Cowen was on the 6.1 News there yesterday. Did you see it? He was droning on as usual, sounding like a vacuum cleaner in a neighbouring flat, when, abruptly, he took a long pause and just stared. Then he coughed. Then he spluttered. Then his eyes rolled back in his head so you could only see the whites. He started to convulse after that, wobbling around like mad. You should’ve seen his jowls, Jaysus, and the amount of spittle out of the guy, he was like a lawn sprinkler. It was more than just a normal fit, you could tell that when he really started flailing around and gurgling (like a coffee percolator having an asthma attack, if such a thing could have such a thing). Then, as suddenly as it started, the convulsing stopped and he was just sat there again, clothes and hair in disarray, staring ahead, all absent minded looking.
I’m not sure if what happened next was more astonishing than disgusting, but, during this second spell of staring, you could see something moving in Mr. Cowen’s neck. You could see the impression of it under the rolls of flesh. This thing went on moving around in the neck for a while and then Cowen let a little gasp. A tear ran down his cheek. His eyes widened. ‘Sorry’, he croaked and then . . .then . . .his throat burst open. It burst open! Right there! On the fuckin telly! Cowen’s throat: PLOWP! And then . . .and this is really nasty . . .all these big house spiders came crawling out of his neck. (Those dirty grey/brown bastards, about the size of a matchbox, the ones you find hanging around skirting boards.) Oh, it was a horrendous sight. They were all over the studio. Dobson went mad. Whipped off a shoe and started battering as many of the feckers as he could. Ni Bheolain was frozen in terror, glued to her seat, stuttering (‘no change there’ says you, LOL etc.). The camera work went all over the place too, with random zooms, shaking, panning and wheeling about (‘no change there either’ says you again, LMFAO etc.).
Then things went really mental. A kazoo version of Fanfare for the Common Man sounded out from the television speakers as Cowen’s head dropped off his shoulders and landed on the studio floor. PLOP! As if that wasn’t enough to put you off your dinner, this big spider leg, the size of a dog’s leg, slipped out from under Cowen’s chin(s) and started prodding around. And then comes another leg! And then another! And then five more! And next thing you know, Cowen’s head starts scuttling off beneath the desk (a bit like in that film you’ve just thought of, you know the one).
Dobson was swinging at the Cowen/spider/head yoke with a microphone boom pole. ‘You’ve ruined the broadcast! You’ve ruined the bloody broadcast!’ he screamed. Then there was a hiss and a crackle and the screen went snowy. Grainy footage of animal headed children beating upon tin drums came into view. They were giggling and singing a little song that went: ‘end of the news, end of the news, end of the news’. And then . . . POP! . . .Blackness.
I was devastated. ‘Ah now’, I found myself saying, ‘enough’s enough, that’s the leader of the country’. ‘Good enough for him’ said the Mother with disdain. Her attitude infuriated me. ‘An Taoiseach is our democratically elected leader, not this Nyx character’ I said, referring to the Goddess of Night, who (as regular visitors to this blog will know) was no doubt responsible for this latest outrage. I’d had enough. ‘The time has come’, I announced, getting to my feet. The Mother knew what I meant. ‘Ah don’t do that,’ she implored but I told her I had to. ‘But everything will go all mad,’ she argued. ‘Things couldn’t be much madder than they are already’, I said before inhaling deeply and striding purposefully out of the room. It was time to open the portal.
To Be Continued in the next post's SEASON FINALE (the geektastic final conflagration featuring all your favourite heroes . . .except the ones I don’t rate or forget to include).
I’m setting up a social networking site called FATEBOOK, a new online space where you can get together and chatter away, post pictures of yourselves doing dynamic things and generally make out like you’re all well adjusted and successful. ‘Hit the gym before work then closed a sweet deal’. ‘Saw a darling pair of Jimmy Choos going for a song, soooooo happy.’ ‘Check out my beautiful and intelligent children enjoying a party in the spacious/tasteful décor of our family home where we live with our good genes.’ Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
As disciples of the mutually alienating façade, I’m sure you’ll enjoy availing of this opportunity to keep up with the Joneses to the nth degree. Come to Fatebook and sell yourselves to each other like pieces of Tupperware. Human Tupperware. Insincere Tupperware. You’ll all be so busy showing everyone who hated you in school how great your life is these days that you’ll not take the time to ponder why I have gathered you all one place. There is a reason. One reason and one reason only. . . .I’m turning on the gas.
‘But Mr. Fugger, why do you hate us so?’ I hear you ask and I’ll tell you: I hate you because you have chosen perception over reality, because you communicate in a manner more suited to a PR company than a human-being, because you make out like you want to socialise but you really want to make each other feel alone, because your aspirations are adapted from tacky commercials for toothpaste, life insurance and automobiles, because you degrade the facility for genuine human communication and instead embrace a dead eyed demon with a rictus grin called consumption. Finally, and most of all, I hate you because you are boring me to death.
‘Why is the site called Fatebook Mr. Fugger?’ I hear you asking now and I’ll tell you this too. As lord and ruler of Fatebook, I have possession of the Ultimate Control Panel (UCP). Like all Fatebookers, I’ll be able to send a smiley, nudge, poke, tickle and do all the other things users can do (and will do, ad nauseam) but my UCP will also offer me an exclusive extra option, the Destroy option. I’ll be checking out the exhibitionist little displays and updates of your pseudo-lives and, when you have roused my ire to a sufficient extent, I’ll click on ‘Destroy’.
Fatebook will possess occult properties (you’ll be able to tell from the little pentagrams and goat head symbols that litter the interface) and these properties will enable me to place curses upon users. You’ll spot the cursed Fatebookers when you notice their pages slowly transforming into catalogues of disaster. Pages, that once portrayed contrived exuberance, will chart personal failings, insecurities and admissions of dishonesty. Eventually, I’ll destroy every single one of you until you are united in humility. The only way to transcend this humility will be via honesty, mutual understanding and genuine empathy.
I know what you’re thinking, ‘I’m not signing up to his social network’ but you will, believe me. The lure will be too sweet. The chance to passively, indirectly but effectively thumb your noses at each other and make out you're something you’re not will be too irresistible to ones as petty and relentlessly egotistical as yourselves. The image of yourselves as beaming charity paragliders (or whatever persona you’ve selected) will fracture and the truth will come pouring out the cracks like wonderful puke. It’ll be for your own good. Your fate will be in my hands. DESTROY!
The Compassion Jackets arrived at Bernard Nally’s door the same way they arrived at the door of every other global citizen (unless the citizen in question did not have a door due to homelessness or some such thing, in which case the Compassion Jackets were air dropped). Bernard summoned his wife, Agatha, and his children, Kent and Susan, to the front room. ‘Now everyone,’ said Bernard, ‘put on your Compassion Jackets so that we may better understand the pain of the world’. Donning the irremovable, one size fits all garments for the first and last time was the ultimate commitment. An anxious chord resounded in the psychic ether of Bernard’s home, as it did a great many homes.
As the Nallys fastened the final fasteners of their new jackets, they fell to the ground, writhing and shuddering in unison. They felt the cramps of every starving belly, re-enacted the spasms of every tortured body and suffered the symptoms of every sickness known. The announcements on television warned about the ‘impromptu flailing of limbs’ due to the waves of pain that would be coursing through the species. ‘Take extra care when carrying hot liquids, sharp objects or valuable items such as infants’, said the announcements. ‘This will take some getting used to’, grunted Bernard through gritted teeth and his whole family agreed.
Bernard tried to remember what else they said about the Compassion Jacket on television. ‘We must fashion a brace to straighten the teeth of humanity’. Despite the agony, Bernard knew it was for the best. No crooked toothed child likes to wear braces but wear braces they must, he considered. Besides, the temptation to remove the jacket was negated by the knowledge that any attempt to do so would activate a fatal booby trap. That was the deal the human race had struck with itself. There was no other option.
Considered ingenious and necessary, the Compassion Jacket (or C.J.) united the world in pain. If one person wearing the jacket experienced physical distress the discomfort was transmitted by their jacket to every other jacket in the world and, therefore, to every other living human. One person’s pain was everyone’s pain. To punch someone in the face was to punch yourself in the face and to permit someone to punch someone in the face was to permit someone to punch you in the face. The intention being to provide human beings with greater motivation to treat each other well and work together against all causes of suffering. Humanity now had the one nervous system. ‘Enforced empathy’ they called it.
After several hours of wailing and convulsing upon the living room carpet, the Nallys finally found themselves adjusting to the sensation. One by one, they got to their feet and agreed to go out and do some good in the world. ‘I’m going to help as many people as possible today,’ said Kent, ‘because this fucking jacket is killing me’. Objecting to her son’s choice language, Agatha gave him a clip on the ear, which the whole family and world at large felt. ‘We’ll have to invent soft cars so crashes don’t hurt anymore,’ said young Susan, convinced that she had just experienced the pain of a collision with an oncoming vehicle. The whole family agreed. The whole world would have agreed also, if they could have heard her.
As time passed so did the pain. The Compassion Jacket’s success was noticeable. All man made suffering had ceased and all diseases and ailments cured, or at least treated with large amounts of morphine. Even the soft cars came to be and all homes and furnishings were now constructed from inflatable substances in case anyone fell. Everyone should have been happy but, much to his surprise, Bernard was not. He was the victim of an unforeseen side effect to the end of all suffering. He was laid off. Bernard worked for one of the world’s largest weapons manufacturers and, in response to first hand experience of exactly what their weapons could do, the company had decided to divert their resources into toy production. There was no need for a ballistics expert in toy manufacture and so Bernard found himself obsolete in a time without conflict.
Bernard was finding it hard to pay the bills and any thoughts of Kent attending college had to be put on the back-burner. Agatha thought their son might qualify for a scholarship but Bernard was not prepared to entertain such a fantasy. ‘He’s spoiled and he’s thick and we’re paupers,’ Bernard snapped at his wife, ‘now get real’. The Nallys’ new inflatable home came at great expense and foreclosure loomed. The anguish this caused the Nallys was unfelt by the world at large due to the fact that only physical suffering was transmitted by the C.J.s. Bernard resented this a great deal. He ruminated upon it even more so. And then, it struck him. He would hold the world to ransom. Oh yes, they would feel his pain alright.
Bernard went to his work-shed and, smiling to himself, drove a small tack into his finger with a hammer. Just as Bernard knew they would, the population of the world asked ‘what was that?’ so he contacted the media and told them. ‘Unless my financial woes are alleviated,’ announced Bernard, ‘I will embark on a prolonged campaign of self-mutilation that will be experienced by every man woman and child alive today.’
Later that day, Bernard sat planning just what he would do to himself, reading over torture techniques employed by sadistic regimes of times past. Then there was a knock at the door. Bernard sighed, got to his feet and went to see who was there. Opening the door, Bernard was confronted by a uniformed officer who held a gun that fired a dart that lodged in Bernard’s neck and knocked him unconscious. Bernard was then dragged from his home and gently placed in the back of a soft van.
Awaking, some hours later, Bernard found himself in an excessively padded room. He was wearing an oddly cosy straightjacket over his Compassion Jacket. ‘What a dirty trick’ he muttered, realising there was no way he could harm himself. He was to be left there to rot. To rot in perfect physical comfort. Oh, the torture of it.
Bernard began to sob but no one else felt the tears roll down his cheeks because his tears were the product of mental anguish as opposed to a tumour or a kick in the ribs or a fall onto concrete. As Bernard sobbed his mind darted to and fro, attempting to find a way out of his dire predicament. Then, like a bolt from the blue, the means of his liberation struck him and his weeping turned to laughter. He had one hand left to play and, oh, what a hand. He would bite his lip. He would bite hard into his lower lip and show the bastards. If a man wants to suffer he will suffer and no one can stop him. Bernard deeply inhaled and started to get stuck in. Then, nothing. Just a kind of sucking. A feeble slurping. They had removed his teeth. They had taken out Bernard’s teeth while he was unconscious. They had foreseen this act and removed the man’s teeth. Bernard croaked, shocked. Then he screamed. He sobbed and wailed and he banged his head against the lovely bouncy wall of his lovely bouncy cell. Boing! Boing! Boing!
Men can be very dismissive of women’s sports and, judging by the game of beach volleyball I downloaded from the Internet, I must admit, there may be some justification for this seeming chauvinism. As I watched the competitors leaping about, emitting little grunts and gasps as they contested the ball, I was initially impressed by their athleticism and determination. It seemed like quite a demanding game and it must’ve been very hot because the participants weren’t wearing all that much. They weren’t togged out in jerseys or anything. I’d imagine that kind of attire would be stifling.
Anyway, I was beginning to really enjoy the match when all of a sudden they stopped playing. ‘Halftime’ I presumed as both teams headed off to the locker room. I was nonplussed when the camera followed them back to a shared togging out area. Then things really took a surprising turn when the competitors stripped off and jumped into a large, open-plan, communal shower. ‘You don’t get that on Match of the Day’ I exclaimed. I must say, these girls had a real sense of team-spirit and this team-spirit showed in the shower as much as on the field of play when they started to soap each other down. Some of the athletes were even soaping down members of their opposing team, which further exemplified good sportsmanship. Extra commendation must be offered for the high standards in hygiene exhibited by these sports women, nary a nook or cranny was overlooked.
Well, the showering was going on for a while when I realised they’d been cleaning each other longer than they’d spent competing. Naturally, I was keen to see them get back out there and resume the match. I wanted to know who was going to win and, although I hadn’t yet chosen a side, I was enjoying the game. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t know the score. There had been no indication of the score or even a play by play commentary of any sort to keep the viewer up to speed. ‘Hmm’, I thought, ‘not good enough really’.
My hopes of match resumption lifted slightly when a coach (a no nonsense looking man about my age) entered the locker room and blew a whistle. The girls looked up from their mutual grooming and stared at him. ‘Good’, I thought, ‘they’ve remembered why they’re there’. However, my hopes were dashed when the coach proceeded to disrobe and join the others in the shower. The athletes descended on him and he got quite a bath let me tell you. He seemed very pleased about it all. I was less than pleased though. If women are so scatty minded as to wander off washing their hair halfway through a game how can they expect others to invest in their athletic pursuits?
‘No’, I said aloud, ‘not good enough, not good enough at all. They should all be bloody spanked, you hear? Spanked!’ Raising my fist, I reiterated my point - to no one in particular or perhaps God almighty, I’m unsure which - and began roaring the word ‘Spanked!’ over and over again. Needless to say, The Mother comes barging in* and gets the wrong idea entirely.
*(A common occurrence, justified by The Mother under a weak pretext that she has to check the immersion, which is in my room.)
The Universe came from the Big Bang. BOOM! An explosion from an infinitesimal point. A less than infinitesimal point in fact. Like with all explosions, everything is expanding out from the point origin. In a normal explosion, debris is initially expelled into the air with enormous force and speed. The further the debris travels from the initial point of the explosion, the more the force of the explosion wanes, slowing the debris' expansion. Eventually the debris comes back down to Earth. Give or take a bit of gravity, the same logic should apply to the expulsion of the Universe from the original point of the Big Bang. Universal expansion should slow down and eventually come to a halt and this is called Maximum Entropy or something. BUT!!! It seems that the further the Universe expands from its point of origin the more it speeds up??? Most baffling! Top boffins put this acceleration down to the existence of Dark Matter. When you ask them what Dark Matter is they say don't know, so saying it is down to Dark Matter is really just a fancy way of saying 'we're in the dark'.
NOW! Fugger (this blog, the people's blog) can reveal the true reason why the Universe's expansion is accelerating. The reason is thus: The Universe was not pushed out from a point of origin that expended incredible force, no, the Universe was pulled from its point of origin by an incredible force. The Universe is expanding because it is being pulled toward something not pushed away from something. 'But what is pulling the Universe Mr. Fugger?' I hear you ask in pitiful alarm. Well, I'll tell you (and don't worry, it's not Daleks or anything). . .
The Universe was originally pulled from its infinitesimal point of origin by a kind of cosmic forceps. This all took place in an area beyond the Universe, just as it is beyond our comprehension, just as the delivery room of a maternity ward is beyond the comprehension of a new born infant. Indeed, the Universe itself is only in its infancy. It has only just been separated from its umbilical cord and is being dangled upside down and slapped on the back. At the time of my typing this, the Universe is just a bewildered bawling baby, sloppy with afterbirth, and growing all the time. It is growing upwards and downwards, outwards and inwards, across and to either side. Other, older universes, those that delivered ours, are looking at our Universe and saying: 'Aw, how cute, I hope it doesn't grow up to be a dick'.
And, you know what? The Universe may indeed grow up to be a 'dick'. It all depends on what ideas it gets into its head, what notions it fosters. And that is where we come in. This part is partially up to us because we are the Universe (a very very small part but a part nonetheless). The contents of the Universe are not just corporeal, physical, tangible things but also intellectual. The Universe is as much ideas as it is planets and stars and rocks and water and tables and chairs and orange peels and hot water bottles, etc. Possessing intellects, it is up to us to contribute to the intellectual contents of the Universe and maybe that is something you should bear in mind the next time you go spouting crap, telling lies, disseminating hate-speech, spreading gossip, taking a job in public relations and generally being a 'dick' because if you are a 'dick' you make the Universe a dick and that is real entropy, or something, probably.
Jeziz, these mushrooms are really beginning to kick in now. Don't put on The Butthole Surfers, they freak me out when I'm like this.
According to a recent survey, 63% of 15 year old girls want to pursue careers as inflatable sex dolls upon leaving school. Quoted reasons for this career choice included: 'boys will like me', 'I'll weigh less' and 'I won't have to feel anymore'
There has been a recent upsurge in inflatable sex doll popularity. A new advertising campaign features inflatable sex dolls modelling items from the French Connection UK clothing range. Victoria Beckham's new BFF is also an inflatable sex doll and another one recently triumphed on a reality TV show. Perhaps most astonishingly, spirited celebrity Katie Price was officially declared an inflatable sex doll after medical examinations revealed her to share more physical properties with inflatable sex dolls than human beings. 'It took a lot of time and effort but I got there in the end,' declared the talented author proudly. 'This typifies the post emancipation era,' says counter feminist contrarian Camillia Higgledypaglia, 'young girls are standing up and saying "We Don't Want to be Empowered!, it's boring, time consuming and frankly unattractive" I say hats off to these girls for rejecting the fuddy-duddyism of the feminist epoch.'
The academic who collated the research is said to still be in tears.
I’m addicted to bullying. I’m seeing a therapist and we’re working things out. ‘Oh Mr. Fugger, how did it come to this?’ I hear you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. . .
Noticing that it was all the rage and not being one to get left behind by popular trends, I first considered bullying as a pastime a couple of years ago. The sight of exuberant and naïve youngsters being encouraged and then ruthlessly dismantled on reality TV really did it for me. It struck a chord deep inside. ‘Who do they think they are anyway? They’re not special.’ Bullying, yes, there was something to it alright and society seemed to be saying, ‘Hey, it’s OK to bully now’. I could tell bullying was a real craft though and knew I couldn’t just jump into it. It would take time to perfect a technique. Once that was done, I could sit back and bask in the rewards of bullying: It gives one influence. It gives one status. It makes one matter.
I have to admit that what I really wanted to be was a Mean Girl. You know Mean Girls, named after the movie. Adolescent females with a gift for psychological dismemberment. Ugg boot wearing experts in ego erosion. Oh to be a Mean Girl, that was my goal for Mean Girls are the greatest of bullies, harassment’s highest achievers, the apex of intimidation, the ne plus ultra of the malicious arts. If novice bullies climbed mountains in search of bully sages from which to garner wisdom they would discover Mean Girls atop those mountains, dispensing tips and making entries into burn books. Unfortunately, being a middle-aged man with no small resemblance to Tin Tin’s good friend Captain Haddock, I was somewhat disqualified from inclusion in the elite club of the Mean Girl, but I would not be deterred. ‘There must be a way’, I told myself and, indeed, there was.
I set about befriending teenage girls on the Internet. I know that may sound untoward but trust me when I state that my intentions were in no way sleazy. I merely viewed these girls as unwary participants in my new sport. They inspired no more carnality in me than clay pigeons inspire in men with shotguns. They were target practise, nothing more. I made the online acquaintance of a lonely pubescent called Una. Overtime, our acquaintanceship grew into friendship and we began trading confidences, mine were entirely fabricated of course but Una’s, well, the emotion, anxiety, confusion and heartbreak of her words seemed to sear themselves onto my monitor. Those long, sad and desperate PM’d tracts were unmistakably genuine. Heartfelt stuff. Almost touching. The silly little moo.
Una worried about her lank hair, her lack of popularity, her weight and the fact that she slept with her older brother’s friends when they came over to the house to get drunk (her parents seemed largely absent). After a month or so, I had enough material to launch a campaign against her. That’s the great thing about the Internet, everyone is famous in a way and so the humiliation is public. Public humiliation is the best kind of humiliation there is. I set about making Una look bad to our shared friends on the social networks we frequented. ‘OMG! SUCH a whore – How cud any1 hump d minger! Hav U seen her hair??? GROSS! Even her folks don’t wanna b around her! LOL!’
I had coerced Una into making disparaging remarks about some of our shared friends in the past and these quotes were enormously helpful in my efforts to vilify the girl. I had even obtained Una’s mobile number which I publicised online and texted disturbing messages to in the dead of night (my number withheld of course, LMFAO!). Una began to crumble. Her online pleading was pitiful. The sense of empowerment this provided me was heady and strangely cathartic. It was as if I was exorcising the failings of my own life, of which there are perhaps a few.
I experienced a crescendo of ecstasy upon learning that Una’s persecution had spread to the classroom. One of my fellow anti-Una campaigners (my new BFF, the lovely Sorcha) was actually in Una’s year. Una’s brother’s friends even got wind of our efforts and they were in another school entirely. It was like a virus, everyone had it but Una alone was suffering its ill effects. PWNED!
Una ended up having to change school and go live with an aunt in another county. She closed all her online accounts and, in an odd way, I missed her. Still, it was a job well done and it was time to move on. Who next? Oh, of course, right under my nose, my BFF, Sorcha. I won’t bother going into details about this second project as it was largely similar to the first and the ones that followed. However, this campaign had one extra benefit. I had obtained actual webcam footage of Sorcha lip syncing to a Lady Gaga song whilst prancing about in her knickers. (Again, let me reiterate my lack of lascivious interest in my victims. I’m a MILF man myself and more likely to be attracted to the ladies who drive these girls to school than the girls themselves). Sorcha was soon roundly reviled and met with a fate similar to Una’s: despised, demolished and banished. I moved on to my next assignment and soon found myself juggling several bullying projects at once. I was good at this. Very good. Or so I thought until I ran afoul of a cunning little rat called Tracy McManus. McManus wasn’t having any of it and somehow traced my IP address. Next thing I knew, the authorities came a knocking.
Widespread surprise was expressed by the online community when it was revealed that I was principle of the school my victims attended. (I forgot to mention that earlier didn’t I? LOL! Yes, my job provided me much opportunity to scope out my subjects and gauge their suitability before embarking upon their destruction). Anyway, to cut a long blogpost short, it was decided there would be no restraining orders and that I would not have to leave my position in the school as long as I agreed to therapy.
Therapy has unearthed some long standing insecurities stemming from my childhood. My father was very distant and, as my therapist explained, in a way it was my father bullying those girls and not me at all. My therapist had Una, Sorcha and the rest of my online quarry come in to talk things through. This was to be an effort at reconciliation and renewal (reconciliation and renewal are all the rage these days. They are kind of like this year’s bullying so I’m still hip). We explained to the girls how I too was a victim of my bullying and suffering alongside them in a senseless maelstrom of maliciousness. I wept a little. Una, Sorcha and the other girls all saw reason. They apologised and said they would consider my feelings in the possible event of any future relapse on my part. I appreciated their understanding, despite the fact that it reinforced my belief that they were fundamentally weak people.
It was around this time that I found the strength to ring my Pop in an attempt to gain Closure TM. As my therapist pointed out, Closure TM is a birthright. Freeze frame on a happy scene. Credits roll. Curtains close. A happy ending like in the movies except in real life. Yes, a heart to heart with Pop would be my final step in obtaining Closure TM. I told Pop what happened, explained what was ascertained to be at the root of it, asked that he recognise my pain and perhaps take some responsibility for it. There was a long silence on the phone, a calm before a storm of expletives. Amongst this avalanche unsavoury abuse, Pop told me to ‘cop on’, asked me if I thought calling him on the phone at 3a.m. was normal and also asked since when had I started referring to him as ‘Pop’. Then he hung up.
Denied Closure TM, I became quite distressed. I fell off the wagon, immediately going back online and taunting my former prey with unprecedented venom (many of the girls had unwisely reactivated their social networking accounts). On this occasion the girls were considerate. They inquired about my feelings and offered hugs (or the online equivalent). This was some compensation at least but I know I have some way to go before I finally shake this bullying monkey from my back.
In closing, I would like to thank my therapist for helping me see the true narrative of my life up to now and guiding me toward the final act that must be performed in order to obtain Closure TM. The sessions have been well worth the money. I would also like to thank Una, Sorcha and the other weaklings for their kindness and compassion but I would not like to thank Tracy McManus. McManus did not attended any of our reconciliation get-togethers and seems hell bent ruining my reputation online. Really, you’d think Facebook would put a stop to her slanderous behaviour. I mean, they have the wherewithal to invade your address book, surely the have they wherewithal to moderate their network. But then, perhaps that would be seen as contrary to ‘free speech’ or unremunerative. Who knows? All I know for sure is that Tracy McManus is the nastiest little bitch I have ever come across. A Mean Girl times ten. I fear I may be forever denied Closure TM. I fear I am PWNED.
As some may know, Fugger has a sideline in electronica, a musical outfit called Das Man-Bag where we combine little bleeps and tweets with understated beats and samples from TV shows thirty-somethings might recall from childhood (Bosoco, The Beachcombers, Mart and Market etc.). Fans of Das Man-Bag will be interested to know that I have since branched out, forming a post-rock band that go under the snappy moniker: Seven Trumpets Heralding the Donkey God of Cough Syrup and Undisclosed Transgressions of the Late Rod Hull.
We have lots of great tunes that are sure to have punters everywhere tapping their feet and nodding their heads in a melancholic stylee. We are currently adding the finishing touches to a number called Diffident Posturing at the Apex of Nothing In Particular or Drably Unusual as Usual (running time 28 mins, 43 secs). We hope to include this ditty on our debut EP entitled A Mother Sighs and Her Breath Consolidates Upon the Window Pane of a Closed Down Veterinarian Clinic in Kinnegad. The other tunes on the EP are Storming the Yellow Outskirts of the Nonesuch Realm With a Can of Lilt and Two Bags of Tayto Please Janet (running time: 17 mins, 21 secs), Hope Dies in the Perfectly Honed Bleak Aesthetic of the Junior Common Room (running time: 7 hrs, 4 mins, 32 secs)and (my personal favourite) Disenfranchised Cockroach Cowering Beneath a Fridge Called America as Evangelists Roar Through Megaphones Because They Want the World to End Just Like We Do Because it Would Be Beautiful Like Cormac McCarthy's The Road Even Though it's Hard to Figure Out What that Book is Lamenting Exactly and Why the Author Fears and Distrusts Strangers So Much (running time: 9 Days, 22 hrs, 56 mins, 3 secs).
Our EP will be released by the record label Ponderous Wheeze and we're hoping the tunes will be used to soundtrack documentaries and Prime Time reports concerning urban deprivation and empty housing estates.
So, keep an ear out and make sure you don't miss out on this exciting new venture from Fugger. (Hopefully it will work out better than the films and comic thing eh?)