Dadoo's Dire Blogposium

I read something this morning, written by my former love and admittedly over a year old, following a very ugly messy breakup (nothing ends well, else it wouldn’t end). It was a rant, written in her own specifically profane fashion, one that I used to find amusing, charming and even quasi-intelligent. Now, like so many other things, emotions yellowed by time, I’m not so sure.

I’m not really sure of anything where that situation was concerned. Like any painful loss or bereavement you eventually learn to deal with it, by not thinking about it on a daily basis in an active fashion. I.e: you force the loss from your mind.

It’s been a year or so since she and I ‘broke up’ (a laughable term to me now, as I realise we were never truly together in the first place), and knocking on two years this October since I last held her in my arms. It is true time does have a way of dulling emotion. You become less raw as more of it passes. I honestly do not know how I would feel to see, hear or speak to her again. It’s one of those situations where one wouldn’t know whether to hug or attempt homicide.

I know that, speaking for myself only it would seem, that in spite of what happened at the end, I still carry attachment to her in the form of still fond memories of the brief time in which our lives and bodies were joined. What she now may or may not think of me is inconsequential. Mere catalyst for escaping a bad marriage or not, I for my part did love you Kindra. Heart and soul. Hurt causes anger, can lead to hate and therefore hateful actions.  We both made mistakes in dealing with one another. Mistakes that if they’d been thought through and handled correctly could have lead to an enduring friendship as opposed to a, what?

Burning hatred?

I don’t feel that way, now.

Now I don’t know what I feel.  And yes, I do sometimes look up at the moon late and night and wonder where you are and how you are. But I’m not at the beach, dressed in black or howling your name.

I’m just saddened, that it had to end that way. That vanity could not give anger it’s due in order to move on.

I want to be still.

Where I can walk into the grave.

And I can shower in peace.

Till all my cares they float away.

Let the whole world fall away
And fall into my arms
Stay with me
I don’t know how long we’ve got left
And so I’m asking you
To forgive me
I learn as I go
To float far away
Into silence
And just watch your face
And find some kind of grace
In that quite bliss

I can stay. And say nothing. At all. At all. . .

Where will we go when we get old
When the bustle and the noise
Get too frightening
When each and every angry word
Is banished to the past
Thats when I think…
We’ll learn as we go
To float far away
Into silence
And I’ll watch your face
And read of patience and grace
In each line there

Will you walk into the grave with me
Will you leave this empty world
Soft and wistful
To sink into the dark, dank earth
And never reappear would be blissful
To float far away
Into eternal space
And God’s silence
Where I’ll watch your face
And find patience and grace
In each line there

Can I stay and say nothing at all. Work each day, all for nothing at all.
The few words I say they mean nothing at all. Drift away into nothing at all.
Find the grace to be nothing at all. Fade away and end up nothing at all.
At all, at all, at all. . .

R. Dougan.

Punched Monkey?

He’s dead.

Dadoo’s in control now, motherfuckers! Having killed the punch drunk primate off and deleted his MySpaz profile.

Watch out for more vile vitriol spewing forth from the venting on my Mac. When I can be bothered to write. Which at the moment won’t be very often. . .

Here’s one for all you service industry workers, er I mean slaves, out there in employment land.
I drag my arse (that’s English for ass) out of bed at the ungodly 04:00 hour (that’s four o’clock in the morning to those of you who prefer the other clock) – 5 days a week literally: come rain or shine (and every-fucking-other-weather-condition-known-to-man-in-between).

I drive at highly illegal speeds to a Royal Mail depot in the middle of nowhere. Royal Mail is the UK equivalent of the United States Postal Service (USPS), for the benefit of my American reader/none-commentators. There I clock in, trying to maintain consciousness after the thrill of driving like Mad Max has dissapated, long enough to stand – yes stand they don’t allow us chairs – and sort letters, parcels and flats (large A4 letters or bigger) alongside 800 other sweaty tired and generally pissed off miscreants in nice tidy blue uniforms! Phew that was a mouthful.
We do this from 05:00 til 09:30, when we are finally unshackled from our oars and allowed our ‘freedom’ to venture out into the wilds of the local area to spend the next 4.5 hours delivering the, largely it has to be said pointless, junk shit to the highly suspecting and usually volatile public.
Now, I could regail you with tales colourful & fancy of the life of the ‘unskilled manual labourer’ as it said on the employment service application I filled out – back in 1998, but fear not, fellow cyberspace malcontents, I shall not!
I will simply break it down for you, as I’m sure many of you will work in a service oriented trade, or at the very least you used to do. You will, therefore, know what a pride-swallowing, soul-sucking shit-eating seige mentality the damn jobs are. A postie (British slang for Mailman) is no exception my friends. Suffice it to say you frequently put up with horrendous inclement weather – the sort you’d scoff at from behind the safety of your lounge window if you didn’t HAVE to go out in it. Add a ten tonne weight of shit and bills no one wants to recieve and you can imagine the hostility – thinly veilled and blatently expressed that comes Punched Monkey’s way? Yes?

These fuckheads we shall call the public have some beef about everything. Shutting gates, knocking too loudly, disturbing their sleep in on a Saturday, kicking their dog, kicking their kids, fucking their wife, you name it. Then there’s having to go to the same door you went to yesterday with the same parcel two days running cause they’re too fucking lazy to come to the depot and collect the shit – only to find they’re NOT IN, again. That one boils my piss right in the bladder man! Fight Club’s Tyler Durden wouldn’t stand for it. Remember the scene in Fight Club when he tells some dude ‘Do not fuck with people in the service professions cause they are the people who cook and bring your food, haul away your garbage’? Well that’s pretty much this Monkey’s view on it. Because it ain’t just postal workers who get the shit end of the stick – it’s bartenders, waiters/resses, busboys, clerks, retail staff, school meals personnel 😉
Why does the general public treat us – the working backbone of so-called ‘civilised society’ with such ill mannered obtuse ignorance. I bought an iPod from those lovely people at Apple when I started at Royal Mail. Best thing I ever did. Most people think iPod stands for ‘internet pod’ a TM for the Apple proprietary technology. WRONG!

iGnorant – Phuckhead – Obscurity – Device. that’s what it is folks. It effectively filters out the verbal incontinence a man on the streets just trying to do his job and get home so he can do something less boring instead has to endure from either retired or unemployed cunts with nothing better to do than complain about petty insignificant shit. Punched Monkey humbly asks you: is the fucking world going to end because the mailman didn’t shut your garden gate?

Over the last four years the English Bard of Nay-sayage that is Punched Monkey has noticed a change in his personality. This has gotten steadily worse, especially since learning to drive and having his marriage breakdown (Monkey broke it to be fair so no whining will ensue on this topic).
I have however noticed this penchant towards intense anger and violent impatience in the general populace, not just myself, in recent times as the Inhuman Race continues it’s inevitable lurch towards it’s eventual and long overdue doom.

The people next door have two dogs. These fucking dogs are a constant source of irritation fuelled anger to me. This anger threatens to become homicidal rage, very soon.
The fuckers have a small mutt named Sally, harmless enough on its own, but then they’ve adopted some skud-bottom shit stray off of the streets – a white racing dog, a whippet named Heidi. Heidi – FOR FUCK’S SAKE! What a stupid fucking name for a dog!. Anyway these mutts howl like frigging banshees every single solitary time the bastards leave the house, which is about twenty times a day, every day – without fail. I swear to God, these fucks have ants in their pants or some shit. They come in, they go out straight away, they come in again, go out again. They also come and go at all hours of the fucking day and night, thus setting they hounds off like a burglar alarm. These dogs have separation anxiety and they howl non-stop. They never get tired, never get out of breath.
I work earlies for the UK postal service (as many of you familiar with my rantings know). Is a little nap in the afternoon too much to fucking ask – apparently so! I tell you, I have never wanted to do two animals more harm in my life. Now I love dogs, don’t get me wrong. Have even owned two German Shepherds in my time, but these Mongeloid (Tarantino for Fucknut) mutts next door? I have entertained fantasies of poisoning, staking, even blasting the fucking door off it’s hinges with an assault shotgun and blowing the fucking things all over the passageway, just for some peace and quiet.
After many years of putting up with this crap we’ve now reported them to the local authorities for being shit neighbours. Why do people have to be threatened before they take their heads out of their fucking arses (that’s English for ass, boys and girls) and smell the shit they’re shovelling, huh?

For the record, other things I take personally in my sink into desperate paranoia are:
The weather.
Other retarded motorists, whom I ALWAYS seem to get stuck behind.
The sheer nitwits you get in front of you at the checkout line in the store
Kids playing noisily in the street and disturbing my sleep or my webcam happy time (and no – it’s not naked, thrashing my man-meat happy time either, you bunch of dirty minded deviants!)
The Atlantic Ocean and the State of Michigan.
Not finding what I want in the stores when I have money, and seeing loads of stuff I want when I’m broke is also a guaranteed pisser!

We are all more than just the sum of our parts, more than the sum of our experience.

Or are we?

I’m not so sure. You see, a Muse has entered my life, and with her came chaos. Glorious emotional chaos, crashing against the stormy shores of my troubled consciousness like great thrashing waves.

I wouldn’t have it any other way. Except of course – my way. . .

I feel I have come to a crossroads in my life. Not ‘the’ crossroads, you understand. Just ‘a’ crossroads. I stress this cause I’m sure, knowing my shit assed luck, there will undoubtedly be many, many more. This comes after a rollercoaster ride of pain and torment spanning the better part of the last six or seven years. Truth to tell I lost fucking count in all this excitement! It started with the sudden death of my Grandfather Jack Thomas Little from lung cancer that had gone undiagnosed. He’d quit smoking 13 years previous. And it ended, or so I thought, four years ago with the untimely demise of my younger Brother Mike from – of all things Asthma.

I pretty much watched him die, the life draining out of him as he went hypoxic from blood starved of oxygen. This does things to your psyche. Things that can never be undone, unseen, or sufficiently numbed with alcohol. There simply isn’t enough Jack Daniel’s in the world, despite the best efforts of those good folk in Lynchburg Tennessee. . .

My point is simply this, before you wonder what the fuck Monkey is blathering on about. ‘Oh no, not the dead brother thing again!’
There are those who bemoan the general trend of persons griping about their various mental damage-slash-baggage in this cold life. Everyone seems to have a bigger neurosis than the next guy. Well, I say let ‘em! The stresses of modern living, modern upbringing (for anyone unfortunate to be under 21) and modern relationships have everybody somewhat disturbed or damaged in someway. The widowed, widowered, or just plain bereaved have an additional cross of pain to bare. I don’t give a fuck if the loved one you lost is 21 or 221, it all cuts to the bone the same.

No, my problem is with the happy-go-lucky-type. The so-called ranks of the well adjusted. Just what the fuck IS that? I’ll tell you my interpretation of that: someone with their head permanently planted up their own ass. A mongoloid who prefers to drift through it’s life in a torpor, not truly connecting with anything enough to smell it’s vile stench or be spellbound by it’s beauty. You know who I mean: the asshole who asks how you are, then stiffens visibly when you dare to reply ‘well, actually, not so good.’ The irritating motherfuckers who don’t want to hear about the downside of life. Look around fuckheads, I say to these people and their ilk. Life is becoming more and more about the downside. These guys and gals took names at school when the teacher was absent, read the newspapers without so much as a frown or worry, watch the news for updates on reality TV only and blindly assume all politicians are straight up honourable men and women. The smirking wickprick who tells you it could be worse and to cheer up it might never happen. What might never happen, exactly? No, really, I’d like to know. I pity any realistic person forced to live with such a clueless potato head in their midst. Damaged people are more in tune with life than the smiling clownass will EVER be, want to know why? Because: the cynic is NEVER surprised. The pessimist is NEVER disappointed, and the paranoid is the one in possession of ALL the facts. . .

Well adjusted? I don’t even know what the fuck that means. . .

I know it’s a slightly old topic now, the damn thing’s over, but the current Olympics really boiled Punched Monkey’s piss!
You see boys and girls, China has a lot to be proud of as well as a lot to give the world. Their country is beautiful, their cuisine varied, healthy and delicious, their heritage is perhaps the oldest on the planet and they have a rich and fascinating culture, dating back more than six millennia. It has the world’s longest and most continually used written language systems and is the source of many of man’s most stunning and innovative inventions: printing, paper, gunpowder (my personal favourite) and the compass.
We laughing refer to her nowadays as ‘The People’s Republic Of China’, or at least we have since 1949. ‘People’s Republic’ to me implies they have a fucking say in what goes on. It ‘implies’ some happy clappy idealism that well, really just isn’t there. You see the only real innovation in China these days seems to be the oldest one in the Human play book – Money! Or rather the continued acquisition of it. And this ‘acquisition’ of wealth is my the upper class minority at the expense of the sweatshop toiling, bicycle riding, factory working majority. And the west remembers what happened the last (news worthy) time the people tried to ‘have their say’.
I mean let’s face it, without our industrious free market economy loving communist chums we’d all be naked, since approximately 98% of the worlds clothing and shoes are now made there. The other 2% goes to Vietnam. Christ, I can’t remember the last time I bought a pair of Adidas didn’t have either ‘made in China’, or ‘made in Vietnam’ stamped proudly to the tongue. That’s only shoes! Electronics and a myriad of other consumer durables roll out of there in the billions. The downside, however, is considerable. Don’t misunderstand the Monkey, I have Chinese friends and nothing what so ever against them. It’s their leaders that we should be concerned with – not placating on a fucking global scale for the sake of a few laps of the track and field and a bloody media circus.
China is run by the one party state (very democratic) under the Communists, while Taiwan and the surrounding islands are governed by a more democratic multiparty state. After founding the people’s republic in 1949 both parties claimed sole rulership of the territories of China. Already you can see the cracks in such a rosy canvas proudly displayed to the rest of the world recently – under the upbeat optimistic motto: One World, One Dream. I would laugh, were my heart not so heavy. . .
How could we forget a little incident at Tiananmen Square, back in 1989? Of course China would like to forget it. Olympian’s were forbidden from discussing it, or even bringing it up while ‘guests’ in the host nation recently. In fact, visiting participants in Beijing 2008 were expressly forbidden from opening the floodgates on any number of China’s well documented human rights violations. The visiting media contingent were given checklists of topics to be raised and topics to be ignored under pain of expulsion. What did we do, as so-called responsible citizens of the world? Did we tell the Chinese government to cram the whole shebang up her ass, no! We smiled sweetly, rolled over and grabbed our own fucking ankles. Our media generally covered what they were ‘allowed’ to, and not a peep came out of them on China’s dubious history. The same went for the teams, with the exception of the Spanish who made a few harmless racial funnies and were suitably frowned at for it. If that had been the UK or US mind you, there’d have been a riot, but the Spaniards got away with it – being European, cause everybody thinks Europeans are harmless, with the possible exception of Germany. We all know about her skeleton!
Now, I’m not naive enough to suggest or even think China’s the only nation with skeletons in her closet. Hell, we’ve ALL got pasts our respective nations should be ashamed of, at some point or another, but what is in my view worse is the rampant hypocrisy of the rest of the world in bowing to this public enforcement of China’s ‘selective memory’ when it comes to the shit they’ve pulled. Ask any Tibetan. There’s a reason the Dalai Lama can never go home, and it’s got nothing to do with anything he’s done!
But what the fuck, right? It’s all in a good cause and the Beijing Olympics ‘brings us all together’ (under a flag of bullshit admittedly) where I’m informed by Wikipedia 43 new world records were set, as well as 132 new olympic records. We were ‘right’ to shut the fuck up anyway, if you subscribe to the governmental take on things. After all the Chinese government DID promote and fund the games, lavish and spectacular as they were, while millions all over the kingdom continue to live starving in their own shit. They invested heavily in new facilities and transportation systems. Thirty-seven venues, no less, with twelve newly constructed! At the closing ceremony IOC President Jacques Rogge stated the IOC had ‘absolutely no regrets’ about hosting the games in Beijing, despite criticism by political leaders on the human rights issue and warnings against the possible diplomatic fallout from politicising the games.
If the Chinese ever host another olympics I suggest a couple of events closer to their hearts: The 400 meter baby daughter toss, or the student/tank slalom, perhaps. Less hypocrisy, more honesty and certainly spectator sports – if you’re twisted. . .

So you think that English is an easy lingo to learn, huh!!? Well, it ain’t! Its no wonder that our greatest political leader Winston Churchill said the Americans had ‘stuffed it up badly!’ when it came to their somewhat bastardised version of the mother tongue. Personally I happen to like a lot of American English spellings and pronunciation. My favourite person is an American woman, and I adore the sound of her lilting voice when she Skypes me. . .

But as many of you will know, the Punched Monkey loves to challenge conception and preception everywhere he goes on his fuzzy travels, so I have happened upon a little wordplay teaser for y’all! Read the following statements and test your English knowledge for yourselves. Even a stunningly accomplished wordsmith like myself had trouble wrapping his cerebellum around these badboys.

1) The bandage was wound around the wound.

2) The farm was used to produce produce.

3) The dump was so full, that we had to refuse more refuse.

4) We must polish the Polish furniture.

5) He could lead if he would get the lead out.

6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.

7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it
was time to present the present.

8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.

10) I did not object to the object.

11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row

13) They were too close to the door to close it.

14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.

15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.

16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to
sow.

17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail

18) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.

19) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.

20) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

Let’s face it – English is a crazy language. There is no egg in eggplant, nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren’t invented in England or french fries in France. Sweetmeats are candies while sweetbreads, which aren’t sweet, are meat. They are also a not so gentle (when you think about it) euphamism for bollocks! We take English for granted But if we explore its paradoxes, we find quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig.
And why is it that writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham? If
the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn’t the plural of booth beeth? One goose, two geese. So one moose, two meese? One index, two indices? Doesn’t it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?
If teachers taught, why didn’t preachers praught? If a vegitarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? – people?
Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what
language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of

course, is not a race at all. That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible. Why doesn’t ‘Buick’ rhyme with ‘quick’? You lovers of the English language might enjoy this.

There is a two-letter word that perhaps has more meanings

than any other two-letter word, and that is ‘UP.’ It’s easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or

at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP? Why do we speak UP and why are the officers UP for election and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a report? We call UP our friends. And we use paint to brighten UP a room, we polish UP the silver, we warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen. We lock UP the house and some guys fix
UP the old car. At other times the little word has real special meaning. People stir UP trouble, line UP for

tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses. To be dressed is one thing, but to be dressed UP is special. And this UP is confusing: A drain must be opened UP because
it is stopped UP. We open UP a store in the morning but we close it UP at night.

We seem to be pretty mixed UP about UP! To be knowledgeable about the proper uses of UP, look the word UP in the dictionary. In a desk-sized dictionary, it takes UP almost 1/4th of the page and can add UP to about thirty definitions. If you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used. It will take UP a lot of your time, but if you don’t give UP, you may wind UP with a hundred or more. When it threatens to rain, we say it is clouding UP. When the sun comes out we say it is clearing UP.

When it rains, it wets the earth and often messes things UP. When it doesn’t rain for awhile, things dry UP. One could go on and on, but I’ll wrap it UP, for now my time is UP , so it is time to shut the fuck UP!

Hi, yeah, it’s Monkey. They said I could have one phone call from jail, so this is it.

I’m Punched, you might say, by the many foul inequities of daily life on this ball of man-muddled excrement we’ve turned our beautiful planet into, hurtling through space towards the inevitablilty of it’s own destruction. My favourite colour is black, my favourite number is 69, my favourite word is ‘cunt’. My favourite person is Polythene Pam, cause she’s all kinds of sexywickedcool. My favourite position is crucified, cause we should all be! I drink too much, I think too much, I worry too much, I swear far too fucking much, I love and hate far too much. . . I enjoy smoking ridiculously fat cigars and swearing a lot in a irreverant manner, especially in front of senior citizens who should have more sense than to hang around here chewing on the rest of the tribes provisions when there isn’t enough to fucking go around, okay? I enjoy the ending of sentences with ‘. . .’ instead of a full-stop (that’s what limey English fucks like me call ‘periods’. It confuses silly ignorant people. ‘What, what is he saying? Is he finished his point, is there more to say, what???’ I believe in the cock and the pussy and that oral sex is a two-way street! I think democracy is a nifty theory – but that’s all it is! I also enjoy soft deep wet tongue kissing that lasts several days and girls who don’t mind that I cry a lot when confronted with beauty or the genuine pain, simulated or real, of others. Oh, and I like to drive really, really, really fast in a straight line, which is what landed me in trouble with the fuzz. Anything else? join me in the Treehouse, penthouse or jailhouse – under the duvet, and ask. . . I’ll be under there, smiling and waving, Naked. Wearing only a cockring. And that’s not a good idea, considering the 700lb manchild I’m sharing a lockup with. . .

I work for Royal Mail, which could be considered England’s answer to the USPS. I have performed this occupation – hail or shine – for ten fucking miserable wasted years of my tortured existence.

During my tenure with RM (I like that word: ‘tenure’. It’s sooo gloriously up it’s own arse!) I have observed, time and time again, one happenstance that never fails, always rings true on an almost daily basis of clockwork hilarity.

And that is that the fuckwit members of that collective of miserable ungrateful scum known as: ‘the public’, never cease taking the mail I bring then so Goddamned personally.

So this blog is for ANYONE who ever greeted the mailman (or Postie, as we’re known in England) with this asinine comment(s): ‘If that’s a bill, you can take it back!’ or my other favourite: ‘You never bring me anything nice!’

The answer is simple: If you want ‘something nice’ delivered in the mail by your postal worker then fucking order yourself something fucking nice, okay? What? You never heard of amazon.com? One click and you’re done, motherfucker. And, if you don’t like receiving utility or power bills in the mail then close all your windows and doors, bolt down everything, switch off your water, electricity and gas, wear everything you own in the dead of winter and STOP FUCKING COMPLAINING TO ME ABOUT IT, ALRIGHT?

I did not print, or issue, you motherfucking power or water bill, TV license, road tax, income tax or whatever else is causing the particular bug up your arse today, okay Fucker?

I swear to Jesus Hubert Chocolate-coated Christ, if I had a buck for every knacker who made these braindead comments I’d be living a lifestyle that’d make Bill Gates look like a fucking derelict!