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I've been talking to my Spam folder again. It never ceased to amaze me how these old friends of mine always hit the right nerve.

Take my old friend Brandon Turnerio. Brandon and I used to spend an imaginary summer hiking the Inca trail, pillaging villages and vomiting on ancient artefacts. He gets me, you know. Anyway, so right now he wrote me last night saying that I could "acquire" a whole new "member" that would make all my nights different from all previous nights. You may think he's being a bit peculiar (or sexual even), but no, he was just referring to that one time in the jungle, where he got high on tapir droppings (why? Err.......when in Rome...?...I guess... - I didn't join him, though - and even if I did, I wouldn't be telling you). Of course, he was embarrassed about snorting tapir faeces, so we agreed that we'd call that shit "member" from then on. And it's true, though, he was never the same after that. He became addicted, but of course had a terrible time kicking the "member" when we came back. The ancient Bagoohu tribe have a saying "once you go tapir droppings, you just can't go back to snorting coke off your iPad" and they should know. His e-mail led me to believe that he had acquired some new "member" through some animal source, so I gave him an imaginary call and sure enough, it turns out he had been given the job of tapir cage cleaner at the local zoo. He sounded happy, so I didn't try and change his mind. 

Who else have we got?
Ah yes, Lusy Dodson! She always hated the name her parents gave her, Lucy, but it was only after extensive testing that psychologists found out that it was due to the fact that she was C-phobic, which is a phobia for the letter C. I met Lusy when both of us were in therapy. I was there to overcome my addiction to bedwetting (or was it an "inclination to bedwetting"? Semantics, schmemantics!). We did get along really well from the start, not really intellectually, but more like imaginary; she told me she really liked me because my name contained no Cs. I remember feeling so flattered. The thing is, she kind of misinterpreted my signals when I had rewritten Dostojevski's 'Crime and Punishment' for her without her most hated letter (not easy, I would think). Lusy fell in love with me and was really spiteful when I told her that I couldn't (I had been careful not to use c-words with her, but 'can't' slipped out and then she slapped me in the face - out of a reflex, I punched her on the nose - ever since then her nose has been a bit crooked and she has been sending me these almost vengeful e-mails about how I "should not accept my current situation" and that I "can fix my problem so it will become an eternal passion rod". I asked her to stop a while back, telling her it's really childish what she's doing, but then she drunk-dialed me and started screaming wildly. I admit I lost my cool and I made her stop with a barrage of Cs to make her go mad. I don't think we'll ever be friends again. 

Oh look! Curdkudck Vrwsgt has also written! Apparently, he's got a trick for me: "Hey, I have got a guide for you today that we discover (SIC) you're to amour!' Curdkudck was always the helpful type. Both of us met during our days as Pro Women Mud Wrestlers. The funny thing about that was that both of us had been cross-dressing for years just to enter the women's tournament, but of course when we found out, after grabbing each other's genitalia during a championship fight, we soon became partners-in-crime. He always had the support from the lesbians, but I could count on a respectable following of lorry drivers. Marketing wise, we thought it'd be great to start a fake lesbian relationship, so we'd have both supporters groups on our side. Those were the days! I did quit the scene a few years later, though. I just didn't feel like waxing those legs every day... there's only so much a Pro Women's Mud Wrestler can take...
I do wonder why Curdkudck is also trying to sell me Lady Gaga tickets (...and Viagra), though. Guess it must be a joke. The guy's got the weirdest sense of humour...
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I saw no escape route. The big green EXIT sign had only been put there for show, I found that out when I tried going in the direction of where it pointed. Banging my head against a wall with a door painted on it. And a second time just to be sure.
Why would I bump into doors head-first, you ask? 
Well, my reply would be: 'Do I tell you how to open your doors? No I don't, so shut it!'
I wondered how I ended up here. This room seemed to have no discernable point of entry. I thought, maybe there's a hidden button somewhere over here.
I started feeling the walls with my tongue, hoping to find that hidden button (again, do I tell you how to search for hidden buttons? NO, I DON'T!), but after filling my mouth with enough leaded paint to make my potential offspring retarded for generations to come, I concluded that there may not be a button after all. 
The room was too big to be a prison cell, too dilapidatedly urban to be a container for humans on an alien spaceship with the inevitability of anal probing just around the corner. 
I quacked like a duck to attract attention (stop asking why, will you?!), but to no avail. I quacked a bit louder, but for all I knew, nobody could be listening.
I considered this option: a crack in the space time continuum might have created this space and placed me in there, a parallel universe where I spend all eternity in this timeless red painted room without doors. It made a lot of sense at the time (though that might have been an effect from the lead overdose I had ingested), but ultimately I had to conclude that it couldn't be for eternity, since I suddenly felt the urgent need to micturate. This was proof of time passing, and also of me having drunk some liquid or other in the not so distant past (I missed my calling to become a detective). 
As I did not know how long I would be here, I chose one of the corners and designated it as my toilet (survival skills at work; you have to create order in stressful situations). 
After micturating and destroying even more of the already-not-so-fresh paintwork, I continued my search for the exit. Instinctively, it felt a bit safer knowing that I had marked my territory, knowing that anyone coming in after me would have to subjugate to me. The rules of the jungle also apply outside the jungle.
I still was none the wiser, though. Questions remained unanswered, unless you count the answers I gave myself to those questions, in which case they were answered, but maybe not with the right answ
er (must you be so anal about all these things?).
I put myself in the middle of the room on hands and knees and howled. The sound bounced off all walls simultaneously and back to me in a four way echo....
Well, at least I had something to do until I wait for starvation...

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Now that billions have been spent to once again reaffirm the existence of dust and red rocks (though they could be black-and-white) on the planet Mars, I think it is time to formally announce my candidacy for a manned space mission to Mars and beyond.

Naturally, I have always been a big fan of space. Well, apart from that one time space abandoned me, causing me to black out and wake up in a prison cell – space pleaded innocent, but everyone knew who really was to blame.

Anyway, I remember where I was when Neil – I can call him Neil – forgot his indefinite article on the moon. I was in my father’s testicle, though I cannot be fully sure which one; they looked so much alike.

I feel I’d make a great candidate for an extended mission to Mars. The reason is simple. In the age of short attention spans – look, a YouTube cat! – we need to cast someone who has the ability to keep those ratings up. We don’t want people to switch over to some other channel when I plant my first foot on Mars, do we?

I do suggest my fellow space travellers be quite competitive, none of that 1960s “it’s a team effort”, “you go first, no, you go first” kind of thing, no way. We should perform challenges to determine who can be the first to set foot on Mars. As with any good reality show, we need losers who get sent off the show. Too bad for the loser that there’s just a whole lot of empty space outside the ship. This will ensure that everyone will give 101% at every challenge (it goes without saying that I cannot be sent off the ship, since I have immunity because I came up with all of this).

Is there a chance that everybody will just try to kill each other after two weeks?

Of course, but that’s part of the appeal and it offers huge advertising opportunities. If crew number 1 gets killed off, you can use the advertising money to build a second rocket for season 2. It’s that simple! 

So, I guess I’ll start packing... *grabs handgun*... wait? Do guns work in a state of weightlessness? I don’t why they shouldn’t, since you can urinate while being weightless, but I’ll have to ask Google...

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I have been forcing myself to write something tonight to only end up writing this about not being able to write, even though then, my statement is false, since I am writing now.
It’s like the riddle ‘what gets wetter as it dries?’ *
But then again it also isn’t really like that, because the content of what is said is ultimately irrelevant.
I could be writing about how I fell from the sky without a parachute, landed on both feet (it’s all in the landing), right in the middle of an ongoing orgy, but none of it would not really be happening.
Anyone who writes is a masochist by definition, some in the more literal sense than others (though I will leave it to your imagination to decide how literal it would be in my case).
I am focussing my thoughts on a bigger piece of writing these days, that’s true, though it is mostly in my head.
If I have my lapped top on top of me, distractions are easily within reach. Then research quickly turns into a video on youtube of a cat falling over (this is of course an overdramatized statement – I have never watched a cat video online, may Da Lord strike me down right now if I am lying *looks up with a hint of religious fear* because of course I watched some: I even made a cat video myself one time – to date, it remains my most succesful work of art, which I guess is understandable, since its message is more accessible to the majority of internet surfers who need a break from all the porn (there’s only so much onanism one can do in a day...). The critique on society is perhaps more palpable than with any other piece of art ever made in the history of the world. I bet if Assad and other despots would spend a bit more time watching cat videos, they might realise the error of their ways and hand out free ice cream to make up for it.

My hands are shackled to my keyboard. Carpale and his Tunnel Syndrome are tempted to make their way into my fingers. But fingers refuse it, like they refuse to be soaked in water for longer than ten seconds (whenever I am taking a bath, the tips of my finger I always keep above the water – wouldn’t want to drown and/or to get wrinkly skin). Like an escapologist, we try to struggle our way to freedom. Unlike the escapologist, however, it won’t be with a key that lies hidden in his lower intestine (I know this because I used to date an escapologist – or maybe the boy just had issues, it’s hard to be sure of these things), it will be by beating the board of keys underneath our fingers. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to go fetch a key down “there”, but I can’t be arsed (pun definitely intended) to go along with it. Sometimes the hard way out can also be the easy way out.

And we ride along on our imaginary horses with our imaginary friend in an imaginary wilderness of balloons and flying monkeys. There is no alternative but to ride that horse downstream, because that way we reach the end of the world (not the end as in “destruction”, but the literal end of this flat surface of land). We never asked for reasons any more, we stopped doing that a long time ago.

Reasons are SO 2004 anyway. Best nobody should bother with them for as long as we all may live.

This text does not exist.

* = A towel!
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Kick, Punch, it's all in the mind
If you wanna test me, I’m sure you’ll find
The things I’ll teach ya is sure to beat ya
But nevertheless you’ll get a lesson from teacher.

-          (Guess what video game this is from and win the label of 'True 1990s Geek')

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that people don't really seem to care that much about the global financial crisis because it all seems too boring from afar. In our minds, bankers don't really exist. They are an abstract entity who nobody knows. Unlike with celebrities, we will not wonder what banker X is doing with banker Y, while he is supposed to be married to banker Z (though I bet she's a housewife, not a banker - are women even allowed to be bankers?).
We pay our bankers so much more than our celebrities. We give Goldman Sachs control over a bunch of nations after they themselves brought about those countries' almost-bankruptcy. 

And still we shrug.

We don't burn down their offices, kidnap their CEOs' offspring or throw faeces at their employees. I'm not saying I would condone all of this, even though I do (I'm just not saying it), but we're not even considering the possibility.

Biologically, every mammal is programmed to yawn at the sight or mention of a banker, even bankers themselves. Whenever they look in the mirror, they start to yawn uncontrollably when being confronted with their own blandness (provided the mirror hasn't already spontaneously shattered into a million pieces - mirrors are selfdestructive objects). 

They thrive on people's indifference, knowing the people will only blame politicians, immigrants, and/or Greeks for all of their woes. It's an effective tactic, because at least all of those people have recognizable faces. 

Imagine having intercourse with a banker. The thought alone made my phallus pack its bags just now and jump on the next plane to Ibiza (I hope he'll be back soon after I send him an apology).
Actually, come to think of it, people who are so detached from the world and its emotions are likely to have freaky sex lives. I'm following JG Ballard's logic again (but the man made sense). Maybe that's why Phallus left... 

We should make them more interesting, let them be the subject of public scrutiny, so we can finally come around to fight them. 

Send in the paparazzi!

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Wonderful news from the world of physics today. It turns out that CERN scientists may have found something that resembles the Higgs Boson particle they were looking for.
I'm not being modest when I say that I can take some, if not most, of the credit for this discovery.
'Why?' you ask.
Well, simple really: last year, I spoke the following prophetic words,
'Somebody should find that thing!'
And less than a year later, my vision came to life. Today was an emotional day, you can imagine.

But how to explain Higgs and his Boson to the layman, i.e. You? After all, we don't all carry triple PhDs in Physics like yours truly (I bought mine online after a strenuous 12 minute oral exam on star signs; best €50.000 I ever spent).

As I am now also trained to be a teacher, I will provide you with two explanations, each suited to a different audience of mine...

1) Higgs Boson for animal lovers:
OK, so imagine that all the particles in the universe are hippopotami. When the universe was created, all hippopotami were blown into space, drifting further and further apart. But of course hippopotami must eat. That is why they stay in their field, the Higgs Boson field, that drags them towards it with promises of fresh & tasty puppies (or whatever hippopotami eat), creating a sort of drag on their expansion. Because hippopotami are so ravenous whenever they see a puppy, no physicist has ever been able to actually observe one. That is why the laboratory at CERN has been firing the hippopotami at each other at almost the speed of light (which confuses the hippopotami's biological clock, causing them to not devour their puppies as fast as they usually do). Now when these hippopotami collide with each other, it is obvious that it is a messy affair. Because of the speed, Higgs Boson gets confused and reveals one of his tasty little puppies, for just a split second, before the puppy is split in two and becomes an unrecognisable purée of organs and puppy juices. So what the scientists now did, was observe the puppy, right before it got mangled.

2) Higgs Boson for lovers of JG Ballard's ground-breaking novel (and rather mediocre film adaptation) Crash:
Imagine the Large Hadron collider as the ultimate destruction derby tournament. If you've read the book, or the Wikipedia summary (make an effort, will you? The book is short!), you'll know that it is about people getting off on crashing cars. So in this scenario, it would make a lot of sense to replace the particles with big Volvos driven by naked Brazilian car crash lovers. What do we know about naked Brazilian car crash lovers?
1) They most likely have herpes;
2) They speak Portuguese, unless they are native rainforest people, in which case they shouldn't be driving that car anyway;
3) They climax when their cars crash.
Point 3) is what interest us physicists in this case, because the event of a climax of one of these Brazilian race car drivers has never been witnessed by the naked eye. This meant that we built this huge billion euro tunnel to investigate whether or not Brazilians could actually climax at all. The answer, as it turns out, is: "Yes, but only very briefly and inobservable to the naked eye."

To conclude, I wish to thank CERN for believing in me and not giving up on what I told them to do. I will gladly continue taking credit for any new discovery they might find. Next time, they should invite me to their after party, however (I hear those physicists have the best orgies!). 

And now I boldly go... um.... where... um... whatever, I don't like Star Trek anyway...

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De medemens die mij een beetje kent, die weet dat men aan mij geen drugs moet presenteren omdat ik ermee toch niets aanvangen wil. Het zegt me niets en genetische verslavingsaanleg geldt hier bovendien als extra argument. Ook al bestaat mijn pensioenplan op dit moment uit experimenteren met alle soorten drugs, van A (van Anale In Vloeibare XTC Gedrenkte Tampons) tot Z (van Zuivere Heroïne In de Oogbol), heb ik er op dit moment totaal geen behoefte aan. Later is het OK, omdat het dan toch minder erg is als een mens verslaafd worden zou. Als ik 70 ben, lijkt het me fijner om gedrogeerd te zijn dan constant te moeten geconfronteerd worden met mijn eigen incontinentie (we moeten daar eerlijk in zijn; het feit dat het zolang duurde vooraleer ik zindelijk werd, is een teken aan de wand hiervan). 

En toch: er werd mij een jaar of twee geleden eens een zakje wiet gegeven in ruil voor een pint op een of ander fotostudentenfeestje dat ik organiseerde. De belhamel die het me gaf, had 30 cent te kort om zijn 1 euro kostend bier te betalen, dus smeet hij er automatisch dat zakje bij en ik dacht dat ik er wel iemand die ik kende en dat utiliseerde een plezier mee kon doen.

Tot ik het vergat natuurlijk en dat zakje in de tas die ik nooit gebruik verdwaald raakte. Even raakte het uit de vergetelheid, toen mijn wederhelft het vond en hij dacht dat ik plots een junkie zou geworden zijn. Maar luttele minuten daarna raakte het weer vergeten in de donkerste regionen van een lelijke, doch praktische, tas.


Ik schrijf dit tijdens het laatste uur van mijn vlucht naar Seoel, Zuid-Korea. Tijdens het eerste uur van mijn vlucht (het is er een van tien uur) zocht ik een balpen om enkele zaken over te schrijven van mijn Kindle wat ik in Korea wil gaan zien. In mijn tas.

Die tas.

Ik grabbelde in een van de vele verborgen compartimenten en stootte op het bewuste zakje. Mijn hartslag schoot even pijlsnel de lucht in (drugshonden, grenscontroles waar ze me er graag uitpikken, arrestaties, glibberige zeep in gevangenissen met klein geschapen Aziatische misdadigers,... je kent het wel) en ik smeet het zakje achter me onder de stoel.

Seconden later daagde het bij me dat dat misschien geen goed idee was. Wat als die vent achter mij het vindt (of stel dat een drugshond het ruikt aan mijn tas en ze vervolgens mijn zetel controleren -  je hersenen gaan al eens op hol slaan). Na het eten verplaatste mijn, overigens superlieve, Koreaanse buurvrouw zich en kon ik het eindelijk onder de zetel gaan zoeken.

Ik stak het in mijn achterzak en schoof aan voor de wc. Met een slurpende luchtverplaatsing verdween dit probleempje sneller dan het gekomen was. Uit een aflevering van Mythbusters weet ik dat het niet gaat om speurhonden te misleiden, maar als ze me straks zullen of willen controleren, zullen ze in elk geval niets vinden...

Denk ik toch... *denkt na of er eventuele andere mogelijke uitbetalingen in illegale substanties zijn gebeurd*


Geland en ongecontroleerd gebleven.

Mijn vermoedens over de Koreaanse strengheid werden evenwel bevestigd door Google:





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It may have been one of the first times since I have been in Berlin that I took a ‘commuter train’, i.e. a train that people take going to or coming from their place of work.

I had just dandled my way to the Belgian embassy (which is difficult, if you bother to look up the definition of ‘to dandle’) where I finally tried to register myself as an expat (of course, I didn’t succeed in registering, because I had hundreds of documents with me proving my German residence, but not the one that they required). They were reallly nice there, though – talked to a lovely lady who would invite me for receptions at the embassy and was keen to know more about what I did (reminds me about that time in Sweden where we were invited at the embassy for dinner, just because the ambassador had a free night on his schedule (which I guess must happen a lot, since I don’t imagine there to be many diplomatic conflicts going on between Belgium and Sweden... or Germany for that matter)).

The linguist in me couldn’t let go of the fact that the plaque of the Belgian embassy that they recovered from the rubble from the Second World War translated ‘embassy’ as ‘boodschap’ (or ‘message’ – ‘Belgian Message’) as per the German ‘belgische Botschaft’. Nowadays, ‘boodschap’ is either used as an errand one has to run or colloquial as a bowel or bladder movement (large or small ‘message’), which made me imagine what a ‘Belgian Message’ would look like. The plaque was really nice; it had bullet holes and everything!

Anyway, on my way back (after a stop-over at the film development factory (or ‘shop’)) I found myself on an S-bahn train filled with commuters. It occurred to me that it was that time of day when ‘regular’ people get off of work. This meant full trains and standing up, something I’m not accustomed to, probably due to my irregular train usage hours.

An older woman resting on a cane stood at my stop where I had to get on. Stumbling on the train, she scanned the seats for any empty ones, but all seats were filled and everyone looked away and those that did spot her quickly looked away too. After two stops, when several people left seats that were quickly taken by younger and fitter people than her (she tried to take them, but was of course too slow), it dawned on me that she would not get a seat from anyone on this train. People coming from work in this particular competitive society have a sense of entitlement that I don’t share with them. It really annoyed me I couldn’t find the right German words to just ask that bunch of people if any of them would like to help an old lady, but I couldn’t just let it go, since it was annoying me so, so much.

Another seat came free and I jumped in front of two people who tried to fill it (and who did notice her struggling, I’m sure of that), so that she could sit there. I had to guide her, since she didn’t really believe me at first. Confused, but incredibly grateful, she rested herself and I did the same to my mind.

Why did I never join the boy scouts?

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As I am lying in the sand of the surrounding desert, I whistle while grains of sand are blown on top of me, creating a slight tornado around the area where my breath leaves my rounded lips. Perhaps 'tornado' is too strong a word - my whistling just isn't as forceful, I must admit - I don't see a path of destruction behind me whenever I partake in the fine art that is whistling... Mind you, perhaps that destruction is there and I am just selectively blind to notice it.

The dunes around me are slowly adjusting to my presence. They have noticed me, that much is sure. Curiously, yet cautiously, I notice them crawling closer to inspect this stranger among them.

A bit of sand enters the eye of my tornado and drops down into my mouth, causing the whistling to stop and my throat to release a cough. As if they are shy, I see the dunes retreating just a bit. Intruders can be violent, that much they know, but then they realise that there is no real reason for this particular intruder to be violent; I am lying naked among a bed of sand that they have created there. If I were a violent intruder, I'd at least have a knife with me with which I would ceaselessy stab the dunes to death. Of course, I could still be a dormant psychopath, but if that would be anyone's attitude to a naked person lying in their midst, then the world would be a sad place after all.

The dunes move closer, having seen that I spat out the grain of sand, which I assume to them means I'm not attempting to eat any of them. Little by litte, sand begins to cover my limbs. I am whistling again, but the sound is beginning to echo now from the gradually higher and higher sand walls that are simultaneously moveing closer. I can feel the warmth of the sunkissed grains engulf me, making moving more difficult, breathing more tiresome.

The weight of it has turned me immobile. The dunes have given me my rite of passage to become one of them, or at least part of them. My mouth is the last part of my body to become covered by tons and tons of sand. The whistling tornado stops abruptly, my mouth is filled with sand as part of the dunes' final display of their strength.

I smile (mostly in my mind, since physically smiling with a mouth full of sand just isn't classy) and think:

Won't be long now until I am transformed into a millions bits of sand...

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I like my current smartphonelessness (patent pending on that word).
Someone in Barcelona did me a favour.

Some might say he half-molested me in order to take a piece of what was once my property and make it his own (I'm fairly sure it was a boy, not being sexist, just realistic).


Well... I guess it depends on how you look at it. To take something from one's back pocket down a pair of extremely tight-fitting trousers, you can't really call it molestation, maybe not even half-molestation, because you know, then they would have at least done something.
In my mind, at the time, I was just considering an all-too-eager admirer with too much confidence. I remember a brief sensation, or maybe I imagine remembering it to make me feel better, but anyhow, split seconds where I thought my bottom was fondled, which had me arrogantly looking at someone without a face, who was probably already running away.

I could have gotten the phone blocked. But why bother? A thief needs to survive. We let our bankers steal our money and we'll happily pay for their mistakes. I guess it's only fair I support the thieves that actually take personal risks. Maybe I won't shout this last sentence out loud; won't want to seem like too easy a target.

I knew and know from experience that thievery is omnipresent among the Spanish; some people brush their teeth, others steal, that's how the world works. But since I know, I will admit that these are transactions that take place with mutual consent so I can happily give them forgiveness. Spanishness is a birth defect, nothing less (to my Spanish friends reading this; know that I am just an outside observer and that you are an exception to any rule mentioned here).

The day after, we thought we had found the culprit. A midget, a gay one, wanted to seduce me. I was struck by his candour, his spirit, to go for the Tallest guy in the whole of Barcelona. 


I wanted to explain to him that that's not the way you balance the universe. If that were the case, giraffes would be wooing ants and short stories would marry the Bible. 
Of course I did not have the Spanish vocab for all of this. Sure, I can talk sexy-talk in Spanish, but I can do that in any language known to mankind, as long as words aren't a necessity. Everyone is blessed with a number of talents, I guess. *Coughs*. 
I remembered the couple of pimps and fat prostitutes that tried to "tempt" me into patronage the night before. With the incredibly seductive "OYE!" (pronounced "OY!AY!") a number of fat prostitutes tried to get my attention. I tried to play deaf, but that was a risky strategy, because for all I knew were Barcelona whores sign language teachers in their spare time. And in a fight with them, they'd have won, I have no shame to admit that. 
But no, I had survived the fat prostitutes and their pimps following me for ten minutes. The midget wanted my attention. 
Being small of stature, the boy (I want to say "man", really, but can't) probably thought that my first minutes of ignoring his gazes and winks were due to his invisibility. So he upped the ante and took out his best material. 

What followed was a a visual display of obscenities and vulgarisms that I will not burden my innocent readers with. He turned bitter because there was no reciprocity. In his view, I guess both of us were freaks in this country of In-Betweeners.
It may be the last time that a midget goes after my affections, but I guess we all must make choices in life...
Mine was to not get raped by a midget, plain and simple. 

But was he my thief? He could have easily used his voluminous teeth to grab hold of my mobile in my back pocket, but using trusty old Pythagoras, I calculated that even on high heels, he would not have been tall enough to reach my back pocket. 
And no, my bottom isn't that high, the midget was just that small...

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From a historical perspective, Berlin is not a good place to start conquering the world from.
Okay, initially, it may all look like it's going to work out for a couple of years and that indeed the whole world will one day be at your feet, awaiting your perverted instructions to let them lick the mushrooms that are by then growing in the spaces between your toes (I'm conquering the world, damn it! No time for foot hygiene!). Ah yes, if only I were a foot fetishist, then at least this would all make sense. Now, both the licking and the mushrooms scare me.
History aside, I don't remember anyone ever saying anything about learning from the past. If we did, we'd still be chasing mammoths with pointy sticks and gang raping Neanderthals on Tuesdays (couldn't write "killing Neanderthals", because I remember some research that said that a certain percentage of our DNA has Neanderthal origins, so that means that, before we killed them, we had "our wicked way" with them, poor things...).

*Little Timmy has a career orientation discussion*

'So Timmy, what do you want to do when you grow up?'
*shy* 'I don't know...'
'Well I see here your grades are good overall, so there is nothing you couldn't do.'
'Sure! What was the first thing you ever wanted to be?'
'A mommy.'
'Well, that's going to be difficult, isn't it? Do you know why?'
'Because I don't have a bagina?'
'There is that yes... But you can be a daddy!'
'No, I realised I hate children.'
'Well, being a parent is not a real job anyway, I mean, you don't get paid for it or anything. What else did you want to become?'
'A dustman!'
'Why a dustman?'
'Because I like getting dirty!'
'I'm sure you're more suitable for something else...'
'Well, there is one thing...'
'I'd like to become ruler of the world one day and enslave the human race.'
'That's quite a difficult thing to accomplish, Timmy.'
'Well, one needs to have some ambition in life!'
'True, but maybe you should strive for something more attainable.'
'But that sounds boring!'

Upon which Timmy ended the conversation, planting his foot into the poor man's genitalia, leaving the room in a dramatic fashion, though not before grabbing the man's wallet and urinating on his desk.

'1 down, 7 billion to go!' thought Timmy and he strolled on, happy about his accomplishment...

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Last week I spent a few hours browsing through all the crap photos and videos I took when I first had the ability to take crap photos and videos. I found that the videos had one constant: I liked to record myself singing & I had no idea what to do with a video functionality. 

Because, in that day and age - you kids may be surprised - people didn't really record any videos with anything. Sure, there were fancy & expensive VHS camera recorders, but the leap to Digital had not really been established, we just played Snake on our Nokia 3310s. Recording videos was just completely useless, nobody did it, because there was never a reason to...
There was no YouTube where you could display yourself to the world and Facebook was just the wet dream of a couple of rowing twins who fantasised about getting screwed over by a geek with an erection. 

All of these videos were taken with a Konica-Minolta A800, an 8 Megapixel powerhouse that I bought in Australia for 800 Ozzie Dollars to replace my 2.1 Megapixel Hewlett-Packard camera that I had been carrying around since 2001 (it reached all the way up to ISO 200 in light sensitivity and you could print up to A5 with it, and this is really all you need!), but since I had dropped it one too many times, I could only operate it while firmly pressing the battery lid.

I showed the below video to Erik first, because I wanted to see how it made him feel, and his response went far beyond what I could have expected, and it just made me want to be with him so badly (no, he didn't want to sign me up as a singer! He doesn't even like my singing!). I just wasn't sure if my intentions were clear. I wanted to include the cat jump, a link to him - a view of the future, because that's the only thing not from that period, the 'Before-Time' - it's like a vision of things to come. 

It showed him the Timmy he met for the first time. All Kurt-Cobain-y and sideburned and messy. All of this, except the cat, was recorded before I met him. 

I will admit there is some embarrasment in showing this, but on the other hand, there is also some personal history involved.
Take for instance the very grainy video with me dancing open-blue-shirted in a dreary room: that was taken just hours before the Thai police decided to arrest & molest & harass me.
There were geckos all over that room, my neighbours even smiled at seeing a gecko with a very long neck, which turned out to be a snake, which didn't give them a very comfortable night. That was also the same day I almost drove over a king cobra that attacked me while driving past it (because I was on a scooter and I panicked and accelerated instead of braked, okay!? The thing covered the 3 metre road when I saw it, anyone would accelerate! :-) ). 

In case anyone would be wondering.... Have I stopped recording myself singing & dancing? The short answer is, no, I haven't. Maybe I'll show these in 5-7 years... Now all I need is some policemen to arrest me, a snake to attack me (I saw a centipede today! Almost there, just cut of a few more legs!), and a song to seduce me....

It doesn't even feel like it was me, but it frees up a lot of hard drive space reducing the past to this, which is ultimately what Memory itself does... 

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I looked at that face above the portal of the house around my corner and stood still for an eternity of 30 seconds. Like an imprint of a dead man that erratically found its way to the corner of a building. 
Why put useless angels there who, with all their perfection and double sexedness, only frustrate us in our own one-sex bodies? 

I wonder whose face it is. The upper parts of the building use both Corinthian and Ionic columns, which of course doesn't matter, because even the designer of the building was aware that nobody would ever consider the Greeks actually came to Berlin and build this.

What a painful face. Sculpting a face with the mouth open seems a lot harder than with it closed, yet its maker made no point of it (why would it be harder? You know, chiseling deep into a hole, making sure the lips don't get damaged - deep-throating, basically, but in sculpture). 

Hi, I was just passing by and...
...and what?
I noticed your beautifully sculpted visage on your portal. Who are you?
Why you don't know who I am? I would slap you if you weren't the first person in 79 years to ask me who I am!
Too bad they didn't give you slapping arms then... So, come one, tell me, what's your name?
Why it's Ephemeral Lord & Baron of the Holy Kattegat! How dare you not know that?
Because I was born in a dog shed and in that dog shed, your name, this street, just means "cat's arse".
Well it was named after me! My family paid millions to get our own street name... to think people now think of anuses when they hear my name.
Oh, I can reassure you, it's only I who mostly thinks of anuses.
Well, you're nice, thanks for talking to me.
I'm happy to, I loved the beautiful expression on your face. Why the almost despairing sigh you are letting out? 
What do you mean?
It's like they took your death mask and made it into a building!
Well, I was alive, I can assure you.... You see, I had amassed this vast amount of wealth over my lifetime and I was envied and adored by many. 
You see, the problem was the money didn't make me happy. The fortune I had amassed ensured that I never had to lift a finger in my entire life. 
It sounds horrifying. 
I can't tell if you're cynical or not, because when I was alive and wanted to talk about this, all I got was a prescription of opium sticks. 
No, I understand... you wanted to fill your life with something meaningful.
That's right.
Did you succeed?
Let me put it this way... I ordered the building to be built and before it was finished, I had this sculptor sculpt the facial expression I wanted on the portal...
And then you put it up there?
And the day the building was finished, apart from the face, I climbed up on top and jumped off, leaving a note behind to put my facial sculpture above the portal.
Wow! Really?
Maybe, I don't know, you're just a drunk talking to a piece of stone, fuck off, will you?

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Choosing to live in a place that is virtually empty is both nice and excruciating.
Nice because I could make a nice wardrobe for myself to hang my too many clothes in. Nice because you can keep an empty space empty.

Excruciating, because I have to care about what I want my kitchen to look like.

My initial response "Like a Kitchen?" failed to convince the jury, so they sent me to Hell. Well, "Hell" is just another four letter word to describe that other four letter word IKEA. If by some miraculous mistake, all intelligent people in the world were wrong and there would be a God, then my personal Hell would be eternity in IKEA.
I dreaded going, postponed it with a phoney excuse of being impotent and/or incontinent, but in the end, I decided I may want something else than doing dishes in my bath tub and eat toasted bread all the time (I don't really, but the World wants me to want that, I swear!).

I remembered my last visit at IKEA in Belgium and it was exactly the same the first time I went here in Berlin, now about four weeks ago. As soon as I entered, I immediately forgot what I had come in for. I started getting irritated by the whole concept of interior design (I am quite sure this is why I wanted to make my own wardrobe for instance - I had no intent of giving some dead Swedish billionaire my money for a wardrobe that wasn't what I had in mind - but at least, for my wardrobe, I had something in mind). To me, a kitchen is a kitchen is a kitchen... is a kitchen. If it has a sink and a stove and maybe a fridge (oh the luxury!), I'm a happy camper. I don't care what it looks like, I don't care about having my tap signed by the Chinese child labourer who is forced to act as the representative of some Italian designer, so I won't spend more than the minimum amount on those things.

So again, the first time I came home with nothing, apart from a 99 cent toilet brush and some hate for mankind (that would change into love again soon, but still). But I had to return, I had to go back, I knew that if I wanted to spend as little time as possible caring about this, I'd have to go back.

And there I am having to choose. I stand there looking at taps. I feel like I have to fart a bit. I scratch my bum until the gas gently releases itself into the store ventilation system. I try to find a reason to care. In the end, I go for functional and cheapest. But it turns out that that one just "happens to be out of stock", but we have this one that's only 30 euros more expensive than the other one. Is 30 euros extra worth not having to come back here? YES IT IS, I scream and immediately show a nipple to underline this. Am I cheap? When it comes to this, I am, yes.
But the point is, I really don't care. I am a practical person, if something I don't care about is "acceptable", I will go for it - I won't make love to it, but I hardly feel that's necessary for a piece of furniture. Suddenly, I found myself having to care about all of these things and I just wanted to weep. Maybe "wanting to weep" is a bit soft, I found myself "wanting to burn down that IKEA after having locked everyone inside", yeah, that's more like it. But of course I didn't do that, mostly because I didn't carry any matches.
I try to imagine the world of design, people wanting to die for some oddly shaped chair that isn't even comfortable. That's probably even worse than IKEA, because the shit isn't only on display, as it is in IKEA, it's also coming out of people's mouths. And I couldn't possibly be held responsible for the smashing of those mouths if I would be in their presence.

Only today, three weeks after I bought the damn sink, I got my tap installed and connected and working. Of course, I had chosen a sink without a hole for a tap, but they don't tell that at IKEA, they make you come home home, realise that there is no hole and then having to find out that they actually sell a tool for making said hole. Immediately, I felt the urge to go and damage a hundred of their horrible mass-produced photos of city landscapes, each one more stereotypically bland than the next. This is not a crime, it's constructive vandalism at best, at least the mass produced photos have something unique about them now. Besides, they want to force people to buy their extra tool anyway, anyone who had to come back for this (even though he bought the more expensive tap specifically NOT to come back!) would think about making them pay.

Making the hole in the sink involved some unpleasant drilling (I guess this is a pleonasm (though I assume Erik might disagree with that *VERY dirty laugh*)). I hate the sound of a drill. I tried it for a few seconds on the sink last week and it just annoyed me so much, that now I got myself some earplugs before I decided to try it again. Once I was "in there" however, I enjoyed watching the aluminium/inox top flame up and melting from friction, misshaping the drill piece as well, but in a beautiful coming together of melting metal and violent fire. I do like welding more than drilling, but, without the sound, it would have been the same. The power of welding is more subtle and mystical.

Because of having to make decisions about things I don't care about, I also postponed decisions I do care about, like where I'd put my darkroom. First it was my laundry room, then it was part of my studio (but that would be a shame), now it's part of the staircase and that's where it's going to stay.

Still, gradually things are looking like a Timmy-Boy lives here. Chaotic, functional, private, but pleasant.

One thing I love about Germany is their gigantic DIY stores (gigantic compared to Belgian standards). I guess I like raw matter more....

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I gave in to their incredible Spam effort, but the joke's on them! Timmy Shall Not Take It Seriously!

See my linkedIn webpage and love my work experience, go to: http://www.linkedin.com/profile/view?id=158868333

I really really wish LinkedIn would stop spamming me.

First, I tried ignoring all their invitations from 'friends' (half of whom I didn't even know), then I tried putting it in my spam folder, but no, that wasn't possible, because somehow it always got filtered through.
If you can't beat them, join them? That's what I thought. I thought if I would join them, I would find a way to opt out of receiving all their e-mails. And I thought I did, but still STILL they kept sending me updates I never asked for/didn't care about.
I wonder what people in the Arts are doing on this site anyway, sure a potential employer might Google you and see your profile, but it'll basically be the same version of your CV, only with more exhibitionism.
Of course it works for some people, I can think of a certain (lovely) person in my family whose career was given a boost because of this wretched and godforsaken site. But exceptions confirm rules, my dear Watson....
"Headhunters use it", they say, but I think headhunters who do that show themselves very lazy to earn their commission.
When I was young, a headhunter was someone in the jungle who would have you for dinner.
Just sayin' !

I don't think I gave in to the site. If anyone is willing to employ me after seeing my profile, then.... well, actually, they should get in touch, we'd probably get along. Just FYI, I know it's not a dating site and all, but I'm taken, just so you sex starved menopausal women out there don't get any ideas...

So tonight was the last straw, again some nonsensical e-mail about some connection I had missed.

I wonder though. What's with the connections? Why should I be connected to a slave trader in China when I'm a pig farmer in Ethiopia? (business is slow as a pig farmer in Ethiopia, just FYI) I grant, the example is a bit extreme, but you get the gist of it. It's not because I slept with a person twenty-five years ago that letting the world know about it would help us further our careers in any way, right?

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If I were a Greek man, I would probably be unemployed and angry at the debts some old people are making me pay back for the rest of my life too. I'd be on the streets, shouting slogans to unite the people to reject the EU/IMF plan that will sell out my whole nation and burden regular people with decades of debt. Maybe I wouldn't set fire to buildings, or show my manboobs to policemen (because that's what I would have as a Greek), but I'd be pissed off too, I'm sure.

I'd also have a very hairy chest if I were a Greek man. Probably even worse, I wouldn't have money to buy a can of shaving cream every day to get rid of all that hair (and, seriously, I'm not butch enough to wax that all off). 

A Greek opposition leader called to unilaterally reject the EU, go out of the EU, take over all the country's wealth and spread it evenly and fairly. As the first riots popped up in earlier years, I probably would have agreed to have her or him (I wasn't sure if the name was a boy name or a girl name, hence the sexlessness - I only studied Ancient Greek and her/his name wasn't popular two thousand years ago) institutionalized, because that was the general sentiment our media put up of the Greek protesters.  

I just looked at my bare chest and tried to imagine it full of that thick black Greek hair, and also with that olive skin. Still, I guess being a 'bear' in a country that invented man-boy love shouldn't be all that bad. I could be poor and starving as a Greek man, at least my local Erik (who would be called Erikostomopoulos undoubtedly) would be equally hairy, so it would never really be an issue, or maybe he would be too young to have hair on his chest... no, wait, that's probably an illegal thought, because I can imagine babies being born with mustaches there... I'll go for a hairy Erikostomopoulos then.

So the neoliberal machine now seems bent on privatizing all of Greece (Naomi Klein's "The Shock Doctrine" at work - after a crisis, the neoliberals come in action to take over a nation), ready to milk its people dry.

And as a proud and hairy Greek, I'd watch over my nation and sing the Greek national anthem that goes something like this: "alpha, beta, gamma, delta, epsilon, zeta, èta, tèta, iota, kappa, lambda, mu, nu, ksi, omicron, pi, ro, sigma, tau, ypsilon, phi, chi, psi, omega!" (that's their anthem, right, their alphabet? Yay, I still know it :-)). 

I'm glad they can vote in April, I'll be rooting for an "Icelandic" result, regardless of the consequences (it'll come our way anyway).

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Somewhere out in the barren urban desert, some music is played. It is a tune you recognise, we danced on it together on an endless night of touch.

Behind a barrier of concrete, that dance still exists.

Time and space can be easily bent so that all power lies in your hands; it only takes some practice (and a bottle of gin helps too). 

Beyond the music, there is silence, beyond the silence, there is light, as far as the eye can see. You can bathe in this endless stream of open light. It can take on any form or shape, I kid you not. 

The ants aren't moving, nor are the hedgehogs or the flying fish.
Somewhere the ant queen is carefully plotting her next move,
The hedgehog's spines are all we see when we look for them, high up in the trees,
And the flying fish... well, they just suffer brain damage from bumping their heads on the ice on top of the rivers and oceans they inhabit.

We carry their weight along while we push ourselves closer to each other. 

Look, it's snowing again. Good... it'll break the fall of all these collapsing houses.

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It feels odd to write this down, but who else would write an In Memoriam for him?

The backstory: Erik had his big move yesterday from Gent to Brussels, moving from our cosy apartment to his very own place in Brussels. I’d given him everything he needed to have the landlord sign for the water and electricity paperwork so we could settle everything well.

It’s not an In Memoriam for the apartment, if that’s what you’re thinking.

Erik asked our landlord if he’d be home yesterday evening to sign everything and hand over the keys. So after having closed our apartment door for the very last time, he went down to knock on our landlord’s door to sign the final papers.

He gave no reply, which was annoying. So Erik tried calling him, heard the mobile phone ringing in his apartment, remaining unanswered.

Our friendly downstairs neighbours agreed to let our landlord sign them for us and that would be that...

This morning, Erik texted me that the man had apparently hung himself yesterday, quite probably during the whole move.

It was quite clear that he hadn’t been happy, maybe ever, having always been on weed or other drugs.

It’s sad. The few people I know who actually have enough money have always been the most unhappy. Our landlord raked in about 4000€ a month from rent from his tenants plus everything he made from having the peepshow and the sex cinema where Gent’s horny older men went to get their daily wanks.

I cannot say that I was extremely surprised (I actually remember telling Erik that I might see our landlord committing suicide one day). It comes with the lifestyle of having a porno empire where you employ a squad of raunchy looking Eastern European women with cross-eyed breasts with the only intent of emptying the pockets of a bunch of sad old (and probably married) men. At least he had a succesful business plan. He provided a service to those people who maybe didn't want to cheat on their wives, so they'd just go for an easy wank. 

Sometimes in his life, he also wanted to make a change. When E. came back from visiting me last year in Berlin, he was full of energy, liking the manner in which nudity of older people became a subject of the people at the gallery I was interning for. He liked all the political ideas and the hope and effort. Should we have gone round to talk to him about it more and convince him to be a more active part in it? Well, he couldn't really be trusted, the things we asked him for the small part of the project he did not do... But still, we wonder about his timing, he knew Erik was going to knock on his door later that day to hand over the keys....
Maybe he was in love with Erik, a feeling I could understand, I would also kill for Erik, though not myself :-)  -this is how AWKWARD it gets thinking about this. Why the timing, when Erik had only agreed to see him a few hours earlier? You don't hang yourself because of a futility, right? 
Earlier, he fixed the roof-gutter in our last week there, had only just had the façade painted a few weeks before.
It's weird, it's weird, it's weird.......Another one succumbed to the age-old Belgian disease of not wanting to talk to anyone about your problems.

Still, to make this piece of writing more into a proper In Memoriam, I must say he was actually a really really kind man who always wanted to be helpful, in his own way. He was genuinly nice.
I always feel it is important to appreciate the person you are renting from (i.e. giving hard-earned cash to someone else because some paper says it is his property), and both of us did, at some level.

Of course he was quirky, sure, he may have lived in a Mongolian tent he had built on his terrace, but at least there he could say:

“Come in, come in! There are no worries here.”
“Err... OK, but our boiler is broken, could you get your plumber to come by and...”
“Shhhh.... sit down.... no worries... everything will be alright. Here, there is nothing to worry about..

Wouldn’t we all want a tent like that?


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Even though I am all but moved in, I already had to deal with the presence of a new pet. Giancarla (pronounciation: "jean", weird, I know, but she insists) is a mosquito who clearly survived through a whole lot to end up resting on my walls, it being wintertime and all.
I tried explaining it to the animal, but she looked at me as if I was a moron and even though I probably am, I could not expect any sympathy from her. I forgave her because of everything she's been through.
I told her too that if she wanted to feed her young from my whirling streams of blood, she would be disappointed, as no mosquito has ever successfully managed to sting me. She could of course always try and be the first.
Still attentive to what I had to say, I started explaining to her how I would go to the city council to do my registration here tomorrow, which, Giancarla added, will officially make me "one of them immigrants that come stealing all the jobs from under our noses!" Since she'd probably be dead in a couple of days (from starvation if she continues to live with me, or from old age if she flies off to the Promised Land), I felt it unnecessary to explain to her how I wouldn't actually be stealing any jobs, since prostitution is not really a job anyway (yes, I know I am not a real prostitute, thanks for pointing that out, Sherlock, but I'd have to dumb it down a bit if I were to explain everything I want to do to a mosquito, see... yes, even in hypothetical musings on what I actually didn't tell her).
I could tell Giancarla was beginning to lose interest, not that I could blame her, I can only imagine how hard it must be to break into people's homes to feed your offspring. The worst thing I ever broke into was Erik's pants, but even then I had signed a ten page contract to guarantee that his possessions would remain free of damage. So anyway, Giancarla seemed to be lost in existential thought, so when i turned my head and looked back again, she was gone.
I assured myself I hadn't imagined her and continued with what I was doing...

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'So, what happened this week then?'
'Well, there was this thing in the sky, right...'
'The sun?'
'No, not the sun! It's this thing called a planemo and there are millions of them scattered about the universe.'
'And what are they, then?'
'They're planets whose mother stars didn't want them, the man on National Geographic said in a sad and gloomy voice and they're everywhere, only we can't see them, but we can feel them, in our hearts maybe.'
'Well, they're all alone without the warmth of their parent star, orphans of the sky, lone travellers among the mystic voids of space, eternal wanderers of the universe, rejected by all and everything.'
'That's a bit overemotional, isn't it?'
'Well, no, because there could be life on them, kittens who also get abandoned by their parents because the parents thought "well, since our sun didn't want to keep us warm, why should I give my kitten warmth? Why don't I just abandon it?" And then the kitten would die!'
'But it would be too cold for life on them, so the kitten would be dead anyway, wouldn't it?'
'No, the man said that there was life possible, because of global warming before the planet got thrown out of its solar system, so there could be microbes and other life, maybe tortoises or Mongolians or something.'
'Thrown out of its solar system?'
'Yeah, and then we're having global warming too, so maybe the sun will reject us too and throw us out because we didn't care for the polar bears, even though they would attack us if we tried to take a photo of them having a baby, unless we do it in a Dutch zoo but don't tell anyone about it.'
'I don't think you need to worry about that happening.'
'But maybe we could adopt one of these lonely planets. There's room enough in our solar system, isn't there?'
'I'm afraid it doesn't really work that way, Timmy.'
'Oh, I know there will be lots of paperwork for the adoption, but I can fill that in. If every solar system would adopt another planet or two, maybe there wouldn't be any abandoned planets any more and all the planemos wouldn't feel so lonely any more, and then the kittens living there will see their mummies again, so they can drink milk and have a chance to grow up.'
'I want a pretty planemo, though, not an ugly one with lots of oil and refuse. Or maybe we can take a pretty one, but also an ugly one, so they won't be jealous. But no red ones!'
'Why not red ones?'
'Because that would upset Mars, because then Mars will be thinking it will be replaced and think that people will say, "Oh! Did you see that new red planet, it's so young and pretty, let's go there instead of boring old Mars!" and then Mars would be lonely too, even with the sun shining on it.'
'Anything else you don't want them to have?'
'They cannot be named after chocolate bars or Disney characters, because the other planets won't like that.'
'Planets aren't named after Disney characters, they're...'
'YES, they ARE named after Disney characters! And besides, they should be named after... bananas... or chips, but not asparagus, because I don't like asparagus!'

*runs off to play*

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A gust of wind takes me by surprise and I fall down the building, thinking I will fall to the certainty of asphalt on to the certitude of splashes and pancakes. Before this inevitable event happens, however, the gust of wind's brother comes from below and throws me sideways towards the river. He did not come to take me for a nice walk across the water - a power he reserves for deities & their whores - he is throwing me strongly against the floating rubbish a city would not care to even dispose of in a bin.

Face first, the water is slammed and immediately my body is sucked into a whirlpool that takes me deep into the water. Having taken some air from the gust of wind's brother, the current breaks the whirlpool's back and hurls me further away, under water, across the blackness of muddy double hydrogens and oxygen. Limbs are probably broken, they get twisted in curves and badly spelt cheerleader lettering, but none of it by my free will.

The path goes on and on, downstream until my motionless body reaches the ocean. It seems that I have not moved and that the world has just been reconfiguring itself around in order to confuse. The tide sweeps in and takes me away, as tides do. It lets me float on and on without time passing. Soon, I get pulled back down, I can tell. Two oceans are colliding, it is almost endearing to see how they are fighting over me. I don't care one way or the other, which is just as well, because my opinion has no voting rights in this.

As I get sucked down, deeper down, the water temperature is rising. We reach a crack in the earth's crust on top of a chamber of magma that is getting fed up with these seas fighting over me. Taking matters into its own hands, the magma chamber squirts out its ejaculate, taking me up like a rocket, out of the sea, away from the duo that is fighting over me and up into the air. High up into the air, until the air gets cooler and the wind stops trying to catch me back.

Still rising, I huddle along the magma rock next to me for warmth. There is no need to hide myself behind my rock against the earth's atmosphere. It opens up its door and lets me into space, where no force is working in on me apart from some fading gravitational pull who always gets upset if someone tries to leave him. 

I don't get long to enjoy my brief taste of real freedom. A meteor on its way to earth crashes into me, forcing me back from whence I came. Reluctantly, I realise I have no choice but to accept. The atmosphere is cruel on my return and tries to burn me to ashes. The meteor does provide shelter now, so I can pass through relatively unscathed.

We reach terminal velocity and are waiting for our impact on earth. I am catapulted down and notice the wind has left me, and I see no whirlpools or oceans trying to claim me back. 
I fall through a roof, crashing it open, but landing safely in a bed.

My bed.

I wake up with a shiver. Some drool lies in a puddle next to my mouth. 
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Changes are afoot. It might explain my silence of the past few weeks, but I have been fighting to categorise all of it (with my bare fists and feet I fought!). 
We can sense we are waiting for something. The lease of our apartment ends soon and we will find ourselves in Berlin, or in Brussels and Berlin, but away from here anyway. 
Change needs to happen. I have locked myself away from my work and myself lately. I have mostly been focussing on the huge amount of translation work I seem to have been doing. In a way I like it, because it always feels like it's stalling. It still doesn't feel like a real job even though I have spent 16 hours working non-stop one day last week. It's not a permanent situation, I know there are ups and downs in freelancing (it is like having an erection, it only happens between 1 and 16 hours a day, in my case that is (I know, I should see a doctor about this, but I'm thinking I'll be happy about this when I'm 60)). 
I cleaned up my attic yesterday, browsing to a huge amount of 'volume' I just seemed to carry around everywhere. I wondered why I kept my math notes from the last year in secondary school, or some comic book I got when I was ten for being the 5000th visitor (or something) to the local bird observatory. My criteria for keeping items were as straightforward as they were simple: have I ever needed it and will I ever need it? If not, the object met its maker in the Great Black Bag Of Death. Not much remains, I can tell you that. I see the Object and the Memory as two completely different things that don't require each other to survive. It's kind of a cleansing of all things unnecessary (I've never been such a fan of the past anyway).

I look forward to the move.

It will be weird if Erik would stay in Brussels for the job he was offered, but we realised that a long distance thing can work between us, even though it will be something to adapt to. We still assume we're moving together, but we'll see what happens. 

The future needs to happen. And I want it now.
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My left eye hid itself for a long time behind a plaster because some doctor had called my right eye lazy (unfair punishment on my left eye, it's true). If I would have been a toddler now, it would have probably just been categorised ad ADD, I'd have been put ritalin, and my good eye would have slowed down a bit to make way for an all-invigorating blank stare.
I remember bumping into many things because of the huge plaster on my eye. Sure, onlookers could have mistaken me for some kind of supernatural cyclops heroically head-butting a lamp post, destroying it (mostly in my imagination), and carrying on my day as if nothing had happened (except for the fact that Timmy would be crying and having a major bump on his forehead - scars of war, I tells ya).
I did not meet Depth Perception until it was finally decided that my eye was still lazy, but not so lazy that it wouldn't follow the other eye around. At least with me, you don't have to make the agonising choice of choosing the right eye to look at when talking to me (and the right eye would be the left eye, just to be clear!). Since then, I have been virtually living as a closeted cyclops with an eye too much. A hundred years ago, a bright future as circus freak would lie ahead of me. Now, sadly, nobody is willing to pay good money to see someone like me, certainly not given the fact that anyone can just go online and watch an overweight midget be fisted by a Taiwanese hermaphrodite in a wheelchair. Us regular freaks have been completely priced out of the market.
It's not that I haven't tried leading a two-eyed life, I sure have, but give me a BB gun and tell me to shoot the Cola can right next to the baby kitten, and I guarantee you the baby kitten will be shot to pieces (why anyone would place these two next to each other is completely beyond me, still it worked to prove my point). As with any of my other birth defects (obesity, incontinence, etc.), I have found an ingenious way of hiding it. I can fake depth perception perfectly, just don't ask me to shoot the kitten lying next to the endangered baby panda bear.
I have often wondered if my interest in both fine arts & literature along with my interest in linguistics, technology & science has its foundation in my eye malfunction. Suppose I am actually born with a mathematical, logical brain (hahahaha!) but because my left eye is so dominant (really, I see no difference when I cover my right eye or not) I only get most of my visual information through my right, creative, hemisphere. So everything I see gets filtered through the right part of my brain before reaching the left hemisphere for a stone-dry analysis.

Whenever I will be put to trial for shooting someone, I already have my perfect response...
'But judge, I have here with me a baby kitten that I will place next to this adorable human baby belonging to the victim's widow. Now I will try to shoot the baby with this police officer's gun... may I?"
"OBJECTION! You can't give that freak a gun!!!!"
"Denied, I want to see this. Give him your gun, warden."
"Thanks. So here, I'll try to shoot the baby from 10 feet away....."
*takes aim*
*kills victim's widow*
"See? I can't aim! I'm a cyclops, damn it!"
"Hmmm... in light of this new information, and also because I'm feeling a bit peckish, I have no choice but to let you free."
If you think this is injust, then feel free to imagine an angry crowd coming up to lynch me and cut me into tiny little pieces, as soon as I was set free.

So you see, it really takes a one-eyed man to truly see. All you two-eyed wankers are nothing but blind, blind, blind....
And you all know....
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king...

*kneels to receive his divine power to rule over all*

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I would make a good astronomer, mostly because I am awake at night while other people are sound asleep, dreaming about participating in the Tour de France and coming 16,807th (an honourable ranking considering that this dreaming person's mother, who also participated, gave up after one day). 

This being said, I would also make a good astrologist, because A) like I said, I am awake at night so I can stay up to answer astrology hotline phone calls from desperate people seeking help from the stars, and B) I can talk a lot of crap. 

The asteroid 2005 YU55 (what's in a name, right?) would pass us by tonight, and astronomers told us it really really wouldn't hit us. If I were an astronomer (now we come to the part where I explain why I would be a good one), and I would discover an asteroid may be headed straight towards the genital area of a 28-year-old narcissist in Belgium to then kill off the entire continent and intoxicate the rest of the world, I wouldn't bother revealing the truth to the government that pays my salary. I would say "no, it definitely won't hit us" upon which I would rush off to my nearest ALDI, buy everything they have, then head home and start digging a shelter. Or maybe I'd hijack a plane and head for Hawaii. 
What also speaks for me, is that I don't turn into a conspiracy theorist, saying everything that astronomers said about the matter is a lie and that we in fact are all doomed subjects, awaiting judgment from our Master Lord Xenu and his warrior princess with a heart of stone, but a bosom like thirteen cardboard boxes filled with cabbages (you can tell I am not used to making similes for bosoms, but I can compensate this in other ways, I promise). 

Of course, tonight I did protect my genital area (just in case the prophecy above would have come from a reliable source), I may not look wise, but I do know a comet blast on my testes won't make me look much better either. 

Let that be my wisdom of the day. 
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Whenever I am making an important decision in my life or doing something that might have an influence on the rest of my life, I wonder: "Is it worth it?"

Our time here on earth is limited, I know that (and lament it), so everything a person does should inevitably helps said person to accomplish their true life's goal, no matter what that is. Fuck comfortable, fuck convenient, just do something you WANT to do. Period. Be the person you want to be and be that person before you're 60 or else.... 

Sometimes the concept of existence can be a scary one. It has nothing to do with wanting to be remembered or something (because I do honestly believe that, in light of the universe, nothing anyone ever does, will really make a difference), it is just about trying to find a way to survive, for yourself and for others. 

Many people I know try to make aesthetic work and I love them for it. It doesn't matter what medium they work with: painting, clothing, music, shoes (you just watch Erik!), photography, fine art, etc... It is all about celebrating a certain aesthetic.
I can embrace that, of course, I will readily admit that my work too has an aesthetic appeal to it. The whole process of determining value for something like that is entirely foreign to me, however. I don't believe there should be something like copyright or value when it comes to artistic work (but then only when there's a complete overhaul of the system). 

With my ongoing exhibition, I am wondering about the whole thing too and the most annoying part is that not that many people come inside a gallery to look at an artist's work. How can you try to make a difference if nobody really cares about anything?  Of course it is fun to talk to the few people that do come in and are interested, but still it feels so strange, because we are essentially preaching to the converted...

So is that what artists should do? Love oneself so much and just ignore the 99.999999 percent of people who just don't give a flying fuck? 

Maybe the world's creative people should unite and just find a way to make a real impact to improve people's lives - and the only way it will happen will be through politics, sadly enough. Even though I'm an atheist nihilist, I still want to be a good person and help people. I am sure many artists feel the same way. I guess my biggest issue with art has to do with the commercial side of it and the fact that an artist will only care if it gets sold or not. If that is the case, I will gladly use a 500 euro banknote, sign it, and sell it for 13403 euro (plus VAT of course). It may just as well be an easier process. 
So performance art? The way to go? Not really.... 
I am thinking a political movement can be a work of art. If we come up with a movement that wants to truly change the whole system creatively, then I think we have a shot. If the people of Iceland got convinced to elect a comedian as their new president, then I think anyone can elect a flatulent translator as their new messiah...

I truly hope that in my lifetime, we will be seeing the rise of a new system. And if not, I will do my best to make it happen...
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As I, Timmy The Hero, saw an advertisement for a satellite navigation system, a large smile travelled along my face. Upon seeing the brand, I realised that I, the abovementioned hero, had translated the software that steered this device. The fruit of my loins will now guide millions of clueless and hopeless people to reach their destination, maybe they will even arrive at a state of permanent bliss. Who knows?

As an artist, it is important that people pay attention to my work, regardless of the medium.
When I tell them to "turn left at the next junction", it really is satisfying to have them follow my every word. My translations are art too, of course, words that came from nowhere suddenly telling unsuspecting followers where to go, like slaves listening to their masters (yes, I get a kick out of that).
But to distinguish between my lucrative artwork (translations) and my non-lucrative artwork (tasteful erections and such) is really something I cannot do. I know deep down that many people who already own a SatNav system with my precious words embedded in it might think twice about buying one of my other artworks that essentially convey the same message: "You have reached your destination".

As an artist, it is important that many people see my work. In translation, it means reaching out to a sick person for example. A patient with some incurable condition for which a new drug has been developed. They will read my words and eventually rely on them, putting their entire lives in my hands when they put their signature on the document I morphed into the language they could understand. Without my words, it would be completely impossible for them to have a 50% chance of receiving the placebo instead of the real medication, to then die and become a significant statistic or not die and develop another totally new condition, for which we also have a new study in which they can enroll, again with a 50% chance of winning the lottery. Real life should be more like a game, praise Buddha the pharmaceutical companies understand this!

Hidden subliminal messages lie hidden deep within the caves of my translated words. Only the subconscious mind will truly see the actual meaning of my translated sentences. Their significance will seep through into your daily lives. According to the Artist: "it is like Banksy, only I am truly penetrating people's lives - trust me, no orifice is too small."

As you see, I do not do my translation art for the currency it renders (pennies, really!), but for the satisfaction of having a population of followers that do not even know they are my followers. And please don't think I'm not everywhere - my work can be found on tampon boxes, car advertisements, battery bunnies, tractor manuals, fast food industry magazines, erectile disfunction pills, computers and printers, hardcore adult websites, baby songs, cat food, etcetera, etcetera. I have tens of prosthetic arms attached to me to help me take over the world of translation.

You cannot escape me, Timmy The Conqueror, for I am Everywhere.

Just accept that I am in control.

It is time to be assimilated.....

Now turn right, bitches!
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I wondered if it was a pubic hair of one of the legs of some spider I had killed that rested on my laptop screen. Blowing it off, I decided it didn't really matter, as it would never again fulfil its primordial function. Did you know liars are more likely to distance themselves from their subjects when they talk about it (calling it "a" pubic hair, "some" spider, instead of "my luscious" pubic hair or "Jimmy" the spider)? Liars also tend to elongate their sentences, e.g. using "did not" instead of "didn't.

Timmy got a hold of Jimmy

"You think you're pretty clever, don't you?" *shines desklamp into Timmy's face*
"Why, yes, as a matter of fact I do, thanks for noticing." *Timmy squints his eyes*
"Ha-ha, very funny.... you know you are not leaving this room until I have a confession that you killed Jimmy!" *so much spitting on Timmy's face while he speaks*
"But I tell you I do not know what happened to Jimmy!" *Timmy elegantly fishes with fingers in his own nose, hoping for a bite*
"Oh really? Then why do we have two witnesses confirming they saw you at the scene of the crime, shouting 'I will cut your fucking head off!'?" *through the man's teeth, a drop of saliva now unintentionally shoots forward, landing between Timmy's hands on the table*
"Because.... err.... wait... I got one... because it wasn't me who was there, but an imposter... oh, and just maybe.... I was talking to my pubic hair!" *Timmy leans back and just enjoys this melody (for a split second)*
*sigh* "We have DNA evidence connecting you to the crime scene, security camera footage of you getting out of your car together with your victim and a drunk e-mail dated August 13, 1989, where you threaten to kill Jimmy by cutting off his legs, and I quote, 'wiht a hair of cxissors' (SIC)." *almost orgasmic, more drool is spat towards Timmy The Hero*
"Oh, it's all a setup! There's DNA of me to be found everywhere - you can ask my psychiatrist. I'm very territorial, so I have this uncontrollable urge to err... onanically spread my genes all over the cities in which I live... Also, security camera footage? In that resolution, it could be just about any guy with a limp and no clothes on. And an e-mail from 1989? I may have been drunk, but time-travel drunk? I think not." *Timmy farts in support of this defence*
"So... then where were you last night between 9 and 10?" *switches off desk lamp to save on the police's energy bill ("60 Watt lightbulbs? Are you crazy?" they all said at the station, not clarifying whether his craziness would be related to his careless waste of nuclear electricity or to his torture method of shining light on his interrogees - let's assume it's a bit of both)*
"Why I was in that back alley, killing Jimmy..... oh shit!...."
"Oh shit, indeed...."
"Can I say it?"
"Say what?"
"Boys, take him away!"

As luck would have it, Timmy would only spend 18 hours in prison before being released on a technicality, i.e. a technical error at the prison's computer system that caused all cell doors and the front gate to open, allowing Timmy to make a hippity-hop walk outside of his confinement, taking with him hundreds of his new "top" friends...
And all lived happily ever after, except for most of them, who didn't.

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On the day lots and lots of people showed up to protest against a corrupt financial and corporate system, Timmy was working on a translation for a large corporation, an industrial meat and poultry company that supplies its products to other corporations (fast food chains, supermarkets, etc). In spirit, I was with them.
I share many of the frustrations of these protesters about reckless banks and governments bailouts that will give our generation a huge amount of debt to pay off. We are being told that we are the generation that will have it "less good" than our parents did and that this is a fact that we should just accept. The people who say this are mostly babyboomers, the ones who took most advantage of the system that was conceived by their parents' generation - they now want what they want to take away from us.
The babyboomers are retiring now en masse as early as they can, meanwhile telling us to pay for their pensions until they die, adding that we will probably have to retire much later than them, because, you know, that's the way it is. I refuse to accept this, that we just have to thank our elders for this debt and deal with it. In the mind of a revolutionary, debt is nothing but an abstract concept. It's only worth what we agree on what it's worth. We are in need of a new system, one that does away with corporate greed, speculation and the notion of "profit above all". 

The text I was translating was a magazine that is sent out to the Company's employees. Remember to always write the word "Company" with a capital, otherwise you might be disrespectful towards It and risk eternal damnation by the Leader. There are some interviews in the magazine. One is with a Chicken Business Planning Manager, a man who plans stuff for chickens. They have to say why they love their job (they all say it's incredibly varied, even though it most likely isn't), and how many years of their lives they have sacrificed for the Company and in how many ways they have praised it. To me, it reads more like a tragedy than anything else. All this corporate slavery and the idea that "the Company knows what's best for me" is truly saddening. It becomes horrifying when you read they "donate" some money to a local school so they can indoctrinate the pupils with company propaganda. I don't feel like a hypocrite, translating this stuff as a freelancer so that their Dutch employees/slaves can read about how great their job really is. 
The only job I see myself do instead of my self-employment is possibly art teaching, or maybe President of Europe, but I will reveal the plans for that when the time is ripe...

It's a JG Ballard novel, nothing more, nothing less. 

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I'm a brick in a house that's going to collapse. There is still some cement all around me, but I can feel it slowly fade away, crumbling into dead pieces of almost invisible dust. The gaps are getting wider. You would think I would be sad, that I'd be holding on to every molecule that could prevent the house from falling down, but I am not sad. 

Sometimes, a total collapse is necessary. Compare it to rebooting your computer or getting a new kitten after flushing your old cat down the toilet (after you cut it up into little pieces - you don't want to explain this situation to a plumber!). Personally, I feel it should have happened a long time ago, but it takes a while for entire house to just give in to gravity. 

There are some struts that were put there to postpone the inevitable. Everything started to bend down a bit as a result, but then things calmed down as all pieces were tightly locked together again.

The braindead patient is fed another portion of venous nutrients.

I imagine what the collapse will be like. All bricks around me will tumble and fall. They will all be free and able to build something up from the ground up. Only raw material will survive. The tabula rasa shape in which we will find ourselves will shed a light of catharsis on our surface. We will change shapes and colours, but it will all be done for the greater good. 

Next time someone sees us, we won't be recognised. The rejuvenated city will embrace us and race us into modernity. 

Let the race begin.  
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I hung up in a tree. I had fled there after an attack from a particularly ambitious pirahna. You wouldn't expect to ind these animals in suburban Belgium,, but these days, nothing is certain. Why only this week, some overambitious elements ran faster than Einstein did (I admit, I wasn't really listening to the report, but the very thought of something outrunning Einstein is just upsetting -it's like saying that something could be faster than light, and that would be just ridiculous). 

So up in my tree, I started pondering. If I would decide to start lving in this tree, could I claim it as my home, and maybe even get a tax deduction because of my sustainable and ecological home? I could eat leaves in spring and summer and birds and twigs and snow in autumn and spring. 

I didn't have long to think about all this, though. My pirahna had returned, and this time, he had a plan. I wondered what I had done to make the animal so angry. It clearly wanted to attack me, and only me, not noe of the "meatier" specimens of homo sapiens sapiens that don't live in trees. I did decide to take this as a compliment, convinced that the animal was going for a more refined, delicate, oaky flavour with rich tannins and lots of delicious blood (though, I wonder how this beast would know this... given the fact that 1) I don't give blood (see below) and B) mosquitoes refuse to bite me. They will spend their time hovering  annoyingly close to my ears (on their way to Erik, whose blood they adore (it is yummy, I must admit)), but apart from that, they leave me alone (and one was doing that just now - and it met its maker... or rather, my electric mosquito racket that made it fry instantaneously - oh, lovely cruelty!). Maybe the mosquitos set up an elaborate plan to make the pirahna get rid of me, so that their pathway to Erik would be free from my repulsive odour. Thinking that, I shouted down to the fish, who was now starting to saw its way through the tree (again, only possible because of cocky neutrinos): "hey, the mosquitoes were lying, my blood is undrinkable!" To prove it to the animal, I bit off my little finger and let the stream of blood rain down on him, throwing the severed finger behind it. 

Thinking back, it might not have been such a bright idea, but it felt like it was my only choice. Still, it turned out the pirahna had not been convinced by the mosquitoes and it also did not seem to share their opinion on the taste of Timmy. Sadly for me, this animal went berserk by the appetizer that was my finger, and his sawing became ever more frantic. Even though my will contains a clause that specifies that my body should be turned into pet food, I didn't mean this to happen before I actually die. "Details, details," the fish would say and continue sawing, ignoring my last will (is there a punishment for that?). 

So that's how it came to be that the tree fell down and I was swallowed in one piece by the pirahna (gluttonous much?!).

I decided to wait four days before cutting open the fish from the inside. Why four days? The Guinness Book of Records of course! If Jona could spend three days inside a fish, I could at least do four. 

Sadly, the Guinness Book have just called me, saying that my world record isn't valid, because no "authority" was present. I yelled at the woman, telling her I didn't have any reception on my mobile phone inside the fish when I was eaten, so I couldn't call anyone, etc... etc... She cut me off, saying: "oh just do it again!" and then hung up.
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Some radio presenter is getting all worked up about him not being able to give blood because he is gay, despite the fact that he has been in a monogamous relationship for a number of years and has been tested three times on HIV. 

The man even lied about his sexuality on the Red Cross questionnaire, just so he could give his gay blood to some unsuspecting patient. 
I remembered I actually did the same thing in order to give blood. In the first year of university, there was this blood donation thing where everyone who gave blood was given a goodie bag (I think male donors even got a Playboy magazine in the goodie bag - you can imagine how eager I was to donate). 

Actually, I don't think I really *lied* as such on the form. I just didn't label what I had had as "sex" - I was still in the process of defining it all. Anyway, semantics is always important - the question was "Did you have sexual relations with another man after 1978?" Any word of this sentence could be interpreted in many different ways. So don't call me a liar. For instance, was it really ME who did all of that? Or was I possessed by some crazed, yet sexy, demon? How would you define "another man"? Can a man really be called "other" if he is inside of you? All very profound and confusing stuff, I can assure you.

Ever since the day my gay blood was spread around (mostly in some needy and greedy patient's veins, but still) I have been receiving frequent invites to come and give more of myself. Now that I know for sure that I have had sex with another man after 1978 (I had to do it many many times to be sure *Gha*), I never bothered to go out there and lie about myself any more. If they don't want my perfectly drinkable blood (or whatever it is they do with it), then it's their loss. 

In a poll on a Flemish news website, a solid 44% of people agreed that we shouldn't be allowed to give blood (blood donors are never admitted if they lead "a promiscuous life", gay or straight, so I do fail to see the point of excluding all gays).

Still, to those people, I say "Fuck them" and let us not bother to give any of our precious, ruby red blood. Those philistines don't deserve a drop it, it's as simple as that.
I say, let us spread our genes by donating our semen to all fertility clinics and thus create a superrace of IVF-offspring (IVF stands for "In Vitro Faggots" of course), while at the same time getting paid by the same medics that wouldn't dream of touching your blood, let alone drink it. 

Now I wonder if this androgynous sexless person below would be allowed to give blood... He/She/It has what seems like an "Angry Inch", but to go calling that a gender is a bit extreme. The two needles in the arm only add to the confusion. Are they taking its blood? Is it shooting heroin (X2)? Or maybe oestrogene and testosterone at the same time? That way its sex didn't know what to do, so it just packed its bags and left? 

Nothing is ever straightforward, you see..

(I had actually planned for this image to represent the wanker of a traffic warden who gave me a parking ticket last week. I can't imagine traffic wardens having any type of sex organs, apart from deformed or vanished ones. It seemed like the most logical explanation for why on earth they would chose to do a low-paying job like that.
"What do you do for a living?"
"Oh, my job solely consists of making people annoyed and unhappy."
"You must be so proud of yourself."
"Crack helps... Heroin too..."
However, I chose for the image not to represent the traffic warden, because I am nice that way :-) )
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When plans are being concocted, it seems as if anything is possible.... 

I was thinking of becoming a self-thought plastic surgeon. How hard can it be to suck some fat out of a belly, botox the crap out of some wrinkles and increase the volume of phalluses? 
I already found the perfect operating table from where I could do my work....


Welcome to Timmy The Tim Tim's plastic surgery clinic.

It seems that you have finally come to terms with the limitations of your appearance AND you chose to do something about it.

At Timmy The Tim Tim's we can sculpt the beauty out of the eyesore that is you, we guarantee it.*

At Timmy The Tim Tim's clinic, you now receive one free breast enhancement (left breast only) if you book a liposuction before 12/12/2011, just in time to show off your new You for the Christmas holidays. 


*We don't guarantee it. All customers will receive one free clown's mask in the likely even that the operation should fail. 
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That's what my TV told me when MALIKA, a 27-year-old stock photo, was shown to me, adding that she wanted to make a man's wildest dreams cum true - age didn't really matter.
1€ per sent/received SMS.
Now Becky is telling me she's been single for four years and all she wants is unlimited sex. Poor Becky, it must be hard to know you don't really exist, but your libido hasn't really caught up with you. 
I am so puzzled why ANYONE would text a fictitious profile. To translate that disclaimer: "some random computer will reply to your message and you will pay for this computer answer. The message will be of sexual nature, because that is what you desire, you lonely, sad fuck."

Isn't this the perfect get-rich-quick scheme? If this is on TV, it must mean there is money to be made. Doesn't look like it's that expensive to get some stock photos and add some sexy profiles for them. *timmy calling out to Erik:* "Baby, we got ourselves a money-making scheme!"
Are men really this stupid, I wonder?   

Some time later, these three ugly bitches showed up on screen (I have to admit: I kept the soundless channel in the background because the swift colour changes made me feel less lonesome):

They are there for me at €1,50 a minute. Now, I'm not a math expert, nor am I an expert in prostitutionism (copyright on that term, use it and get sued!), but just 67 metres (thanks, Google!) away from me, hundreds of actual prostitutes are readily available to make one "sneeze milk out of one's wiener" (to quote Butters from South Park) and this at much-much lower prices I am told by their visitors at the bakery where I buy my daily bread. 

Now I am the first one to admit that a horny mind and rational arguments don't mix, but why would I want to call someone moaning and regurgitating vowels into a telephone while I have to do all the work, when I could have someone doing it all for me? 

Maybe I'm not getting all the phone sex business. I guess I'm old-fashioned that I want my sexual partner (Erik!) to be in the same room as me. When I was in Berlin last year, I remember playfully attempting phone or even webcam sex, but we both agreed it was horrible. While on the phone, I would say: "What are you wearing" to which he would reply: "Slacks and some random black shirt?" to which I would reply, not giving up my futile attempt: "mmm, and what are you doingggg?" to which he would reply: "I just fed the cat (*cat meowing in the background*) and then I'm going to the supermarket". I did reply something like "mmm, that's so hot!" but of course I didn't mean it.  

Now of those three ugly women, the one on the right has mysteriously disappeared. I would like to think she had to study for her MA degree in philosophy, though I fear she is just doing it to get drug money. 

To think they are all someone's little girl... Still, for all we know they are fictitious too... This is what PIXAR do to make real money! Truly horrible films like Toy Story 3 & Cars (1 & 2) make them lose so much money, that the only way to make up for it, is to come up with these fictional renderings of ugly females (ugly to add to the realism!) and try to sell them to the dumb 25% of the population. And that is why we are going to see a Toy Story 4.  

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I howled along the insipid clefts through which the world was born
a fear rose up and reached limitless highs of a collective drug-induced coma
the nose of the bent-over crowd seemed to touch its feet
corpses floating, incandescent masses of copulating excess
all of them holyholyholy - holily erupted into marketed self-pity

Stephen Fry was talking today about what a shame it was we never got to live with the dinosaurs (Creationists might say we did live with them 6.000 years ago, but those people are, of course, stupid until the moon and back). I tried to imagine having a dinosaur like Littlefoot (PLATVOET!) - but not his whiny friends - as a pet and assumed there would be many practical problems. For starters, I'd need higher ceilings. Also, I think my cat would attack the dinosaur (who will in turn crush it to death). Stephen Fry didn't think this through, that much is clear.


We watched the excellent film "HOWL" tonight, which is based on Allen Ginsberg's poem and the obscenity trial it had to go through. 

Ah, the fifties! Where a man could be getting shock treatment for being gay, get out of if by promising to be straight from then on, go to an underground bar and read nihilistic poetry to a crowd of interested peers. Nowadays, 43 million people prefer to watch this instead. On the plus side: I don't think I ever got shock treatment. And since I don't like "electrosex" (or whatshamacallit), that's definitely a good thing.

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"Hello, can I help you?"
"It depends. Are we alone?"
"Err... yes, sir, as you can see there is nobody here except for you and me..."
"No, I know, but are there microphones?"
"You're wearing a wire, right? Do you work for them?"
"Sir, I don't know what you're talking about; this is just a normal bookshop..."
"No, sorry, you're right, you're right, I'm sorry, it's just-"
"Are you okay? Do you need a glass of water?"
"So that you can put cyanide in it and kill me off in an instant, that's what you want, right?"
"No, sir, really. Are you looking for a book?"
"No, but that's all we have... If you need Valium or Xanax, just try the pharmacy across the street..."
"Look, you seem nice and all, but you have to know I'm being chased."
"You're what?"
"Being chased."
"But by whom?"
*whispers* "Punctuation people."
"Punctuation people?"
"Punctuation people, they want to finish me off."
"But there's no such thing as punctuatio-"
"YES THERE IS. How else would I get this?" *shows injury on arm*
"But that's just a spider bite or something."
"Look, I need to hide for a while, can I hide here?"
"But why would they want to kill you?"
"If I tell you, you are at risk of becoming a target too."
*cynical:* "I will take my chances."
"Very well then...."
"I invented the proclamation mark!"
"No you didn't!"
"Don't use them when you talk to me! Shit, now I'm doing it too!"
"Haha! Seriously?"
"Please don't, they can't track me down based on that."
"I think you need help, sir."
"YES, that's why I came in here for."
"No, I mean like, professional help."
"Look, I figured someone who loves books would understand. Now can you hide me?"
"Sir, the exclamation mark has been around for ages, there's no way you could have invented it. You look no older than 25."
"Oh thank you for the compliment! I'm 94 actually."
"I invented the exclamation mark during the Great Depression in the 1930's. People were doing all kinds of things to get money back then. Now, I did my fair share of whoring, I must admit, but it hardly helped pay the bills..."
"So I decided I come up with a new form of punctuation. That's when I invented the exclamation mark. I carry the original exclamation mark with me at all times. That's what they're after."
"But why would they want to kill you?"
"Money of course! I patented the exclamation mark in 1932 and everyone who ever used it would have to pay me royalties. They deleted the patent record and ever since they have been trying to silence me to get rid of the evidence."
"But aren't there any exclamation marks in, like, old books and stuff?" *points to old books and stuff*
"Yeah, but all of these have been retroactively put there. Before, to denote an exclamation, people just used a drop of pig's blood. You have to see that they're a powerful organisation, with links to the Illuminati and they're the driving force behind the New World Order organisation."
"Really? Could I have a look at the original?"
*hesitant:* "If you promise to hide me from them."
*takes out original exclamation mark, written on some leatherised cat skin (it was the Great Depression, people were hungry, so cats were yummy)*
"Wow, it's beautiful. It's the most amazing thing I've ever seen."
*takes it back*
"Okay, so hide me now. Where can I go?"
"Oh, we have a basement you can hide in. I can even lock it from the outside."
"Fine, fine. Please promise not to tell anyone about this."
"I promise, sir, it's an honour to have met you."
*Timmy follows the shop clerk down into the basement. A candle is lit. They say goodbye and agree on a 24 hour lock-up until the coast is clear. The shop clerk hugs Timmy and leaves him, closing off the entrance to the basement as she leaves.*