkish delight and drinking another latte. Wish I bought more than one Turkish delight as I stare sadly at the empty wrapper on my desk.

5:04pm to 6:10pm – Forget once again that I am meant to be documenting every minute of my day.

6:16pm – Excitedly throw my leave application at the editor as I scurry from the building.

6:41pm to 7:03pm – Eat dinner and drink the best part of a bottle of red wine while contemplating the universe.

7:06pm – Decide opening another bottle of wine would be a poor option.

7:07pm – See no issue with having a beer in lieu of wine.

7:49pm – Put the three empty beer bottles on the coffee table beside me into the bin.

8:01pm to 8:39pm – Type up my hastily-scribbled notes and wonder who the hell will make it to 12:00pm without wanting to bang their head against a wall.

8:41pm to 8:43pm – Try to figure out why <i>The Dissemination of Thought</i> hasn’t had a new subscriber in more than a fortnight. Was about to blame WordPress for a technical glitch but then remember what I am actually blogging about.

8:44pm – Feel genuinely sorry for my subscribers.

8:49pm – Realise the intricate filing system on my laptop is nothing of the sort. Contemplate doing something about it but dismiss the notion as requiring too much effort.

9:16pm to 10:34pm – Listen to Blunderbuss for what feels like the sixth thousandth time. Wish I was Jack White.

10.37pm – Check my bank balance and wonder why they don’t advertise for ‘people who like being poor’ when seeking journalists. Make the executive decision not to go near eBay and bid on things I don’t need until I get paid.

10:45pm to 11:03pm – Have a shower while thinking about the awesome left-handed bass I want to buy on eBay.

11:05pm – Realise my excess water usage is probably destroying the planet.

11:09pm to 11:32pm – Bid on stuff I don’t need with money I don’t have on eBay. Judge an original Rubik’s Cube from the 80s – still in the original packaging – to be worth $40.

11:33pm – Decide $40 probably isn’t enough to win me the colourful little piece of nostalgia.

11:35pm – Grab another beer and ask myself why I’m bidding on a Rubik’s Cube. Secretly hope I get outbid in the closing stages of the auction.

11:41pm – Increase my maximum bid to $45.

11:44pm – Go to Google to try and figure out what a mint condition Rubik’s Cube from the 1980s is worth.

11:59pm – Post this piece and realise I’ve wasted a day. Look at the time and realise I’m tired beyond belief. Laugh manically when I remember I have Tuesday off, unlike many of my reader who will waste 10 minutes reading this post in its entirety.

So there you have it. A day – or what I can remember of it – in the life of me. If you haven’t abandoned reading mid-sentence or thrown your iPad against the wall in a fit of enraged boredom, follow me on Twitter or like the Facebook page. Hell, if you really liked the nonsensical gibberish that is The Dissemination of Thought, you can do both. Or send cash.

Advertisements

A phone bill paid, an accolade and crazy searches folks have made

with 20 comments

I really need to pay more attention to my list of things to do. As I was paying my almost-overdue mobile phone bill this morning, I realised that I’d neglected to thank someone for throwing some blogging award affection my way.

Carrie from The Write Transition has nominated me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award and, as with any accolade in the blogging world, there is a list of things I am obliged to do as a recipient. One of the duties is to expose 7 things about myself to those of you staring at your screens with drunken and sleep-deprived eyes. The other task is to bestow the Very Inspiring Blogger Award on 14 individuals of my choosing. Unfortunately, I’m going to fulfil neither responsibility. I’m going to mix it up and do my own thing.

Instead of giving you mundane facts about myself, I’ve decided to share 7 recent search terms that have guided disturbed perverts lost souls to The Dissemination of Thought.

how to sit beside someone you dislike

That’s easy. It’s called alcohol. In the unlikely event that a bottle of vodka doesn’t make the person to your right more bearable, I advocate flinging faeces at them. Childish and disgusting? Yes. Effective? Absolutely.

thalia sextaped

Well, that would explain why my Muse was missing in action last year.

sex you’re doing it wrong

You are if you’ve numbed your hand before using lipstick and a Sharpie to make it look like that girl in your English Literature tutorial.

Remember: you can’t have sex while there’s no one else in the room.

This is definitely doing it wrong. Source: passthemike.tumblr.com

show me ur dick guys

Slow down, sailor. You’ll have to buy me a drink first. And promise not to laugh.

the gigolo – dumb as a bag of sex toys.

Ladies and gentlemen, it would appear that we have a man-whore hater in our midst.

I don't know, that bag looks pretty smart... Source: techdigest.tv

batman fucks wonder woman animation

Do you think Batman carries condoms on his utility belt?

Superman: "Sure, you were just helping him find his batarang." Source: All rights reserved by MargieC1022 via Flickr.

penis burn picture cam inside penis

I’d probably consult a urologist about that. Quickly. I know it will be expensive, but trying to shove a webcam up your urethra to save money won’t help.

As far as my Very Inspiring Blogger Award nominations go, I’ve got 3. Sure, I could list 14 like the rules dictate, but you and I both know you won’t click on all 14. That being the case, I’d rather just tell you about a few blogs that fly under the radar and genuinely deserve recognition.

unrelentingamee – Amee is passionate about writing. Good writing. We bounce a lot of ideas and random thoughts off each other, and she’s one of the very few people whose opinion I trust enough to let read my work before I publish it.

the4gottenman – This blogger’s work is insightful, honest and often incredibly introspective. Besides that, he’s been one of my closest friends for well over a decade, which is no mean feat: I’m a pain in the ass to tolerate.

50 Items or Less – I was actually introduced to this blog by Amee. The brainchild of Ian Little, it’s all about mini sagas: a story told in exactly 50 words. While I love the concept of “less can be more” and uncluttered writing, the 50 word aspect reminded me of my attempt to rewrite Green Eggs and Ham using just 50 unique words. Check out Ian’s personal blog here.

A random Grammy. Source: punchbowlblog.com

I’d like to sincerely thank Carrie for the award. If you haven’t already read her work on The Write Transition, click here right now to check it out.

If you want to keep up to date with all things The Dissemination of Thought, follow me on Twitter (@LyndonKeane) or like the Facebook page.

Cougars, critics and The Ticking Clock: my 10 worst dates of all time

with 87 comments

On principle, I was planning on refraining from a Valentine’s Day-themed post: there are enough people flogging the rose-covered dead horse without me clutching at its mane. Unfortunately, my resolve wilted like a cheap petrol station rose, leaving you with the cynically twisted rant you see before you.

Actually, it was more a case of succumbing to peer pressure than an issue of resolve. Chrystalyn, of The Future of Hope fame, challenged me to come up with a list of the most atrocious dates I’ve ever endured. It was harder than I thought. Some horror stories spring freely to mind, while others have been deeply repressed and will require gentle coaxing from a psychiatrist to pry loose.

I’m under no illusion that I’m by any means easy to tolerate, and I don’t purport to be the prized pig of the dating fair, but I really have dated some unique challenging crazy-as-fuck women in my time.

Author’s note: to my friends who read The Dissemination of Thought, you will notice one glaring omission from Lyndon’s Dating Hall of Fame. This is because the mighty omitted one may truly be a psychopath, not adverse to lighting fires. Big fires. Besides, she’s already well aware she’ll hold the coveted number one spot on the crazy ladder in perpetuity.

Are you comfy? Good. Grab another drink, open the chocolates you bought yourself and help me celebrate Valentine’s Day by counting down my top 10 horror dates.

You're going to need more than one glass to get through this post. Don't say I didn't warn you. Source: thewinectr.com

#10 – The Introducer

I don’t know what to say about this woman, other than to tell you that she invited me to a barbeque the day after our first date, an event at which she introduced me to everyone present – including her parents – as her boyfriend. She couldn’t seem to grasp why I kept correcting her, nor fathom why I lost her number.

#9 – The iPhone Freak

This charmer, circa 2010, truly was a puppet of the Apple juggernaut: she spent our entire date – all 50 minutes of it, give or take – texting and playing on Facebook. I could have slaughtered a goat or begun masturbating at the table and she wouldn’t have noticed.

On the two or three occasions she didn’t have her eyes glued to the phone, she was giving me 101 reasons why my BlackBerry was an inferior product to the apparent cure for cancer she held in her hand.

#8 – The Nympho

This is the woman who, after spending less than two hours face-to-face with me, attempted to mount me on the roof viewing area of a CityFerry. At about 2:30pm. On a weekday. When I advised her that I wasn’t overly interested in giving passing vessels and people on the riverbank a matinee performance, she informed me in a petulant tone that she didn’t need my help “to get off”. At this point, she sat in silence until we arrived at the next ferry terminal.

The CityFerry: The Nympho's preferred method of transport.

I wish this date was a figment of my imagination, but, sadly, it’s not; I couldn’t make this shit up if I had a bag of magic mushrooms and a bottle of absinthe.

#7 – “Is She Prettier Than Me?” Barbie

Our date lasted for about an hour. For sixty painful minutes, she asked me whether I thought every woman she saw was prettier than her. Just as I began consoling myself that it couldn’t get any worse, she locked eyes on a brunette in a particularly short skirt at the bar and unleashed her pièce de résistance: “If I wasn’t here, would you go and hit on her?”

If the doll lost the microphone and notebook, she could be “Is She Prettier Than Me?” Barbie's stunt double. Source: barbie-wallpapers.blogspot.com.au

#6 – The Restaurant Critic

Never, ever go on a first date to a restaurant that the guy or girl you’re taking out saw reviewed in a newspaper: it turns them into a gastronomic expert and critic of epic proportions.

When you're at the point of trying to brain yourself with one of these, your date has pretty well gone to shit. Source: mykikicake.com

During our date at a quaint Brisbane eatery, The Restaurant Critic criticised everything from the chairs to the temperature the water was served at. When she wasn’t castigating the lack of options on the menu, she was spewing forth mumbled comments about the quality of the service staff. Her entrée was sent back because the prawns, in her opinion, weren’t “of suitable quality”. She demanded that the waitress return her main meal to the kitchen, but I honestly can’t tell you why; by that stage, I’d stopped listening and was trying to work out how to beat myself to death with a buttered bread roll.

I’m pretty sure I ate spit that night. Or worse.

After The Restaurant Critic's ranting, I'm not confident that's all chocolate ice cream. Source: sodahead.com

#5 – The Drunk

It’s never a good start to a mid-afternoon date when the woman you are meeting – let’s call her Stephanie – is already blind drunk when you arrive at the pub. Quickly adjudging the date as a write-off and any future encounters as pipe dreams, I adopted an “if you can’t beat them, join them” approach. This was to be the afternoon of the plentiful vodka and the hurling date.

It's official: Being near me makes women drink. A lot. Source: secludedhabit.com

I was drinking fast – really fast – in an attempt to make Stephanie more bearable, but her hands were like blurs: she left me for dust in the shadows of her white wine and tequila bottles.

Author’s note: if your date has a predilection for 3:00pm tequila and you aren’t in Mexico, back slowly away, being careful not to make any sudden movements.

At one stage, after heading back to the bar for the 46th time, Stephanie simply disappeared. After 10 or 15 minutes, I was beginning to think she’d left, but then noticed that her handbag was still on one of the stools under the table. She eventually returned, looking like she’d survived the Apocalypse, and proceeded to tell me in graphic detail about how poorly the bathroom had fared in its encounter with her projectile vomiting. With that information shared, she picked up her handbag, muttered what I assume was an incoherent farewell and wandered off.

#4 – The Threesome

This adventure wasn’t as exciting or salacious as it sounds: my date, Andrea, brought a friend with her, but everyone was clothed and in full public view at all times.

Dating threesomes: not as fun as they sound. Source: health-fitness.com.au

When Andrea confessed that she had been too shy to meet me for drinks on her own, I really didn’t care: lots of women bring a human comfort blanket on a date, don’t they? After we’d finished a few bottles of wine and I realised that the blonde, bespectacled offsider was planning on joining us for dinner, the nuisance factor went up tenfold, but I didn’t say anything. After all, the conversation was great, and I was slowly getting used to the awkward way in which they kept looking at each other after I’d finished speaking, as if comparing telepathic notes about my suitability as a boyfriend.

Skip forward to the restaurant, and the arrival of the bill. It was at this point I became cognisant of the fact that Andrea was expecting me to pay for her and Free Meal Sally. I had no issue with footing the bill for Andrea, my date, but there was no fucking way I was paying for the hors d’oeuvre-scoffing parasite attached to her left hip. After I’d suggested to them that they needed to formulate a Plan B, they suggested that I was a bigger asshole than Hitler, walked to the counter to pay for their meals, and then disappeared into the night.

#3 – The Old Photo Girl

After chatting online for a few weeks and exchanging numerous photographs, The Old Photo Girl and I decided to meet for a drink. When she arrived, I didn’t recognise her, because all of the photos she’d sent me had apparently been taken prior to her finding an extra 40 or 50 kilograms and developing a fondness for appalling DIY hair colouring. Once lumbering greetings had been exchanged, the conversation went like this:

Me: “You don’t look anything like your photos.”
The Old Photo Girl (TOPG): “Yeah, I know, they were about 3 years old. I’ve changed a lot since then.”
Me: “No shit.”
TOPG: “You don’t want to have a drink now, do you?”
Me: “Not really. I prefer people who are honest. And besides, your hair—“
TOPG: “Fuck you then! If you can’t accept the real me, go to hell!”

The Old Photo Girl's hair was scarier. Source: thepwnzone.wordpress.com

That’s where the date ended. She stormed out. On a positive note, I got a free beer and a few laughs out of the bar manager, who had witnessed the debacle in its 4 minute entirety.

#2 – The Super Cougar

This predator used her own kittens as bait. Literally. The Super Cougar was a horny, 40-something-year-old woman who displayed pictures of one of her 20-something-year-old daughters on the online dating profile that said she was 26. I’ll give you a minute to absorb how fucked up that is.

When she approached me in the coffee shop, I had no idea who she was. She quickly confessed to the “misleading”* photos and age, and justified it by saying that she loved younger guys “like the ones her daughters date”, but that these guys were put off by her age. As I finished my latte, I suggested that they were more likely disinterested because she was a concupiscent, lying sociopath who would more likely than not eat them after copulating. She didn’t find this explanation plausible or funny, and left.

* Author’s note: this is The Super Cougar’s word, not mine.

#1 – The Ticking Clock

No, it’s not the name of an Alfred Hitchcock thriller. The Ticking Clock is the moniker I’ve bestowed upon the damsel who grabs the number one spot with both psychotic hands. Her real name was Melanie, but that doesn’t sound anywhere near as ominous and disturbing as her allocated pseudonym.

Upon arriving at the designated meeting place, I found The Ticking Clock two-thirds of the way through a bottle of red, which, given that I was 15 minutes early, wasn’t a good sign. When I sat down with my drink, we began talking and laughing, but she clearly had something on her mind. She asked me what my short-term plans were. I told her and, disappointed with the predictability of her questioning, fired the same query back at her. Her short-term plan was simple: she wanted to fall pregnant within the next three months, in order to have a baby before her 40th birthday. Girls, if you ever want to render a guy speechless twenty minutes into a first date, tell him you want to be pregnant inside 90 days.

I couldn’t fathom her candour, or the matter-of-fact way in which she probed for what could only be described as family history details. She admitted that most of the guys she dated freaked out when she laid her plan on the beer-soaked table (wow, really?) and asked what I thought. I told her, skolled the last three mouthfuls of beer, wished her the best of luck and got the fuck out of Crazy Town.

I couldn't find a trophy for The Ticking Clock, so this will have to suffice. Source: bubblesale.blogspot.com.au

So there you have it. My 10 worst dates of all time. How do yours compare? Cakes McCain, you should be able to beat at least a few of these.

To those The Dissemination of Thought readers who missed out on getting shot in the ass by the little guy with the nappy, please accept the flowers below as my Valentine’s Day cliché to you all.

My Valentine's Day gift to you. Can't you just feel the love? Source: giftoninternet.com

Written by disseminatedthought

February 14, 2012 at 01:02

Elmo and blow, dicks like bats and realebrity tats: 11 more terms to make you squirm

with 32 comments

We’ve looked at the strange shit people have searched for to eventually end up in my little piece of the blogosphere before. Twice, actually. But due to a somewhat melancholic nonchalance that has enveloped me, I find myself severely lacking the motivation or inclination to create something deep, insightful and controversial. I could come up with a dirty limerick about a man named Jock, but I’d rather attempt to get inside the heads of the individuals who have provided me with my latest batch of amusing – and stupefying – search terms. As they say, the third time’s a charm.

For those new readers to The Dissemination of Thought, the previous dalliances into weird and wonderful search phrases can be found below:

”Man-whores, smut and Jabba the Hutt”

”Cartoons without clothes and Sesame Street blow”

peter griffin likes cocaine nipples

Of course he does, who wouldn’t?

The Dissemination of Thought: it’s all about breast and blow references. Source: tbs.com

I’m considering renaming this blog The Dissemination of Dodgy Peter Griffin Search Terms, based purely on the overwhelming number of hits I get with obscure references to the testicle-chinned one. I’m not kidding. In the past few months, I’ve had “peter griffin peeing”, “peter griffin pretty eyes” and “peter griffin in [insert outfit of your choice: army outfit and Donald Duck costume seem to be popular]” as the standouts amongst a plethora of Family Guy-themed search terms.

You watch: “peter griffin jumper leads on nipples” will be a search term next month. Source: squidoo.com

what is the mayans the end of internet

The word on the street suggests that some bad shit is going to go down on 21 December this year, but this shouldn’t have any impact on your internet plan, unless of course, our new zombie overlords decide to limit your monthly allocation down to 3 GB.

Download speeds got a lot a better on 22 December. Source: forums.hak5.org

The internet will not cease to exist if the Mayans were right: zombies need Wikipedia and online porn just like the rest of us.

prehistoric animals during the time of the mayas

My guess would be that there were very, very few, but I’m assuming you need to expand that answer out to about 1,500 words. If you need definitive clarification, you should probably ask Kristen over at Intelligent Life – she’s fantastic at sharing serious stuff about science, history and the universe in a witty light.

If you’re still too fucking lazy to do your own research, just say that a Mayan temple was used as the visitor centre in Jurassic Park, and then make a vague reference to a Tyrannosaurus. Hell, say it was in Jurassic Park III: no one saw that anyway.

the cat in the hat sad

The Cat in the Hat wasn’t sad. How could it be with such an awesome headpiece? Depressed moggies don’t make for amusing book subjects; who wants to read about The Feline in the Fedora with the Fluoxetine?

Source: halloweencostumes.org

penis 40 cm fuck

I suddenly feel astonishingly inadequate.

You know you’re well –endowed when your dick has its own chair. Source: iansblogoflife.blogspot.com

is dissemination of thought funny?

Absolutely. Go forth and spread the word. Oh, and when you say funny, make sure people realise you mean funny “haha” and not funny “peculiar”.

tattoo pauly d jersey shore

Is there a chance this vexing search phrase came to be as a result of someone doing a research project on the ink and body art of people who have contributed to making 21st century society a dumber place to be?

In the event that some incredibly perturbed individual actually wants to adorn themselves with a permanent tribute to this realebrity*, I offer this advice: tattoos last forever. So does stupid.

* Author’s note: I coined the term “realebrity” as an alternative to referring to reality TV stars as celebrities.

realebrity /riˈælɛbrɪti/

noun

1. a person devoid of any discernible talent, ability or personality, who attempts to overcome this by appearing on a reality television program with a ridiculous tan.
2. Paul DelVecchio, or any other cast member of Jersey Shore.
3. Anyone with the surname Kardashian.

Am I the only one who’s disturbed? Source: thegloss.com

colour

Out of curiosity, I typed “colour” into Google and let it do its thing. It returned about 846,000,000 results. Yep, eight hundred and forty-six million. Using that incredibly vague search term, just how long did it take you to come across The Dissemination of Thought? Did you start your search in 1998?

nazi dinos

What the fuck? Velociraptors loyal to Hitler?

A pissed off reptile with a canon: the perfect gift for the sociopathic dictator who has it all. Source: kotaku.com.au

reality television fucked society

Yes. Yes it did. I couldn’t have said it more succinctly myself.

elmo smoker

When I first saw this search term, I was mystified. Surely Elmo isn’t a smoker. Not only is he inanimate, he’s comprised mainly of fur and felt, so voluntarily exposing himself to naked flames via a nicotine addiction doesn’t seem like an overly sagacious decision. That said, given that puppets don’t have lungs, his odds of succumbing to emphysema or lung cancer are pretty remote.

Based on the photographic evidence below, a Light Me Up Elmo toy may already be in the final stages of production.

“Elmo likes menthols!” Source: homelessmanspeaks.com

With the sheer number of ridiculous new phrases that appear each week for me to mull over, I’m confident that this will not be the last search term-themed post on The Dissemination of Thought. Besides, the eccentric folks searching for cartoon characters urinating, prodigious penises and chain-smoking Sesame Street puppets like it when we talk about them.

When Green Eggs and Ham are cooked with lunacy in a can: I’m sorry, Dr Seuss…

with 41 comments

In the midst of riding on an espresso tsunami last week, I somehow accepted a dare from a friend at Mid Life Ranting to rewrite Green Eggs and Ham with my own troubling, incoherent twist. Note to self: starting drinking less coffee. And less vodka. Especially at the same time. Dr Seuss apparently wrote the original story to win a bet, which puts me and my caffeine-fuelled acceptance of a random dare in good company.

After spending almost 5 hours last night trying to comprehend, pull apart and then reconstruct the Dr Seuss masterpiece, I was about two or three words away from being sedated and hauled to far off places by medical professionals brandishing shackled jackets and hypodermic needles.

One of the acclaimed aspects of Green Eggs and Ham is that contains only 50 individual words that were juggled, repeated and shuffled to create the final product. I suggest that anyone who criticises it as being a simplistic children’s book attempts to pen their own engaging chronicle, using just 50 different words.

I couldn’t manage 50. After a lot of editing, rehashing and creative outbursts that bordered on temper tantrums, I finished my attempt with 56 individual words; kudos to you, Dr Seuss. The actual words are: a, ain’t, an, and, ass, bath, cannot, cold, corn, decision’s, die, dish, do, drink, fine, fish, from, glass, gold, grow, hail, horn, hot, I, in, is, it, kill, know, lack, like, milk, mine, no, not, or, pail, paint, pie, restraint, saint, served, shall, share, should, skol, stein, the, this, try, want, warm, will, with, would, yay.

Without further ado, I present Warm Milk and Paint.

Source: jonathanshipley.blogspot.com

Warm Milk and Paint

I ain’t a saint.
A Saint-I-Ain’t.

No Saint-I-Ain’t!
No Saint-I-Aint!
I lack restraint, a Saint-I-Ain’t!

Will I drink warm milk and paint?

I shall not skol it, a Saint-I-Ain’t.
I cannot drink warm milk and paint.

Do I want it hot or cold?

I do not want it hot or cold.
I do not want it served in gold.
I cannot drink warm milk and paint.
It will kill me, a Saint-I-Ain’t.

Would I drink it from a glass? Would I share it with an ass?

I would not drink it from a glass.
I would not share it with an ass.
I do not want it hot or cold.
I do not want it served in gold.
I cannot drink warm milk and paint.
It will kill me, a Saint-I-Aint.

Would I want it in a dish? Would I want it served with fish?

Not in a dish!
Not with a fish!
Not from a glass!
Not with an ass!
I do not want it hot or cold.
I do not want it served in gold.
I cannot drink warm milk and paint.
It will kill me, a Saint-I-Ain’t.

Would I, should I, from a stein? Drink it! Drink it! It is fine.

I would not, cannot, from a stein.

I should like it. I should try. I should drink it with a pie.

I will not, shall not, with a pie.
Not from a stein! Decision’s mine!
I do not want it in a dish.
I do not want it with a fish.
I do not want it from a glass.
I will not share it with an ass.
I do not want it hot or cold.
I do not want it served in gold.
I cannot drink warm milk and paint.
It will kill me, a Saint-I-Ain’t.

Will I, shall I, from a pail?

Not from a pail!
Not with a pie!
No from a stein!
Saint-I-Ain’t shall not die!

I would not, will not, in a dish.
I would not, will not, with a fish.
I cannot share it with an ass.
I cannot skol it from a glass,
I will not drink it hot or cold.
I will not like it served in gold.
I cannot drink warm milk and paint.
It will kill me, a Saint-I-Aint.

Yay! In the bath. Should I, would I, in the bath?

I cannot, will not, in the bath.

Should I, would I, in the hail?

I should not, would not, in the hail.
Not in the bath!
Not from a pail!
Not with a pie!
Not from a stein!
I cannot drink it, a Saint-I-Ain’t.
Not with a glass!
Not with an ass!
Not served with fish!
Not in a dish!
I will not drink it hot or cold.
I will not like it served in gold.
I cannot drink warm milk and paint.
It will kill me, a Saint-I-Aint.

Do I like warm milk and paint?

Like I do not, a Saint-I-Ain’t.

Should I, would I, served with corn?

I cannot, will not, served with corn.

Would I, should I, with a horn?

I will not, cannot, with a horn.
I should not, would not, served with corn.
I will not drink it in the hail.
I will not drink it from a pail.
Not in the bath!
Not with a pie!
Not from a stein! Decision’s mine!
I will not want it in a dish.
I will not like it served with fish.
I shall not drink it from a glass.
I shall not share it with an ass.
I will not drink it hot or cold.
I will not like it served in gold.

I cannot drink warm milk and paint.
It will kill me, a Saint-I-Aint.

I cannot drink it. This I know. Skol it! Skol it! I will grow. Skol it and I will grow, I know.

A Saint-I-Ain’t! I will drink it. Decision’s mine! I will skol it, from a stein.

Yay! I like warm milk and paint!
I like it, I do, a Saint-I-Aint!
And I will drink it with a horn.
And I will drink it served with corn.
I would drink it in the hail.
And it in the bath.
And from a pail.
And from a stein.
I will drink it served with pie.
It is fine, I shall not die!
I will drink it from a dish.
And I want it served with fish.
I shall skol it from a glass.
I will share it with an ass.
I will drink it hot or cold.
I will like it served in gold.

I do know I like warm milk and paint.
Restraint will kill, a Saint-I-Aint!

I know this isn't relevant to Green Eggs and Ham, but I really want that hat. Source: thesceneinto.com

Written by disseminatedthought

January 3, 2012 at 10:03

Cartoons without clothes and Sesame Street blow

with 12 comments

Bloggers get lazy towards the end of the year. Select any tag topic at random right now, and you’ll be overwhelmed by a plethora of pieces that have “top”, “resolutions” or “2011” in the title. It seems that everyone in the blogosphere is either resolving their ass off or making a list of their Top [insert number between 1 and 6,914] [insert generic cliché – preferably movies, albums or kitten names] of 2011. A few bloggers are, thankfully, churning out fresh articles, but the majority seem content with reposting their favourite pieces of the year and then attempting to persuade their readers that it’s amazing new work. I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but it’s not. Literally publishing just the links to your ten best posts and then signing off with a corny festive season greeting isn’t entertaining, it’s boring. If you don’t have anything fresh to write about, don’t write; your readers would prefer you didn’t post inane, generic drivel each day just so you can convince yourself that you write daily.

Author’s note: the latter is why 365 day challenges have the potential to annoy the fuck out of everyone.

So, now that my beer and vodka-fuelled vociferation has concluded, I’m going to share with you a few new search terms that people have found The Dissemination of Thought with. While I’m fully aware it’s something I’ve touched on before, today we’re examining new stuff that people have looked for in the past three weeks. It’s a rehashed idea with fresh search phrases, so it’s technically new material, which officially makes this an original post and me less of a whinging hypocrite.

peter griffin naked

Everyone has issues; some people’s problems are just a lot worse than yours. If you ever think you can’t sink any lower into despair, just remember: at least you didn’t google a guy with balls for a chin in naked poses.

Is this what you were looking for, freaky searcher? Source: magculture.com

kelloggs shirazco pop

This search phrase is a little disconcerting, considering I only coined the name “Shirazco Pops” a week or two prior to writing this piece. Are Kellogg’s trying to pass my breakfast cereal and red wine masterpiece off as its own creation? Is there a chance they are preparing to make me an offer I can’t refuse? If it turns out to be the former, this means war; if it’s the latter, The Dissemination of Thought will cease to exist four seconds after their cheque clears.

my boyfriend thinks engagement rings are a ripoff and doesnt want to buy one

Whoever typed this into a search engine needs to run the fuck away from their frugal boyfriend as quickly as possible. While there is a chance the boyfriend just has no desire to propose to someone who uses Google like a Magic 8 Ball, the smart bet is on him using the ring money to finance an engagement jet ski.

Source: realbollywood.com

sesame street the count snorts cocaine

Elmo does blow... Source: soggylog.com

What the fuck? Because there are so many things wrong with this, I’m not even sure where to start. Is there a Sesame Street spin-off that no one’s aware of called Blowin’ with Big Bird and Bert? Does Grover do a good deal on a kilo of coke? On a positive note, given that Count von Count is a puppet and has a felt nose, it’s unlikely that he would ever succumb to a perforated nasal septum.

There's snow, and then there's "snow". Source: muppet.wikia.com

Welcome to The Dissemination of Thought in 2012: I can’t wait to see what search terms the next twelve months bring.

Why I wanted to throw an Oompa-Loompa off a moving ferry: blogging from the BlackBerry

with 23 comments

Public transport. It’s a never-ending source of depraved curiosity, bewilderment and material. If my travels don’t find me perplexed by the riddle of the ring, it seems like I’m perpetually pondering blasé parenting. I know, I’ve got a bit of an alliteration thing going on at the moment. Honestly, a solid week riding on the trains, buses and ferries could yield enough material for a year’s worth of TDoT posts. There’s a chance that it would also yield any number of genital-specific diseases, but I digress.

Why do parents think their spawn are not only bonsai geniuses, but that they are the most delightfully amusing munchkins on the planet? Furthermore, what drugs are they taking to nurture the delusion that the rest of us want to be subjected to Johnny reciting the alphabet on the bus, or little Barbeigh (yeah, like the doll, only cooler) running from one end of the train carriage to the other? Not only is Johnny in all probability as dumb as a post, he’s also as annoying as fuck. Put a leash on him or something.

On my ferry ride home this afternoon, I was accosted by four little darlings screaming and arguing. When they weren’t galloping around the cabin, they insisted on testing the trampoline-like qualities of the seats. A cessation of this behaviour only signalled that it was time for them to question their parents about why they hadn’t received a new toy in the last three minutes. At the top of their voices. Once the interrogation was over, the Oompa-Loompa wannabes resumed pulling each other’s hair and running the Tour de Ferry.

What did the parents do while the fruit of their loins were unleashing commuting Armageddon? Nothing. They chatted, played with their mobile phones and, unless I’m completely mistaken, seemed to take great joy in watching the bambinos entertain the other passengers. No, I don’t find your kid’s off-key caroling soothing – I’m trying to determine how harshly society would judge me for throwing a five-year-old off the stern of a moving vessel.

Given that I’m devoid of any paternal instinct whatsoever, one could assume that my Grinch-like complaint was unfounded and purely the result of not being very cherub friendly. But it wasn’t just me. Upon assessing the facial expressions of my fellow commuters, it was clear that I wasn’t the only one wanting to jettison minors. Had I followed through with my plan, I guarantee that I would have had to take a number and wait in line, a la a suburban delicatessen.

Can someone please explain to me why most parents believe that their progeny running riot in public and pissing everyone else off is adorable?

His parents will never understand why you want to murder him.  Source: blog.southeastpsych.com

His parents will never understand why you want to murder him. Source: blog.southeastpsych.com

Posted with WordPress for BlackBerry on my BlackBerry Bold 9700