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My Farked Up Life!

 article about 15 minutes of fame
2004-06-03 06:14:44
Still in the hospital? No, not really. If, then only in my mind. My
15 minutes of fame is over and I'm on my way back to real life. Back to
reality where the clouds pass by like mambo-jambo jet-fighters and
where the world is actually ruled by hitch-hikers. Nice one I think I
just put together a really good rhyme. Damn, I'm good.



This week hasn't been any better than the last ones. I won't start
talking about my work as a editor-in-chief of The Cheers magazine. I
really won't. I don't want to. I have a personal life as well you know.
Hmm, actually I don't, but I won't get into the cheers crap one way or
another. I bet you're tired of me always talking about the same old
shit with journalists, editors and  wannabe professional
waveriders. Well, I think that's all history now anyway. Now that the
magazine has been farked and everyone's hoping for the fark-up to
continue, including the owners of this magazine, I will be out of job
soon one way or another. Why should they keep an asshole like me on
their pay-roll while everyone else is doing it for free. Why should
they? Why should they keep me as the head of The Cheers while I'm
actually doing nothing, nuthin' but complaining about my life. Even my
work is being done by my assistant editor-in-chief. She was also
assigned by the owners.



They didn't even care that I don't want an assistant. Though
well...yeah, good that I have her as otherwise I would have to work
myself. But right now I can just relax and enjoy the view. The view
that I see on my computer desktop currently a theme from Monsters
Incorporated. My mouse arrow looks like Homer Simpson, btw. And he
usually looks like one of my bosses ugly like hell. I bet they're gonna
fire me now for sure. But who cares, I've got a good contract and in
case they actually do fire me, I will get twice as much money within
the next year than I'm making now. Stupid motherfuckers.

But
as mentioned, I really don't want to talk about my work as an
editor-in-chief I'm afraid this stuff might sound too formal, too
decent and not right for The Cheers. Why do I think so, you ask? You
stupid bastard I'm the editor-in-chief of the magazine and I need to
explain nothing. NOTHING, get it? Fuck off!

Can't
understand these son of a bitches, they're just full of shit. Who am I
talking about? God knows, who cares anyway. Forget it. I have decided
to change my life, for good that is. Right now it's just so fucking
depressing, that this is basically the only thing I can do. Last night
I thought it would be a good start to stop using these fucking swear
words so that people would be more ready to talk to me. I think I'm
doing a pretty good job already. I used to spit while swearing and no
one really wanted to be near me while I was talking. Usually, when I
started a conversation, they pointed their finger to my little (and
expensive) digital tape recorder and went as far from me as possible.
So usually I just used to communicate with my little piece of machinery
for the sake of eventually getting the tape to the other person...well,
independent of the fact whether you actually understood what I was just
talking about or not. You should be glad you haven't met me. Though I
bet you can still smell me from the screen of your computer.


Anyway, I've stopped using the bad words and from now on I will do my
best to talk like an intelligent person. Maybe I can even find a life
for me this way. Life full of fun, drinking, swearing in Thai language
(did you know that masturbation in Thai language is Chuk wow and Dog's
dick is Kwai mar and Son of the bitch is Loog-Ga-Ree?). I can't even
imagine a life without embarrassment. Even the dogs have been barking
at me, they're doing it ALL THE TIME. But not anymore. Now I'm a
totally changed man. No swearing, no masturbation, no bank robberies,
no monsters sleeping on my floor, no fantasies of my grandma. From now
on I'm the new and improved version of me. Version 3.08 to be exact.


Jesus fucking Christ! Some fucker just called me and asked if he could
order some women to be sent to Palace, room 307. One should be blond
(50/87/134) and the other one baldy (I don't even want to mention the
wanted measures here). What a weird fuck. I'll tell you, for us, normal
people, this kind of behaviour is unacceptable. And where did the
dickhead got my number at all? I closed down that shop years ago. Fuck!
Like I said, from now I'm a changed man and I don't deal with type of
things. Jesus!

Got to take a piss, see ya next week...





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