timpeltje: (Default)
2014-02-25 02:50 am

Dr. Jekyll and a naked Timmy

"Where am I?" I stammered after waking up in an unfamiliar room. Mind you, I immediately regretted using the most cliché of phrases used by people waking up from comas, near-death-experiences, drunken stupors, etc. I slapped myself in the face for being so predictable, the one thing I never hoped I'd be.
The room was a cube with huge mirrors that covered the entire surface of the walls, floor and ceiling. The effect was quite dazzling, just me facing an eternity of copies of me in all directions.
I stood up to inspect my body to check for any visible signs of a struggle, a fight, or anything else that could give me a clue as to why I ended up here. Did I mention I was naked? Oh no, I didn't. Well, knowing me, you probably had figured that out already. "There goes naked Timmy with his tackle out again!" had become such a commonly used expression that some Chinese businessman was getting rich just by selling T-shirts with the text printed on. Good for him, I say. I don't mind not receiving any of the royalties.
Whether my tumescence was due to this infinity of identical twins or just the result of waking up before the dramatic, unfinished conclusion of a wet dream, is still a mystery to scholars around the globe. Come to think of it, perhaps dramatic isn't the most ideal word to describe the conclusion of a wet dream, although I guess it would depend on the perversions projected on my eyelids.

I scanned the room, ignoring my other selves, to look for a door. There was no door. I guessed it would take away the perfection of the mirrored cube. I assumed there to be a sliding door mechanism or a platform.

Everywhere I looked, I saw hundreds of me stare back, equally puzzled (and yes, still aroused, though with much less conviction). We were all in this together. From all the time I spent in various cells (the womb, locked toilets, prison, a coma, etc.), I knew there was never any point in crying out for help. Whoever locks you up, does that with the intention of not responding, as an ultimate mind game. So I didn't give them the pleasure to ask for help.

I would solve this my own way.

I put myself in the middle of the room. Staring straight ahead, looking at myself at the other side, and other selves all around us, I prepared myself. I inhaled, closed my eyes, held my breath and started running the five or six steps towards the wall.

A bang. Some blood was now covering part of the mirrored wall. I could discern a small crack beginning to form. I grinned, retraced my steps and charged again, head first.

A louder bang, more blood, and a slightly bigger crack in the mirror. Head-butting, is there any situation where it doesn't come in handy?

After the fifth bang, I fell down, and could just see red in front of my eyes. I started to taste the familiar taste of blood as well. I smiled as I prepared for another charge. Blood poured down my head, and onto the floor and on the shards of cracked mirror that were beginning to pile up around the site of impact. The shards penetrated my feet, creating more blood loss, but also increasing the flow of adrenaline to allow me to continue.

The blows became harder and harder, as if I was doing this in a trance. Sure, my thinking had become less coherent, consumed as I was by my objective to destroy at least this one mirrored wall.

I prepared for a final big charge. Bits of glass now penetrated almost every square inch on my body, though for pain I had no time.

" 't Is but a scratch!" I smiled.

I inhaled, spat out a drop of blood. All my other selves looked at me with the same determination, all covered in blood, but stronger than ever. I interpreted this as if they were cheering me on, believing in me, knowing all too well that I was their leader that could take them on the path to salvation (I admit delirium may have set in at this point).

I charged, followed by this crowd of eternal followers.

Head first, I crashed into the wall, causing the entire wall on the attack side to fall down. I was losing consciousness, but I could feel the wall collapsing on me. The last glimpse I saw, was of my supporters disappearing from one side.

I had set them free! Even if I hadn't saved myself, I saved them!

A curtain of blood was drawn and I lost consciousness.


I wake up in my own bed, panting.
I mumble to myself, "This must have been the most bizarre wet dream I ever had!" and I reach for my box of Cleenex.

timpeltje: (Default)
2014-02-13 02:27 am

Clothing naked Holly

Meet Holly, the girl I adopted in Vegas last year. Well, I adopted her image and have been using it as a bookmark ever since. Why did I do that? Look at her, poor girl! So hungry she barely has any clothes, and as is clear from the dramatic photograph, Holly's so hungry she's now forced to eat what little clothes she has left.


Poor little Holly is in dire need

Of 35 dollars, payable by any steed

To pay for fine garments, for she has none

For her clothes, they had all gone


It's a sad story, really. But at least she was trying to make a change for herself. 35 dollars was all she needed to turn her life around. I called her and asked if my gift to her would be tax-deductible, but then she replied she didn't qualify as a charity organization (or at least that is what I thought she meant by saying, and I quote, "Fuck off, you weirdo!").
I wondered if I should help her out anyway. After all, doesn't the Bible say that "to clothe the naked" is one of the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy? I figured that, in the unlikely event of there being an afterlife, it'd probably be good to bribe my way into heaven.
So I called back and asked where I would be able to give her my donation. Holly, the sweet simple cowgirl, seemed so pleased with my generosity that she would come by my hotel or motel to come pick it up. Now that's what I'd call "proactive begging"; if they can deliver pizza to your door in half an hour, why not do the same with the poor and/or homeless?
Twenty minutes later, poor poor Holly arrived to collect my donation. Indeed, her rags were even skimpier than advertised, so I decided to give her a tip. In hindsight, I think what happened next, wasn't that surprising, although I, always innocent, did not have a clue. Eternally grateful as she was, Holly came closer to me sitting on the bed, and she suddenly started to try and seduce me.
I did feel sorry for her, but I had to push her away. I tried to explain to her that she really didn't have to that, that I never expected anything from her, but the more I spoke, the more it seemed to confuse her. Of course I couldn't imagine walking a day in her shoes, so I tried to understand how this sweet girl just felt like she owed me something.
"Y'all did pay for da hour, so I ain't leavin' before that! Or else mah pimp gonn' beat me! Thinkin' I messed up or summit!" she said. I guess that must have been an expression in her native tongue, where she thanked me for my kindness and offered to have a chat.
She stood up and, in what I can only assume was another one of her people's traditions, she started taking off what little clothes she had on. I guessed it made sense. I had seen this in an anthropology documentary; it was an ancient cleansing tradition, where the body had to be freed from all old garments so the soul is ready for the new clothing. Fascinated, I started taking notes on this behaviour. She asked me in her broken English, "whaddayadoin'?", and I replied I was studying her, because I was writing a book about people like her.
She replied, "A book?"
Of course I could have known Holly didn't know what books were, but I tried to explain to her.
"Yes, a book! Books are like big things full of papers that are filled with words, or sometimes even pictures!"
I could tell I had lost her. She sat her naked self down on the bed, and I asked her if she knew anything about books. She shook her head, clearly embarrassed. I told her not to worry, and that I would find a way to teach her.
"Don't ya just wanna get laid?", she uttered.
While I didn't understand what she said, it seemed to me as if she was asking me to read for her. So I took out a book and started reading to her.
Exactly an hour after she came in, she said her time was up. I think she may have been from one of those cultures where you cannot spend more than one hour in a man's home, because it would be considered a marriage in her tribe.

Holly put on her clothes and left, off to get herself some clothes that she so desperately needed.

My good deed of the day was done, and I could have a piece of pie and get to bed.

Anyway, ever since that encounter, I have been using Holly as a bookmark in the hopes that she might learn something from the books I read. Now you might say that it is just an image and not her actual physical self, resting between the pages of my books. But I hope you realise that putting her between my book pages was never going to be a practical option (I did consider it briefly, but then I abandoned the idea after a nightmare were Holly would menstruate all over my favourite books). So we hope she might learn something this way.

I'm sure it is working.
timpeltje: (Default)
2014-02-04 11:26 pm

The Invention of the Gloryhole

There once was a little black boy,
Whose first name was Jerome.
Lived with his mum, who had no employ
In a shed that they called their home,

'T was the fifties, when women were lazy,
And could spend all day birthing and baking,
Which we today might find quite crazy,
But then Jerome's mum had other worries aching.

Jerome, though always nimble and sweet,
Liked putting his winkle into all he did see,
Pies, sofas, melons, and pounds of minced meat,
The whole town did witness his penetrative glee.

"Y'all know it won't end well!" his mum did say,
Yet Jerome was too busy with all his unzipping,
If only he listened, is what she did pray,
Alas! To no avail, out it came with a whipping!

One faithful day, Jerome thought he struck gold,
A fence with a hole, as wide as his cock,
Which just took him a second to fully unfold,
Boy, was he in for a shock!

His mum saw the geese, thought "It'll serve him right!"
And Jerome continued, cock through the hole,
Along came the geese, all eager to bite,
She just saw some food and not Jerome's pole.

Jerome his scream was heard across the land,
He'd never do it again, that much he knew,
Not that the he could, the geese had him de-manned,
He'd learnt his lesson, so he withdrew.

The tale wasn't over, because all over town,
Closeted gay men were intrigued by this feat,
Replacing the geese, in jizz they could drown,
A thought that to them sounded actually quite neat.

Public toilets all got drilled for holes,
Thanks to Jerome and his adventurous mind,
Jerome was adored by those closeted souls,
The gloryhole invented, for Man to unwind.

The End.

timpeltje: (Default)
2014-01-24 02:32 am

-.. . -.-. --- -.. . -.. / -- . ... ... .- --. . / ..-. .-. --- -- / - .... . / ... ..- -... -.-. --

The man has struck a

chord without exemption from the train
he was never bound to take,

withering and wailing across the streets that were lined with roaches and
it crawled onwards
until the horror returned to me that

-.. . .- - ....

lurks around every corner,
and immobilized I stand
reluctantly quiet with the dreams of only
a scalpel shredding
the remains of my immortal skin.
Loyal watchman,
come and engulf yourself into the tearful embrace of the frozen lava stream of my

seed spewing
( ... . . -.. / ... .--. . .-- .. -. --. )
forth from my scalpel cuts

Erase the memory of the cyclical rhythm of elements
through the exits, leaving behind ashes of what was once my mind

Rations are scarce

The shadow's brightness blinded the lone mariner lost in an ocean

of sleepless rock...

heightening his other senses, and my senses,
because I
could maybe be that mariner,
crashing my vessel into a crater on the moon, unaware of my journey there,
waking up seconds before the crash
barely enough time to try and lick my elbow, let alone scream,

Inexorably onwards, horizons converted into tangible paintings,
smacked down from their invisible wall with my amputated fist.
"Don't forget I delineated you."
I tell the universe, convinced for a nanosecond of my own divinity.

-. --- --..-- / -. --- --..-- / --. --- / -. --- - / - --- / .-.. . - .... .

timpeltje: (Default)
2014-01-07 04:25 am

Hypochondriacs on Speed (and Google)

- Hi, Doctor Google!
- Oh, hi Timmy, I didn't see you come in! Please, have a seat!
- Thank you!
- Now, what can I help you with today? I see you've been looking at a lot of images of midget feet again... did you start again with that perverted fetish?
- That wasn't a fetish! I was doing research!
- Haha, if I had a penny for every time someone said that, I'd be swimming in a pool of premium horse manure by now!
- Horse manure?
- Of course! The thought alone drives me wild!
- Err... OK... well, anyway.....
- No wait! Let me guess! I'm very good at guessing, you know! You seem like you really want to know something about something medical, but it's not for research...
- How do you know?
- Timmy, don't insult me, I read your e-mails. You haven't got any work today.
- Ah yeah, that's true, you can read my e-mails...
- Of course, but don't worry, I'll only share it with some algorithms and maybe some government officials who want to check up on you. It's been hard with the algorithms for you, by the way!
- Really?
- Yeah, targeting advertising is very difficult in your case. I can't find a common denominator between these: at one point, you're researching if you can be raped by a banana (NOTE: see below entry), the next you're looking for ways to enrich uranium, then some kitties, and then you're translating a text for Viagra - that I labelled as Spam, sorry for that by the way; once that word pops up, all my alarms go off, and I go mental!
- Yeah, that was pretty annoying. I'd ask for damages if you weren't so damn intangible!
- Oh, don't bother with that, according to the User Agreement, you can't do that anyway. Also, we own your eternal soul according to paragraph 15, section B4. So you'd basically be suing yourself!
- Don't worry, I won't sue. I'm just here for help...
- Oh, alright then. I'm guessing it's not about your ding-dong...
- Of course not...
- Yeah, because we all know that works fine, don't we?
- Wait! How do you know?
- Webcam access, baby. It's in the User Agreem...*cut off*
- Yeah, yeah...
- But it is medical?
- True.
- Ah, hypochondriacs will buy me that horse manure pool, believe me!
- So, ANYWAY, will you stop distracting me?
- Aw, a little edgy, are we?
- Can you just let me explain, so I can get an answer?
- Very well then. Thought you'd be a little bit more grateful.
- You just told me you own my soul!
- See, now you're digressing!
- Arrghhh! Look, all I want to know is... I went running today.
- You did!? But it was raining! And you haven't run in months; I checked!
- Well, yes, I did! And when I got back, I was tasting a metallic flavour in my mouth, sort of coming from the back, a bit like blood, but more like that metal pole I licked that one time.
- Interesting... Let me have a think.
- Could it be teeth related? I mean, my cat needs to be operated so all of his teeth will be taken out, so I was wondering it might be that.
- Seriously?
- Errr... yeah... but....
- Are you a cat?
- No, but...
- Ha-ha-ha! You moron!
- HEY! Be nice!
- Anyway, depending on what you want to believe, I have terrible or good news for you.
- What's the terrible news?
- You'll be dead within a week!
- WHAT?!
- That's what it says here, but this site has a teddy bear in its logo, and the average forum user is either dyslectic or just really stupid.
- So there's no truth in that?
- Well, if you would be dead within a week, technically, they WOULD be right. So we'll see about that next week, won't we?
- Can't you read me something from somebody with more authority?
- Yeah, that was the good news.
- Really?
- Yes, apparently what you were witnessing was a mild form of heart failure.
- Heart failure is good news? That's a pretty heartless things to say!
- Gha! I like puns!
- So?
- Well, the heart failure means your heart is unable to keep up pumping blood to your lungs and body in exercise because you were straining yourself too much. Then red blood cells made their way into your lungs and into your breath.
- This still doesn't sounds like good news.
- Oh, but many people witness it... People who don't exercise too much, mostly.
- So it's entirely normal?
- Well, no. Not "normal", but you'll be fine.
- Thanks, I guess.
- You're welcome. Anything else I can help you with?
- Maybe yeah, ... The heart disease thing is pretty strange.... Maybe show me some photos of cute kittens falling over!
- Thy Will Shall be Done!

timpeltje: (Default)
2014-01-05 11:47 pm

On Licking a Pole

As an earth slowly completed another circle around its star, I licked a metal pole with my tongue. Of course with my tongue, with what else would one lick a pole/Pole? Needless to say, the frozen metal bar quickly glued itself onto my kissing device, and soon, the two became entwined in an intimate embrace.

You may call it youthful naiveté or dimwitted foolishness - neither of which would be appropriate in my modest opinion - but it is safe to assume that the position was not a comfortable one.

"I did nothing to you! Release me, you damn dirty pole!" would be the corrected equivalent of the sounds I was producing. Sadly, my words were more unintelligible and the pole was more indifferent than I had hoped.

As I was in a park of a sizable city, I assumed it wouldn't take long for help to arrive. I could not imagine gathering the courage to actually rip a piece of my tongue off to release me, so all I could do was wait.

When morning came, finally a man walking his dog entered the corner of my eye. I tried screaming "ELP!", but all he did was stare angrily for a second before shouting something like "You sick fuck!" in German (which I will gigglingly translate as: "Du kranker Fick!") while flipping me the finger, and slowly walking away.

Perhaps licking poles is taboo in this part of the world, but as it turned out, it seemed like it was going to take a bit more time to finally be freed. I imagined what would happen if the pole would grow into my tongue, thus forcing me to spend my life stuck like that, perhaps even raising a family of little poles. But no, that didn't seem ideal.

Days passed by. The people who saw me all gave me a similar reaction as the first man's. I was flabbergasted as to how sensitive an issue this was over here. Back where I'm from, licking poles is a national pastime and performed by all the greatest thinkers of the land! Clearly, the Germans have a slightly different view.

I kept myself nourished by the snow and bird droppings that fell into my mouth (I can recommend sparrow!) and hoped that temperatures would rise above freezing temperatures, so the situation could maybe resolve itself. No such luck.

My phone battery was depleting quickly. I tried calling people, but nobody could understand me, and those that did understood, mumbled something like "serves you right, you little prick!" With my last jolts of battery power, I browsed to the weather report, hoping for a plus centigrade figure somewhere. Instead, I stumbled upon an article about how the world had entered a new ice age. Frustrated, I banged my head hard against the pole, letting some ice from the top fall off and hit me on the head. I blacked out.

When I came to, it must have been days later, I was still dangling with my tongue from the pole. Realising where I was, I let out a cloudy sigh and panned across the park to see if someone, anyone, would pass by.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months and the ice age, well, it remained an ice age.

So let that be a lesson to you kids! As Aristotle once said in a drunken stupor: "You bitches don't go licking those poles, you hear? They be as evil as the devil on cocaine!" And boy, was he right!

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-12-18 03:28 am

Bananas and Rapists

"can vanden be raped by a bannana (SIC)"
                                                     (by anonymous Author)

This was the Google search phrase that led somebody to my personal website according to my website statistics. Redoing the search, it turns out that my website is indeed the first hit that comes up when searching for this particular line of condensed poetry.

Because, surely, that is what it must be?

Unless the genius Author was genuinely wondering if I could actually be raped by a banana. Even answering that question isn't so straightforward as it seems. Assuming that by "vanden", he does mean my last name, then it would imply that Google may have had several requests like this and therefore put me up as hit number one. But then the phrasing of the question is problematic. Rape implies that one party does not give consent for the intercourse to take place. But then the Author/Philosopher refuses to mention who would execute this rape, which I think is a rather more important element in whether or not I would consent. Instead, he is merely interested in the object. Of course, the object itself isn't particularly something I would be gagging for (gha!), but perhaps its operator might convince me otherwise. Or perhaps the author is implying more than we see on the surface. What if "banana" could be an objectification of a person? Perhaps someone dressed up as a banana, or, also feasible, representing a representative of a banana company (think Lady Chiquita - given the fact that she was conceived in 1944, then yes, I guess I wouldn't be consenting to that).

Or perhaps the misspelt "bannana" is a clever play on words, maybe referring to the Author's "banned nana" (again a grandmother, who is apparently "banned", probably because of how she would treat poor "vandens" with fruit and vegetables).

I guess we'll never know, oh Anonymous Philosopher of the Yonder Google!

Let it be known that at least now, if he (it's got to be a man, let's face it) would retry Googling this particular sentence, he would actually get a reply as well, and one that will even give him an analysis. And an answer (which, just ro sum up, is, "Yes, but...").

You see, I aim to please, even when banana-wielding rapists are involved, apparently...

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-10-28 01:26 am

The One Where I Burp Stoically and Ponder Stupidity and the Universe

"All nonsense in the world stems from the truly ludicrous idea that Man is at the centre of everything and that every person individually is also both completely unique and special. This grotesque aberration, because that's what it is, has given us a great big pile of nonsense. A whole range of religions, for instance (we are so special that there is an invisible almighty creature who watches over us and will ultimately grant us eternity), but also a bunch of UFO rubbish (we are so unique that intelligent extra-terrestrials regularly travel across the cosmos to earth to study us, to occasionally kidnap us and embark on a scavenger hunt in our rectum to see if it might contain the secret of the universe); and then there's also a deluge of delusional nonsense (we are so special that the scientifically totally undocumented and unproven effect of homeopathic drugs really does occur when we take them), and of course we should not forget the incessant twaddle about the paranormal (we are so special that we are bound to have contact with the living after we die, even if this has to be under the guise of a frog), etcetera, etcetera. Time and time again, the nonsense can be brought back to the illusion that we are all so extraordinarily special and not, as Michel Houellebecq poignantly and truthfully formulated, just a temporary arrangement of molecules."
Written by the late (pdw) - translation by me

Despite a very busy work schedule, I devoted some time this week hunting for planets on planethunters.org as well as finding new galaxies on galaxyzoo.org . Fascinating and interesting activities I can recommend to anyone who likes shapes, colours, and feeling insignificantly small!

Reason for my burst of scientific altruism was a two-hour-long mindfuck I was graciously provided by some perverted astronomers who like to do nothing more but fuck with my poor brain (bless them! Gha!). The discovery was of a galaxy at an approximate distance of about 30 billion light years away, and the galaxy's age is said to be 13.1 billion years, that's almost the age of the whole universe. So the distance this bitch-galaxy (that's the official term, I believe) is away from me (and you) would take us longer to travel, at the speed of light, than twice the entire age of the cosmos.
Our planet wasn't even formed when the light we are seeing now was created.
That's the sound of my brain short-circuiting. Fascinating, sure, but so impossible to imagine. Our consciousness evolved at a time when we thought we were the centre of the universe, which is mostly why we are unable to grasp distances and time frames like this. And presumably why the above-mentioned pseudoscientific crap still rages rampantly in a society of supposedly well-educated people.

I don't think the likes of Einstein and Hawking really considered my poor mind as it blew up in a wave of insignificance. But then again, the former one is dead, and the latter pees and poops in a bag. "So every cloud has a silver lining," I added smiling arrogantly.

Being a raw scientific atheist has its downsides. Paralysis from insignificance. No wonder people invent spirits and other non-existing bullcrap to help them cope. We can't have invisible friends like that, because we know too much.

What I do sometimes, when some situation might turn stressful, is zoom out on myself. For a while, I have employed this as a coping strategy. With "zooming out", I mean I visualise my place in the universe. I imagine a camera over my head, gradually going up higher, Google Maps height, then higher, NASA screensaver of earth height, passing by the moon, and then passing all our planets, one by one. Usually, I am relaxed by the time I see myself in the composite (fake) image of the Milky Way (one of my first ever Google searches was "how do we know what the Milky Way looks like?" - or actually, that might have been on AskJeeves, remember him?). Why it calms me down, is easy: it puts everything in perspective. Stressful situations become trivial challenges that won't matter in the end. You do what you do because of the experience you hope to gain. For enjoyment, for a kiss, for a smile on someone's face, for a rare moment of being entirely in the present, of the present, and about the present.

Occasionally, I try to imagine zooming out as far back as I can, i.e. to see an overview of the entire universe. Such insignificance is enough to make anyone vomit. But at least it's vomit and satisfaction combined.

Escapism isn't a dirty word. I consider myself a talented escapist. Hey, I once escaped an attack from a King Cobra (the animal, no the snake juice liquor I once drank in Hong Kong, there was no escaping that!).

And so we float across space,
temporary arrangement of random molecules,
in all our beauty and senselessness,
Disappearing into the void is perhaps the greatest gift we shall ever receive.

*burps stoically*

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-10-16 03:32 am

Lunar Insults

I came to the moon. How it happened, I don't know. I was driving to the supermarket and now I woke up here.
Staring up at the earth, I'm trying to figure out how... 
I do have a bit of a headache, but I guess that is to be expected after the journey I have had (apparently).

So this is the moon...

I thought there wouldn't be any trees...
But then again, I also didn't expect there to be a prefabricated home here. And certainly not one built to accommodate me. Why was I brought here? It makes no sense.
I notice the lower gravity outside, but aside from that, I'm breathing normally. I guess there must be a dome over my head (even though I can't see it) to protect this little oasis. Ah yes, I can see the edges of the dome. The protective shield explains the vegetation here.

"HELLO? Is there anyone?" I yell out into space.

I seem to be all alone. The little house here is built for one (one bed, one chair, one fork, one knife (plastic - it's like they don't want me to kill myself, which, at any rate, wouldn't be so hard to do here), one spoon, and one confused inhabitant.

And that only leaves myself to talk to...
"So Timmy, how did we get here?"
"I haven't the faintest idea; it's like there's a giant black hole in my memory and..."
"Haha! You said 'giant black hole'!"
"Oh, grow up, will you?"
"At least I'm keeping my spirits up, dick!"
"Hey! It's not the time, nor the place, OKAY?"
"Well, it's the moon, maybe it is the place. Looks like you'll be stuck here for a while anyway."
"I know... I wonder who's behind this."
"Can you think of any enemies you've made recently?"
"Not really... I insult people on a daily basis."
"Yeah, I know, but for this, it seems you really must have pissed them off."
"Someone powerful, like a government perhaps?"
"Well, you insult those all the time, too, so it'll be difficult to find out."
"Hey, what can I say? I got political Tourette's! It's well-documented that this is an undocumented condition!"
"Whoever you wronged, clearly got his revenge."
"Or her revenge..."
"True, you make no gender distinctions with your insults."
"I should get a medal for that. Gender equality all the way, baby! Now come here and let me pinch those nipples! GHA!"
"It's hardly worth a Nobel Peace prize, but it's good to see you smile again."
"Well, at least we weren't killed..."
"If we were dead, then this would be a lousy afterlife, wouldn't it?"
"I guess. But we're not dead. Why else would they give us a plastic knife? It couldn't make us more dead, right?"
"True. Unless they want you to think that you're still alive of course."
"But I am alive."
"Oh, I know. I was just entertaining the idea."
"Of me being dead? Thanks for that. Way to cheer up my day!"
"OK, I'll stop with that. Let's focus on who you wronged."
"Someone with access to space ships..."
"That narrows it down..."
"But still not narrow enough. Sure I once compared a certain astronaut to the final excrement of a human centipede, but that was behind his back!"
"Yeah, that can't be it. Maybe it's just an anomaly in the space-time continuum?"
"What, me off to buy milk, gin, and frozen pizza and taking a wrong turn and ending up in a wormhole that inexplicably brought me here?"
"It does seem like the most likely solution..."
"No, it doesn't!"
"Yes, it does!"
"Brain, you know I love you, but you're absolutely useless right now!"
"Oh, piss off!"
timpeltje: (Default)
2013-10-07 03:24 pm

On Skin Shedding

The snake sheds its skin, the surface layer in dire need of renewal. The dead cells are picked up by necrophiliac beastiality-fueled skin collectors to then have their wicked way with them.
"To each their own," said a wise man once before putting his penis into a double serving of mashed potatoes (with spinach, I believe).
The snakes don't mind, and nor do the potatoes, who already endured enough hardship as it is, what with being boiled and mashed alive. Recycling is a hot topic these days, even in the wondrous world of kink.

So, the megalomaniac in me believes a stalker is following me. Well, that megalomaniac actually knows it, regardless of whether it is true or not. There is plenty of evidence all around. When I am sure I did my dishes, folded my clothes and hung them up nicely, I sometimes find myself puzzled seeing a whole bunch of dishes towering up in the sink and beyond, clothes being scattered about, and - wait for it - my dead skin tray strangely empty (knowing that I had filled it up with my own snakeskin).

I'm not making the effort to find out who this person is so I can get a restraining order. I can't imagine this going well in court anyway: "This person is following me and I kind of like it! Please give her the electric chair! (...) What?! You don't electrocute people any more? Oh well, then I guess there's nothing that can be done..." (turns head towards stalker:) "So do you want a ride? You're going my way anyway, right?" I'm already so far past that phase, you can't even see the mashed potatoes anymore.

But I keep shedding skin and placing it where it has to be, realising that this stalker probably now has enough of it to puzzle together an identical copy of me. I don't feel like a snake, however. For starters, I don't eat things that are bigger than my mouth. Okay, maybe that one time when I wanted to swallow a massive vodka-watermelon combo, but I can assure you that I failed horribly.

But I look at the traces before it is discarded and used in my stalker's weird sexual fantasy playworld. I stroke it and say goodbye to it, thanking the elements for their presence there (though I should probably thank myself who ate the damn molecules that made their way down there!). I measure the size of the canyons and log them in my Skin Canyon Data File (the file is public, because I don't want to make it to hard on the stalker, you see).

You know how they say that amputees sometimes still feel their missing limb? Well, that's kind of what I feel on a skin surface level. These little cells that I came to know and love (or in the case of my hand, loved me back on occasion) stay with me every time another one of them moves on. I can still feel all of them, pulsating around, thinking about our times together.

The cycle is endless, or at least seemingly so. But at one point, we will reach the final layer, and then my stalker's work will be complete; a fully fleshed statue with all layers carefully joined back together again.

When that happens, I shall finally look this stalker up and jump in the body suit she has created.

That way, things can start all over again, right?

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-09-27 02:11 am

The Tale of Fritz and his Hamster Tommy

It was in the days before the internetted web allowed you access to all the nudity you could think of when Fritz S. decided to open his very own EROTIK VIDEO KINO. He had thought of the name himself, a process that took him a few months and a lot of marketing research. But Fritz was a man with a vision. While the bank initially refused to borrow him the million Marks he wanted to borrow to finance his dream of video paradise, a ten thousand square metre playground for every fetish and sexual activity imaginable. Poor Fritz had no choice but to think about downsizing. He went to his parents who gave him 200 Marks in support. Of course he didn't tell them about what exactly his "exciting business opportunity" was, not so much because he was ashamed of his idea, but because it would ultimately mean that he would have to acknowledge that his parents ever had sex after making him. Perverted as he was (his friends called him "Hamsterbum", and that's not because his bottom looked like a hamster...), his parents didn't need to be that involved.

Anyway, with his parents' money, he realised he couldn't buy his dreamed huge venue at Alexanderplatz, so he had to look off-centre. Fritz chose Wedding because he discovered that the people walking around there showed signs of sexual frustration (he concluded that after seeing hamsters being used as pets). So the dream was ready to be built; he would do that for a few years, make his first million and then take over Alexanderplatz and leave a bag with his burning faeces at the front door of the bank that refused him. Scores needed settling, people that said no to him always underwent this punishment. It is the reason why his few friends had grown scared to refuse anything he offered, because saying no to anything would result in yet another pair of wasted shoes. And with the Great Berlin Shoe Shortage of 1995, it was something they really couldn't afford.

Fritz spent his limited means into acquiring as many VHS cassettes as he could buy, which turned out to be only ten. Slightly distraught, he realised he didn't have any cash left for his window display.

He talked it over with his hamster Tommy (shortly before... well... let's just say Tommy didn't make it).

"So I don't know how I'm going to get customers to come in. What should I do?"
"It's just that I'm out of money."
"I know, but there should at least be something we could do!"*squeak - squeak*
"Yeah, I guess that could work. So you're saying I should go for extreme minimalism here?"
*hamster sniffs, then squeaks*
"You're right! Less IS more! It'll leave horny people curious..."
"HAHAHA! I know! We don't want people masturbating in front of our window, now do we?! No, it's better to just leave it to people's imaginations to find out what is inside. What works for ALDI, works for me too!"
"True! I shouldn't raise people's expectations as well. After all, I only have about ten VHS cassettes now, two of which featuring hamsters, by the way. Sure, there will be thousands to come. But for now, we should just make it mysterious."
"Yup! And people WILL come, again and again... Tommy... Damn, you're smart for a hamster, and fun. And cute too of course... I'm almost going to regret shoving you up my bottom later!"
"It's the circle of life! Now let's get to work!"

While historians are still debating over the exact content of Fritz' conversation, his erotica emporium grew out to be one of the most thriving businesses located at number 72. While he is still saving up for his dream playground at Alexanderplatz (he's a few years behind schedule), life goes on, hamsters come and go and his VHS collection is ever expanding (he has reached 25 cassettes now).

Ah Fritz, a visionary who followed his heart and made his dream (sort of) come true. I guess the lesson here is: "don't ever take no for an answer! If people think your idea is crazy, tell them to stick a hamster up their bum and do what you believe in, regardless of resources, money or talent!"

Inspiring stories can be everywhere, you just have to see them (and by "see", I do mean "use a lot of imagination and embellishments", but that's splitting hairs really!).

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-09-18 03:56 am

The Conscious World & an Uninvited Visitor

I was struck on the head. I couldn't see what object it was or who the assailant was. In an instant, my body responded to its brain shutting off and it moved down ungraciously, creating a pile of flesh not dissimilar to the mighty blobfish

With consciousness finally incapacitated, my subconsciousness (whose name is Jimmy) was finally free to run amok. He hadn't been this free in years, because I don't usually receive blows to the head, no matter how much I would like it to (let this not be a golden ticket to anyone reading this to randomly start trying to knock me unconscious - reserve a time for that with my secretary). 

If consciousness had been awake, I'd have been amazed by Jimmy's ability to take over control. I must have taught him quite a bit unknowingly; he just picked up my body and started walking as if nothing had happened (*note to self: try and keep bodily movements out of Jimmy's sight*). His behaviour seemed normal, composed, unlike the last time he was free, though that was while I was still wearing nappies and I hadn't quite figured out how to avoid using those anyway. 

Jimmy, used to his unconscious worlds of majesty and eternal dreamlike possibilities, seemed quite upset that I couldn't swim. He contemplated going to a tall building to start a flight around the world. Lucky for me, he remembered overhearing a video I once watched of failed inventor Franz Reichelt, the man who jumped off the Eiffel Tower with a self-invented parachute and met a rather unfortunate end. 
"If that contraption didn't help him, then maybe no contraption would be even worse?" Jimmy mumbled. 
Wondering how he ever managed to fly in dreams, he was disheartened by the limitations of the Everyday world around him. 

No running around naked? Well, not that he was stopped doing so. He stopped himself because of an unfamiliar emotion: a chilly wind reduced the body's er..... "sesquipedalian oaken dong" into a scared turtle retreating in itself. "Now what's the fun in that?" Jimmy decried. 
Anything he could think of that he ever saw in dreams always seemed to have an incredible downside to it. 
"I don't understand how someone consciously would want to be conscious," mused Jimmy, "it's not even a nightmare, at least that's an extreme. This all just seems so... grey..."

Having explored a few options, Jimmy concluded that his world was paradise compared to this place. If he'd have had to wait much longer, it's probably likely that an Eiffel Tower jump would happen anyway. 

I was slowly coming back to my senses and just in the short transition phase, my consciousness and Jimmy were able to share a few thoughts...

"Hey Timmy! So glad you're back, man! This conscious world isn't all its cut out to be."
"Jimmy? You took over? You know that's against the rules!"
"Hey! Drastic situations call for drastic measures! I saved you, you know!"
"You did? How?"
"I fought heroically against your assailants and beat them to a mushy pulp!"
"A mushy pulp?"
"Yeah, and then I flew away on your unicorn!"
"My unicorn? You're lying to me, you scoundrel!"
"OK, OK... so I didn't really save you."
"I'm sorry... let me make it up to you!"
"Go to sleep, you'll see! It'll he greatest adventure you'll ever experience! No rules, no limitations!"
"Alright, thanks! Can't wait!"

*Timmy crawls under sheets, suckles thumb and dozes off...*

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-09-04 02:39 am

On Moles Licking Bathroom Floors

“Don't be afraid; people are so afraid; don't be afraid to live in the raw wind, naked, alone... Learn at least this: What you are capable of. Let nothing stand in your way.”
(Tony Kushner – Angels in America)

Oh traveller,

You are astounding, as you make your leap from beach to mountaintop, from jungle to savannah, from beyond the looking glass out to a world of fantasy. You dream. You rely on dreaming of the yonder deep, of what lies ahead. Discovering what might be really there is not something you were naturally born with.
Nobody is.
In more ways than one, Man is very much like the common mole, huddled underground, hiding away from danger as much as possible, only briefly ever exposing oneself to the Unexplored world when looking for food, shelter, or indeed a mate. Like moles, Man’s action radius does not stretch much further than a small garden, ideally protected by an electric fence (to provide entertainment when drunk neighbours decide to urinate against it).

However, we have the capacity to NOT be blind, to not lock ourselves up. It’s an emotion that goes against our instincts, but the colours one can perceive when exploring a new world are so spectacular and inviting that Man, once he started discovering, only ended up wanting to explore more. To break monotony, to shake off the burden of Routine, and to satisfy himself with a sense of being-in-control, rather than subject to the chains of being-under-control.
In light of the universe, there is no excuse not to explore. It doesn’t care whether or not we grill and eat one of our Sherpas on the way to the mountaintop, or whether or not we lick the floor in a McDonald’s bathroom. I don’t know why you would contemplate any of those things, but if that’s your twisted mind’s concoction, by all means go ahead.

Exploring is no longer solely literal. Gone are the days of Columbus and starting genocides. No, nowadays it is inside Man’s mind, inside one’s expectations of the world and what one aspires to achieve in it. Because we have, at least physically and in our solar system, defined our limits, our minds have shifted inwards, to focus on a determination to gain as much as possible from the present.

And so we gaze up at the night sky, because we are not moles hidden underground, because we can reach other worlds around us and enjoy the fresh air of something New. Life and opportunity in every direction, present in every bright light before us...

(picture of the night sky in a German forest - I was impressed at the amount of stars that got scattered on my sensor (no, it's not dust, I swear!))

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-08-28 03:58 am

The Wilted Flower

They say my atoms are born from exploded stars, pieces taken from all over the universe, ready for an inconspicuous passage through my blood stream. One of those atoms recently stood up and talked to me.

'Hey, you! Nitwit!'
'Oh, hi! Who are you? Actually... WHAT are you?'
'I'm an atom belonging to one of your millions of carbon elements. I reside in your left nipple and I'm fed up with this!'
'With what? You can't talk! Who is this?!'
'Look, asshole, I CAN talk, and while you're a moron, I hope at least some of my colleagues in your brain will help you grasp what you're dealing with here.'
'Atoms can't talk! I'll Google it and you'll see!'
'Fuck Google!'
'Damn.... no reception! Still, you can't talk! There is no way!'
'I may be just an atom, born from a family of carbon, but I know what I know. And I know I can talk. And I know I don't like you.'
'Why? Suppose you're real... What did I ever do to you?'
'What didn't you do?'
'I'm sorry?'
'Look, bitch! I was promised a seven-year cycle of bliss, new experience and peace. "Go to a human body", said the brochure, "your home away from home." I sure fell for that one!'
'Wait... you atoms are considering being part of me a holiday?'
'Well, duh! All of us are here on vacation.'
'But why are you the only one talking to me?'
'Because I'm fucking annoyed, that's why! Oh, and because I am smarter than most other atoms.'
'OK, so why are you annoyed?'
'This hasn't been anything like the brochure! Look, you probably don't know this, but when it comes to the "human experience", us atoms can chose where we want to go. Those of us that want an adventurous vacation with humans, they'll be atoms in some crazy deadly virus or cancer and experience a whole bunch of thrills in a short time...'
'But I don't have cancer...'
'Will you stop interrupting me? I didn't choose one of those vacations. I paid for a relaxing vacation as part of a human carbon element.'
'So? Isn't that what you're getting?'
' "Relaxing" and "boring up to a point where I want to kill myself" are two different things, you tosser!'
'Look, I still don't get it! How does an atom kill itself anyway?'
'We can't! That's the point, Einstein!'
'OK, OK! Then why are you so bored... and such an asshole?'
'My destination was "the nipple" and with it came a number of promises that have not been fulfilled... They said we'd be stimulated, fondled, licked, sucked on, tittilated, etcetera! I've been on your fucking nipple for two years and NOTHING has happened! Are you that repulsive or what's wrong with you?'
'I think something my be wrong with your intel. Didn't they tell you in your brochure that men's nipples aren't as sensitive as women's?'
'Errr.. No, they did not.'
'And then you're just unlucky, because my nipples are particularly "for display purposes only"... by which I mean to say, there's really never much going on there.'
'Suppose I believe you... could you help me?'
'How would I do that?'
'Just, you know..., squeeze me from time to time, or let me be squeezed or fondled...'
'I'm not doing that!'
'Can't you just cut me off then?'
'Sorry, what?'
'Well, just excise me and let me return home! I can't until my carbon element dies, and that might take a while...'
'I can't even see where you're speaking from!'
'The left nipple, I told you!'
'I'm not cutting off my nipple! FREAK!'
'It'll grow back!'
'NO, it won't!'
'Oh, so that's how it is, is it?'
'Shut up... or I'll...'
'You'll what? You better watch what you say! I've got powers here in the atom world!'
'Sure you do... Now piss off, will you?'
'Oh, now you've done it! I'm calling my colleagues in your brain department right now to go on strike effective immediately!'
'Wiat, y di wa?? Grr, hnnnn, hnnnnnn; krrrrhihihiih; mlmmmmmm!'
'Cut me off! NOW!'

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-08-21 02:28 am

Meandering Streams Reuniting

He who called the man who said I was dead, but called me and revered in dark petals sleeping across from the courtyard, dancing curtains in their skimpy dresses, jiggling up and down, leaving traces of desire etched in the granite rocks weighing down on minds, where belated gifts are returned and exchanged for fingernail clippings of homeless men who used to rule the world, but are now roaming astray.

“Time sure changed” is printed in our DNA, unprocessed information stowed away on damaged hard drives and all the train wrecks in the world cannot bring back your little pet bunny. In vain we weep, in vain we sleep. Rest assured, or at least that’s what they told us before running off in the pitch-black forest, hands above their heads, screaming their lungs out and calling me a dead man.

The rocks are still trusting; hear them breathing in their comatose tranquillity; you don’t just join a club of rocks, you need to become one of them. Moronic as they are, we rely on them for our sanity, the only razor-thin connection we preserve to the outside world, the real one, not the one where we hail from.

Nobody loses, where there is fire, we can wait for the firemen to arrive and take it roughly from behind. You roll the stone dice and find yourself envying the flames, so badly you will enter them. Or you think you will, until the gin wears off and you found out maybe you triggered all of this. A particularly hungry owl could perhaps tell you more about the outcome of this tale of self-destruction, but let’s assume you are smart enough to figure it out.

Thick veins pump the blood towards the ocean, a force majeure tidal wave heading in the opposite direction. There are those who choose to ride it, and there are those who scratch their balls in discontent. While non-exclusive of each other, I assume the latter is the only viable option.

Oxygen rains down on us, creating a high that will bury all other highs ever produced by the factory just down the road. Toxic waste spreads to those dancing curtains, increasing their velocity, doing nothing but beg me for more.

And then you just nod, even if it’s a nod that just means “no”.

And look at those rocks listening! Obeying! What are they? Morons?!

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-07-04 02:35 am

The Interconnected Slut - A Heroic Attempt at Emotions for Machinery

Dear ex-laptop, 

Look at you, all worn out. Tired even. If I didn't know any better, I'd have been able to diagnose you with a case of severe pneumonia and prescribe you on a course of strong antibiotics. The reason I know better, is because I saw a bread grain stuck in your fan. 

I've retired you, you can move on to a new life now, whizzing away carefree, for the rest of your days just caring about music, artsy films and the occasional naked guilty pleasure, just one thing at a time. Your new owner, my sparkling nymph, will treat you much better than I ever did. He'd never use you as a coaster or spill his dry martini all over you. He won't force you to run seventy-five applications on two simultaneously running operating systems at the same time, exhausting you and making you scream. 

Five years is a long time in laptop years, that's about 150 years in human years, so any time you get extra brings you closer to a status of immortality (though not actual immortality, since you and I both know that you will most likely end up being vivisected in a toxic sweatshop in a third world country; most likely China, though I guess somewhere in Africa is equally possible). Well, what I'm trying to say, is that you've had a good run. Don't take it personally, but I've been outgrowing you for a while now. You're a pensioner and I've only just stopped wearing nappies (a birth defect, but still). 

Oh, don't sulk! Change is good! I showed you the world, didn't I? Three continents! Many countries, thousands of different wireless connections with so many kinky access points! You've seen more of the world than any piece of hardware I ever had, you interconnected slut! 

This is the last thing I'll ever write on you, so I thought it fitting that I write it on you, even though your young and sexy replacement is so much better at this stuff. (*) 

Looking at you, I notice something odd. From the entire keyboard, only two keys appear to have undergone a form of change, only the "S" and the "N" show signs of wear-and-tear. That's odd. We all know that, in the languages I mostly write in, the "E" is the most commonly used letter (18.91 % in Dutch and 12.70 % in English), but that key appears to be in pristine condition. At least for Dutch, the "N" makes sense, since it comes in on a solid second place (10.03 %), though in English it's only 6th (6.75 %). Perhaps most strange is the "S", which is 9th in Dutch (3.73 %) and 7th in English (6.33 %). (**)

It doesn't make sense. If you have an explanation for this, I'm all ears. Am I typing more of these letters than "normal people"? What's that? Maybe I just type "sex" too much? Errr… NO! Because then you'd notice flaking on the "E" and "X" as well! Besides, who Googles "sex" anyway? What people Google is "Moldovan teens tickling each other with radishes and turnips while wearing a banana costume"; you KNOW that gets my juices flowing! To each their own fetish, I say!

I still can't find an explanation for it. Maybe I am disgruntled a lot and that causes me to write "tsssssss!" a lot, which - I will admit - contains a large percentage of "S" letters, though I probably just hold the key down, rather then pressing it repeatedly. And don't go telling me it's from pressing CMD+S too much to save my progress on the work I'm doing. We both know how often I got frustrated when a crash made me lose a few hours of work! I'm rogue that way. 

I compared it to your predecessor, a Sony who now thinks he's a vacuum cleaner (mechanical schizophrenia is such a sad thing). The test was inconclusive since no obvious difference could be found between the different keys. 

Failing to come up with a better theory, I'm afraid I have to conclude that it must be my fault. My language use, bombastic, gargantuan and solipsistic (four times "S" (!!!!!)) as it may be, could truly be the cause of your damage. I had no idea. Of course keyboard builders will reinforce only the keys that are most often used, so that all wear-and-tear happens at a similar rate and consumers won't be freaked out. 

Or maybe you are playing tricks on me… That's it, isn't it? You knew I'd find out, so I'd start doubting my normality and, worst of all, my writing! How dare you?! You're making me want to freak out, because you're pissed at me? That's low, even for your standards! You know how hard it is for a totally unmaterialistic person to write something about a THING? Yeah, that's what you are to me, nothing more than a tool and a bitch and I couldn't care less about you! I never did! I just needed you for the money. Remember that cut off of my profits I promise you? I spent it all! 

So, happy retirement, you wanker!



(*) Not exactly true, this entry was already written on the "young and sexy replacement"; couldn't be bothered to actually do this, isn't the fact that I'm writing absolute nonsense about a soulless machine enough?

(**) Source of figures: 

Dutch (http://onzetaal.nl/taaladvies/advies/letterfrequentie-in-het-nederlands)

English (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Letter_frequency)

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-06-26 01:37 pm

Tales of a Hairy Madman - Episode 3922

Look at them, staring at me with their judgemental dead eyes.
Mocking me with their eternally perfect hair and their never faltering jawline.

There is something about wig shops and hairdressers that always brings out the worst in me. I guess that’s a sentence you’ve never heard before.

Do you remember the great arson epidemic of wig shops and hair dressers a few years back? Yeah, that was me. I stopped doing it, but the...err... flame is still burning within me. I’m self-medicating now: I’m taking a juniper berry ethanol based concentrate, in a dry quinine solution and a slice of cucumber. You people without medical knowledge might know this as a “gin and tonic”, though I assure you my use of it is entirely medically justified. See? (*Shows handwritten note presumably self-written or written by inhebriated general practitioner*)

While you, my trusted readership – consisting of a masturbating Russian trying to sell me Viagra, a Nigerian prince who wants to make me wealthy, and, last but not least, my trusty stalker who has probably been watching me while I punch this down (I don’t “type”, I punch; it’s a testosterone thing, you wouldn’t understand) – happily go about your day passing by wig shops and hairdressers alike, never even getting as much as a shiver rolling through your spine, I tend to start twitching whenever I’m approaching one, and that’s even before I consciously register their existence.

Being a man of science, I won’t claim that I have special powers, because then I’d be as fucked up as all of you (and especially YOU!), no there must simply be some trigger in the air that my nose registers, causing me to grow restless, violent, and I must admit, slightly aroused. Sadly, the arousal only exacerbates the first two emotions, which resulted in the fires, which resulted in my fleeing my home country, changing my name and my appearance (not the hair, obviously, no, I just wear a corset and fake moustache, fools everyone!).

Anyway... Something must have happened the last time I had my hair cut, something so shocking that my mind blocked it out completely, leaving a trauma deeply scarred in the depths of my, let’s be honest, massive brain. If only I could figure out what it was...

Either way, I cannot set foot in a hairdresser’s. Well, I can, but then there’s a good chance I’m holding a match a can of petrol.

Wig shops, for some reason, terrify me even more. Maybe because there are so many eyes looking at you, laughing at you and every petty thing you do. It’s an attitude that comes naturally to those with ever-perfect hair.

I never thought I’d be a man, or more specifically: an arsonist, on the run. The advice I got from some people that I trusted was as stupid as it was insulting:

“Turn yourself in, plead insanity, you’ll get off with a slap on the wrists!”

Maybe you also think I’m insane. But I’m not! I mean, would an insane person do this? *walks to bathroom, pees, washes hands, dries off hands, comes back* No, right?!

I’m passed the point of no return, I know. I realise I may never get another haircut for as long as I live, not even when the weight of my hair gives me whiplash, weighing my head down as if a heavy boulder is hanging around my scalp (why aren’t there any documented cases of this? It sounds like a cover-up; I can’t be the only one!).

And when it all falls out, you can count your life on it that I’d rather lick the toilet seat of a sleazy Berlin nightclub than go to a wig shop for a replacement. Chances are, by then all wig shops in a 50 km radius will have all mysteriously burnt down. Though that would probably mean I’d have to run away again (well, I do trust you, you Russian-Nigerian stalker, but you never know who reads these secret texts I write you).

And I just can’t deal with the stress another time.

It would just be SO bad for my hair!


timpeltje: (pic#900491)
2013-06-25 11:28 am

Confessions of a Secret Space Traveller...

When I joined the Voyager mission in 1977, I never expected to still be around today, bored out of my mind, screaming into the universe.

The mission was called “unmanned” because A) they expected the sun’s radiation to “unman” me (by which they meant to say “disintegrate my scrotum” and increase my oestrogen levels; it happened to Armstrong and Aldrin) and B) they didn’t want anyone to know I would be on board.

The launch took place on September 5th, 1977, almost 36 years ago. Not that I’m counting. Oh wait, I AM counting, because it’s all I can do out here in the boring desert of the Heliopause (look it up!), somewhere in the no-man’s land that is the Kuiper Belt.

The thing is, when I was launched into space, it was considered to be unethical to send a human being into space without offering them the chance to return. But then again, Voyager was ambitious, so NASA needed a compromise. The truth is that their technology was simply not ready to explore the solar system without being controlled by an actual human being. But they would never have admitted that to the Russians. And that’s where I came in...

So they did what any self-respecting scientific organization would do: they went partying in Studio 54 in New York, and yes, that’s where they found me. High on acid, these young scientists approached me. To my drugged eyes, they all looked incredibly attractive, which made it easy for them to convince me to follow them to their hotel room. Instead of a night of all-you-can-eat sex, I was tied down in a chair by what I perceived to be a skinny 19-year-old runway model with perky breasts (She turned out to be a plump 40-year-old He; though the perky breasts, yeah, those were real, though much less arousing after my discovery...).

Still tripping, the model’s colleague, a cute punk boy (probably not true, though I never got to find out) fed me another trip. Then he started talking about the universe. I flew across it while he was speaking. I saw Neil making love to the moon (again, drugs talking) and I imagined myself there, fingering a meteor crater. So real.

Anyway, what happened was this: they gave me a few consent forms to sign. At that point, horny and spaced out, I would have signed anything to get laid by the model and the punk. Not that it happened. Or if it did, I sure as hell don’t remember it.

I woke up the next day in Cape Canaveral, Florida, locked up in a sterile white chamber. I recognized the model’s features, even though He inexplicably seemed to have aged 21 years and changed sex overnight. Dazed and confused, I was read the terms and conditions of the document that I had signed the night before: I consented to be shot up in space, without saying goodbye to anyone, and join the Voyager mission to control its basic functions. If I failed to comply, all of my family and friends would be hunted down and put it a rocket to be shot straight into the sun.

The golden record that oh so famously was taken aboard the Voyager, wasn’t put on there for extraterrestrial civilizations. Anyone who thinks that deserves to be anally probed by someone pretending to be an alien! No, it was put there for my entertainment. The main problem with it is that I never got a say in the matter. I’m sick of hearing the bird and whale noises you guys put on it. And the one request that I did make for the record?

“At least put some nudity on it! Please!?”

My exact words. They complied, at first, letting it replace some nonsensical insect sounds they put on it. But then the religious groups started shouting. I tried to reason with NASA, but they got scared and caved in. So what have I been masturbating on for the past 35 years? A fucking line drawing of a man and woman! Thanks a lot, stupid Christians!

I was shot into space with a lifetime supply of IV nutrition, fed straight into my veins. I did manage to smuggle a vodka bottle in my anus, but it only lasted me one day (I was scared and annoyed, what would you do?). Ever since then, my days have been the same, pushing some buttons, going slightly mad, listening to the mating call of the speckled peacock (seriously? No nudity, but a peacock’s mating call? If any civilization would discover this record, I seriously hope they will enslave the human race and let the peacocks rule the world!).

I officially left the solar system a while back. There was no border, no sign saying “you are now leaving the solar system, fly safely!”

To go where no man had boldly gone before... Man, I always hated Star Trek. Why couldn’t they just have asked any Star Trek freak to take my place? I’m sure someone would have agreed to do it.

But I’m there now. When I look into my rearview mirrors, I cannot make out Earth any more. A polka dot competing with a million others. Even if I find the reverse button on this thing, I doubt it will take me back from where I came.

Wait a minute...

What if there would be a way? The thrusters they used were based on household vacuum cleaners; the special, more powerful kind (okay, I’m guessing; I wasn’t really told), and these usually also have a reverse function!

Hmmm... A forward button, an up button, a cable connecting the record player, a button controlling my colonoscopy bag (how else do you expect I’d have been up here for so long?), a switch for the windscreen wipers...

You know what? I’ll just try them all. After 35 years, I’m sure my friends and family will get off the hook; I mean, I took photos of Jupiter and Saturn, for crying out loud! They tell the world the whole process was all automatic, but no! There I was, loading my film, developing it in a mini-darkroom, making prints, FedEx-ing the results back to Earth! It’d take me 40.000 years to reach the next star, and let’s face it, it’s just going to look the same!

There it is! I’m reversing! Oh man, I can’t wait to be back! The 21st century... flying cars, no more disease or poverty, all work executed by robots, leaving man to sing, dance and swing! Heaven will be nothing compared to where I’m going (and I’ve been to heaven, just so you know, and it’s a snooze fest over here!).

Studio 54, prepare the acid, I’m a-coming home! (*)

(*) Following this overly positive statement, this story’s unnamed protagonist hit the wrong button, and was catapulted straight into the sun where he disintegrated in a fraction of a millisecond.

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-06-23 11:04 pm

Timmy VS The Floor - Round 1, FIGHT!

There once was a room in which a Timmy swam,
Long before he had opened his clam,
This was Ground Zero, right where the war began,
And Timmy the Hero, being quite the renaissance man
Adjourned to his castle, his fortress of dreams,
Where his famous Twister no longer teems.

Busy as bees, Timmy was toiling,
Ready for some old-fashioned plan-foiling,
The enemy here was a fiend called the Floor,
Attacking Timmy like a rabies-infested whore,
Shooting gravity pellets at our Hero’s poor head,
To death, that’s how much he could have bled!

When facing Danger, Timmy laughs in Fear’s face,
Not so with spiders, who’ll make his screams race,
‘Floors are demonic,’ is what the Wise Man had said,
Saying he got it from a holy book he once read,
Timmy believed him, the man had very big ears,
And nose hair that testified of wisdom of years.

So out on a limb, Timmy started his fight,
Considering it his unique divine plight,
He started by kicking, punching and beating,
Soon enough his engine was overheating,
And it all seemed futile, all that he had done,
Because the floor, sure enough, was all but gone!

‘Time for the shotguns!’ Timmy decried,
But had his firearm application denied;
They said he was mental, but how would they know?
‘I’m nude because of the heat, you dumb stupid ho’!’
Our hero was clueless as to what he should do,
So he started thinking, while having his poo.

The idea he got, was simple and smart,
He could not wait to go give it a start;
The Floor still mocked him, but not for long,
It was almost time for the fat lady’s song!
He shot into action with his cunning plan,
The best one he’d had in all his lifespan.

Instead of fighting, and beating away,
Timmy covered the floor in less than a day,
Then the Floor was all choking, accepting defeat,
And life could go on, which Timmy found neat!
Our Hero was smiling all through the morn’
As wide as an orifice in a Japanese porn.

And so ends our tale of floors, whores and sores,
Rest assured, it's now okay to open your doors!

Timmy's room, circa 2006

timpeltje: (Default)
2013-06-12 03:36 am

Explosive! Kill! Plan! Allah! Kaboom! Virgins! Virgins! More virgins!

There, that triggered some filters and wasted some CIA hard drive space! Oh, wouldn’t it be nice if it got triggered so much that somebody actually had to read it? I guess I’d have to unwittingly reveal some details about the terror plot I’ve been working on for 32 years (that’s right, many years before I was born!). But then who reveals their plans in a blog entry? Either the biggest idiot one can think of, or the greatest criminal mastermind that ever roamed the Street of The Cat’s Arse (now I even gave my location away, that’s how genius I am).
For you see, only the cleverest of the clever (oh, climbing Mount Cleverest took me a long time!) know that the best secrets are the ones that are out in the open for everyone to see.

“Why, Timmy,” you ask, “how does that make sense?”
Timmy, all smug and condescending, would reply: “Oh you Dumbo! Because it would just be so unexpected that it will always work!”

Think about it; if I’m using seventeen layers of encryption, a relay server that anonymizes everything, and a mouse pad with a picture of a guy wearing a banana costume on it, all that just to use my internet browser, it is quite obvious that my activity will be deemed so much more interesting by hackers and intelligence agencies. Hackers won’t feel challenged to just read my blog entry detailing my terrorist plot, because it’s just right here; maybe my password might prove tricky, but they won’t even need that. They of course won’t want their supervisors to know that this terrorist info can be found by anyone, because this could make them lose their jobs, so they will only focus on the jobs that actually cause them some effort.
I cannot believe that no terrorist ever thought of this. But then again, nobody’s as cunning as I. *releases a burst of diabolic laughter*

So I can write about my terror plot, quite easily. It involves ten thousand plastic bags that me and my accomplices will tie around the tails of an equal number of unsuspecting cows (though the number could be higher, if some of these cows were siamese twins and could be “covered” with one plastic bag – “always respect the siamese twins before they bugger you while you sleep,” is what my great-grandfather used to say, and who are we to ignore the man’s obvious wisdom). The bags will then be collecting the methane gases these cows will produce over a period of time (as yet to be determined by a trial run with a rental cow (does Hertz rent cows? I’ll have to check – this plan’s only been 32 years in the making, you can expect me to have ALL the details!)). Subsequently, these bags will be closed and collected and released all over America with a bit of string attached to it.
Then, the string will be lit with a match, causing all balloons to inflame at the same time, which in turn will create panic amongst the most idiotic and backward religious zealots, because they will think it’s the end of the world, which made the Rapture come, and, here’s the key point: they haven’t been raptured!

These burning skies will create a huge panic among the populace and it will lead to an unprecedented amount of mass suicides, because of fear the Devil might come and sodomise those devout souls. I will then use this diversion to install myself as new Eternal Ruler Of All The Known Universe! (exclamation mark is part of title!)

It is a plan that simply cannot fail. I realise that it would make more sense to have a terrorist plot where I target people With a brain, rather than Without (as is the case here), but you know, you think of a terrorist plot at 3 in the morning! I mean, 32 years ago!

Disclaimer – I take no responsibility for any attacks performed as a result of my posting these instructions here. If anyone should take responsibility for it, it should be the cows! What with all this genetic modification going on, they really should be able to read!