Sitenews Minimize
  • 30/12/18
    Fun fact - AKPCEP has a Google Page Speed score of 100/100
  • 26/12/18
    You wonder how any of this worked in the first place.
  • 13/03/09
    Still here! Please visit the forums and join in the discussions. If you have any questions or comments please contact Alexander.
Link Button Minimize
link to https://www.akpcep.com

Use this to link

Valid XHTML 1.0
Valid CSS

Old people = Shit

Posted 7 November 2002, 2.59 pm by Sickan

I am currently working as a cleaning-robot. Yeah, that’s right, me – I clean people’s houses. And it is, as you probably can imagine, not the most fulfilling and interesting job out there – but it makes sure that I can pay my internet bills and get foo..(yeah right) get more PS2 games.

But even though I don’t like the job I still know how to be polite and nice to the people I clean house for. Now, most of my ‘clients’ (as the company so elegantly calls them) are elderly people who can’t run around in their fat-ass mansions and clean all the crap up that they spill. And I am serious, damn old people are so good at messing stuff up and spread their dust all over the place. Oh well.

Anyway, I had an old bi(a)tch the other day. She was the last one that day and I was looking forward to get home and do much more interesting things than run around with a vacuum cleaner. I was kinda early there and when she opened the door an old smell hit my face and I could see that there had not been people there to clean for quite some time. I politely told her who I was and why I was there and she let me in.

The place was a mess. Not alone very filthy and dusty but there were scattered papers and magazines, clothes and bed sheets all over the place – even in the kitchen. Now this is normally where I am supposed to tell the old folks that I can’t clean the place if there is messy, and that they have to get rid of all the stuff and I will come back another day – and the leave the place and stuff. But I was in a good mood and thought to myself ‘Well jolly old Sickan, you can help this poor woman out and use a little more time here and get all this fixed.’ (I was in a pretty good mood that day..) So I began in one room and started to pick up her dirty clothes and stuff. She was behind me all the time, chattering as most old people do. She told me stuff about her grandchild and her husband – ya know all these uninteresting things – I just smiled and nodded when I was supposed to. (After a while in the business you just know when to let them talk and not respond).

When I had used almost two hours and 45 min. there I was finished. She had just kept on talking even when I used the vacuum cleaner – I mean she was in the talky corner that’s for sure. Anyway I turned to her and smiled and told her the good news (that I had finished and she now had a clean nice house again). Then she stared at me and I could see something changing in her eyes. She lowered her head and looked at me with her old blue eyes. ‘Empty your pockets and take of your socks’ the sound had sounded like her voice and my eyebrows flew up in my forehead, I smiled and stepped a little bit closer to her, ‘Say again?’ she took a deep breath and looked me straight in the eyes ‘ I saw you take money from my purse, so empty your pockets and take of your socks’. I looked at her and giggled, I had no choice I mean my stomach felt like a thousand bees and my mind turned black. I blinked and she pointed her stupid little finger at me, ‘do it – I know that you have stolen from me!’

Then I realized that she was accusing me for stealing! The muscles in my back turned hard as I straightened it. There was a thousand things that I wanted to tell her – I wanted to curl her up, dribble her and throw her out the window. I just looked down at her. Her crappy face made me realize that she wanted to speak again I said, ‘Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you accuse me of that? What the hell is your problem? You have been behind me the whole fucking time I have been here!!’ She smiled and said, ‘I am going to call your firm and tell them about this!’

As I took my coat and shoes on I looked at her, that shitty old lady with nothing better to do than bug people like me. I was there to help her out – I was there to make her house look better and be a good place to be, I had listened to all her shit about her stupid grandchild and about how young people today are dumb-asses – I had spent more time at her place than I have ever done other places and I had really made an effort – all with the foolish idea that she would be glad and perhaps even happy. But she had to turn on me – she had to do this – fucking old bitch!

Now you must wonder why I am so upset about this and I can’t really explain it. But I think I just got mad at her for accusing me because that thought has never crossed in my mind, why would I want to steal from old people? She attacked my moral and made it clear that I (in her mind) is an immoral person. And that I hate.

Today when I went to work I was quite worried about this. If she had told my boss and my boss made a deal out of it there were a lot of things I should prepare myself. Like how many money would she say I had stolen from her , if my boss believed her and not me would I get fired or just put in another job. I don’t know why I worried about it but I did. When I got there my boss mentioned nothing of such matter and I hope that the old lady either died later that day (slowly and in pain) or she had forgotten all about her smart idea.

So right now old people very much = SHIT in my world!

Peace

Farts.com

Posted 6 November 2002, 9.22 pm by Shaggy

Yes, it is a sight. FartsDotCom . The name states all that needs to be stated.

You can post your own farts on here. Who knows, maybe someone might recognize you........

The Future Is Now

Posted 5 November 2002, 12.44 am by Villager

We are obsessed with the future. Disregarding today, we look to tomorrow, next month and next year for inspiration, hope and intrigue. If we can convince ourselves (or indeed be convinced) that the future holds a marked improvement from the drudgery of present life then things don't seem so bad. Optimism, you might say. Believing that your luck will get better. Alas, it is indeed luck. We seem to place incredible stock in predictions of tomorrow and safeguarding against financial trouble. Horoscopes are a popular way of reassuring yourself that things are indeed going to get better; have you ever read a horoscope that says your in for some real shit and there's no sign of hope for years to come? Others fear the future, and occupy themselves with apprehension and material hoarding so that should awful times strike, they won't be among those caught unprepared; or at least they won't be surprised when it happens.

The future is now. This is your life. As we leave childhood, out of all the dreams and aspirations that once seemed magical and reassuring, we are left with only those within which our material fortune permit, and life it seems will be one long struggle to get closer to what you one day believed you were entitled to possess. Why do we supposedly intelligent beings deceive ourselves as to the promise around the corner? There is no future. I contest its very meaning. What we see as tomorrow is an assumption, not a fact; experience tells us it's unlikely, but if you wake up tomorrow your world could easily be unrecognisable for the rest of your human life. So why do we dedicate today to preparing for a tomorrow that may never come, and cannot be predicted with any meaningful accuracy even if it does?

Of course we must make practical preparations; it would be foolish to live each day as if it were your absolute last because experience tells us that it is prudent to make sure we do have enough to survive on tomorrow. But that neither explains nor excuses wasting our lives in a constant state of expectation, an expectation which goes largely unrewarded. Those with religious beliefs will have their own perspective on the importance of the present and the ultimate insignificance of tomorrow. For others, there is only a subtle difference. Those who live for their own sakes delude themselves when they expect tomorrow to come at all, let alone come bearing endowments of wealth, sensual satisfaction and 'happiness'. We exist in a world that provides ever more than we need today, so why are you not happy unless you have yet more tomorrow?

The silent Child

Posted 3 November 2002, 1.33 am by Sickan

She had the eyes.
Old eyes some would call them.
First time they looked at her.
They knew she was different.
All her life they told her,
That she was different.
Different in many ways.
Different because she never spoke.
She was able to speak.
They knew that.
Sometimes she said a few words,
A few well-put words.
They hit directly in the heart.
She was small and fragile.
Fragile as a fly spotted
By a child.
She had no friends and
She even seemed alone.
But she never complained
Or sought others company.
She liked her loneliness
Then the teens began.
No one teased her in school.
No one talked to her,
They knew they’d never get an answer.

Then one day she came home.
Crying.
She had never cried before.
Why was she crying.
They tried to make her tell them.
She did.
After that she never spoke again.
The sectret she told was horrible.
Her father could not live with it
And he was found in the lake
It was winter.
She did not cry at the funeral.
Neither did her mother.

What was the secret.
We all had to know – we needed it
The stories began humming in the town.
What we could now know for certain
We made up.
Had the father abused her?
Had someone done sometime like that
To the silent child.
What was her name again?
Can you tell me that.
The silent child.
Had he done something terrible?

We never got to know.
We can only imagine.
They left one morning and
They never came back
Their house is still there and
Furniture and plates are there.
But no people.
They went to a new town
A new place a new life.
But the girl kept on being
The silent child.
She knew her father had
Done nothing wrong and
The whispering in the
Old town had driven her
In the shadow of death.
She knew her eyes let her
See things others couldn’t.
She knew that the father
Loved another woman
Not her mother.
That was the secret.
Nothing more.
The silent child
Had old eyes.

Addiction

Posted 2 November 2002, 7.48 pm by Alexander

This is another reader submission, this time from Kateifer. Enjoyez-vous.

Cautiously she turned the corner on her all to familiar route through the dark ally. Why was there no other way for her to go? Everyday she gave up her money. Everyday she walked more alone as one by one they left. All save He; He took everything she ever had. There was never a bite for her, never a penny to be spent. She was His and she knew it, yet she couldn't stop. She was caught in His trap from the first.

Her first trip through the ally came to mind. She was lonely, sad. Death had taken everyone she ever loved. He was there. She knew where to find Him although she had sworn she'd never go looking. Now, she did. He took her into His arms. They were like steel. Frightened at first she tried to escape but He wouldn't let go. Then suddenly the colors started and it was like nothing she had ever seen before. The beauty astounded her taking her breath away and slowly with each new color, her will was gone too.

Soon, she knows, she'll leave. She'll come to the ally and in His embrace she'll leave. He'll never let her go, she knows that now. After the first trip she just had to go back to the ally for more colors. This time though, He gave her music. He gave her light, joy, and a freedom she never new, and He drew her in tighter. Then it changed she had to go back. There was no choice now. She could not walk another way. She was His completely and it was no longer fun. She wanted to escape from Him, but He was the only escape.

Her final walk down the ally. At the end He waits. He knows. His eyes burn with their knowledge of all the others she brought. He knows where their bodies lie. Slowly she picks her way forward over first one then another. She coes to Him and surrenders. Her final trip ends. She too is lying dead on the ground with the others.

Filipino Box Spring Hog

Posted 2 November 2002, 3.34 am by Jake

It's a link to God.

Tom Waits

I'm a big fan. Yeah, I'm a loser. Go ahead and laugh.

Walking Spanish

Posted 1 November 2002, 12.46 am by Jake

Richie looks down the sinister, dark maw of the shotgun as he pisses his pants in the back of an old convenience store.
5 minutes, if Carlo doesn't show up, Richie's going to get his brains painted all over the pavement by a nickel-plated custom Remington 12-gauge.
You see, he and Carlo had a deal with a certain Mr. Espinosa. Mr. Espinosa is a highly-respected, sickeningly wealthy coke dealer. Mr. Espinosa's so fucking rich, you see, that he's sitting at his desk in upper Beverly Hills, having his dick sucked by a maid while one of his goons gets paid $500 an hour to kill people with a large-bore projectile weapon.
The stakes aren't in Richie's favor right now, as if you couldn't tell.
Anyway, Richie's standing there, sweat pouring down his face, hot tears streaking the dirt and splashing onto his $500 jacket, piss running down the legs of his double-stitched custom silk pants, and splattering onto his $400 roach-stompers. Richie starts to have flashbacks.

Two years old, sitting point-blank to a television. He only understands a few words at a time, but the people on there are bright and do funny things. There's a knock at the door. He jumps up from his spot and clumsily toddles over to the door. His mother, Carmen, rushes in front of him, snatches him up into her arms. They both giggle, and Carmen cradles her son in one arm and opens the door.
It's Ruben. Ruben is a supposed "special friend" of Carmen's. Young Richie has already learned the man’s name, and shouts it gleefully upon the man's arrival.
"Wu-bennn!!!" Richie hollers.
"Richie!!" Ruben responds, with a beaming grin.
He kisses Carmen upon entry, and grabs Richie from her arms. He quickly tosses her a small bag during Richie's fraternizing with Ruben. She catches it and pads over to the couch, pulling out a mirror and doing something that Ruben doesn't particularly want Richie to bear witness to. After going to the kitchen with Ruben and getting an apple, they go back into the living room whereupon Carmen whispers something into Ruben's ear.
Ruben strolls across the room and to the couch, while Carmen takes her son to the laundry room to fold laundry and talk to him.

She says sentence after sentence to him, and he just nods his head and says "Yeah, Mama." Suddenly, there's a crash in the living room, and Carmen gasps and dashes to the living room. Richie is worried, so he follows her intently. He runs in and sees Ruben on the floor, shaking. His mother is sobbing and rubbing Ruben's head while babbling into the telephone.

Last thing Richie remembers is the paramedics rushing in and taking Ruben off in the loud trucks, and his mother cradling him and crying, saying in Spanish, "Lo siento, m'ijo." After that night, he never got to see his mother again.

A quick slap to the head with the barrel of the shotgun breaks Richie from his quick vacation. "Oh yeah, back to the fuckin' task on hand," he murmurs.
"Shut up, you piece of shit!" says the big guy. "You've got 2 ½ minutes to live, After that, you'll just be a little grease spot on the back of the Nu-Way."
Richie shakes his head, and closes his eyes again.
His mind starts to wander, but the sudden roar of an oncoming car breaks his moment of closure.
Thank God. It's fucking Carlo.
Carlo comes screeching up in his nice little Cadillac, hops out and strolls up to Espinosa's guy like he's the epitome of cool. James Dean and shit, just a Chicano.
"Hey, fuckface!" he belts, undaunted by the idea that Richie was two and, ah, say 1 ¾ minutes away from dying.
"Having fun?"
"Yeah. It's a lovely goddamned tea party. Get this fucking gorilla to drop his guns and let me go."
"Afraid I can't do that, Richie."
A burst of fear and a twinge of adrenalin rushes to Richie's furthest nerve endings. Kids, this truly sucks.
"What?"
"I didn't stutter, Richie. I can't do that. You see, I owe Mr. Espinosa a favor. And in this case, the favor is setting up a little rat bastard such as yourself to get whacked."
"WHAT? You fucking piece of shit! You can't do this to me!"
"I can't?" Carlo whips out a pistol and shoots Richie in his knee.
Richie collapses like a ton of bricks, and begins to pray.
"Ay, Dios, yo hacia muchas cosas malas,"
"Shut UP, Richie. I warned you once. Don't make me do it once more, where it counts."
"Pero ya quiero que yo arrepiento a todo, y..."
Carlo shoots Richie in his other leg. "Kid, I already told you."
Richie looks up and says , in a halted manner,
"You know, I didn't really get it last time, either. Tell me AGAIN."
Carlo stares into Richie's deep brown eyes, and squeezes off a round right into his forehead.

"Can't say I didn't warn the little fuck. Now let's go get our money."

The big guy laughs and slaps Carlo on the back. They both get into Carlo's Cadillac and drive away, leaving Richie in a heap under the yellow, buzzing streetlight behind the Nu-Way Stop N' Shop.

The most Supreme man on Earth

Posted 31 October 2002, 9.20 pm by Sickan

I just have to do this – I just have to write this article about the most fucking supreme man on this planet – Peter Steele from first Carnivore and now Type O Negative.

I have listened to Type O Negative (TON) for quite some time, or at least a couple of years now and I have always been a huge fan. Now more than ever.

Not so long ago I was told by a friend to get a song by Carnivore called Male Supremacy, the name Carnivore rang a bell but I couldn’t really place it. But oh my god I remembered when I got the song and heard it.

For those who have no interest in Heavy Metal or music like that this will not be anything different from the usual screaming and growl, but for fans like myself this is like a revelation. The lyrics are so great.

They probably seem stupid and even bad to people who again do not listen to this kind of music. But as my friend and I talked about, it is real love that is described in this song (Carnivore – Male Supremacy)

‘Years been away I fought night and day for my land and my king
woman it's true I do battle for you, you my everything
when on the fur I make love to her how her body sings’

This is the right way and there is no other way. Perhaps you now think that we must stop this mess, we must hospitalize Sickan – she is way out there and there is no hope for her. Well prepare to get metallized, my dear.

This is my tribute to Peter Steele. For those of you who know his music and nothing more here is what they say on the TON page:

‘Born in the late Pleistocene age and thawed out in 1971, Peter was raised a devout catholic until he was barred from his own communion for gross flatulence. Peter discovered he could write songs upon his 1987 release from Kings County psychiatric ward after 3 weeks of observation for attempting to commit suicide with plastic eating utensils. In 1989 he formed Type O Negative. He had written the bands original demo for the sole reason of winning back an old girlfriend that had left him for a sanitation worker, but the tapes somehow got the band a record contract. Shortly after his signing Peter was promptly arrested during his 1990 colostomy operation when the surgeon discovered 186 lbs of low grade undigested beef and half of a female femur bone in his large intestine.
After his release from prison he was forced to leave his beloved job for the NYC Parks Department to go on tour with TON. He can now sometimes be sighted raking leaves and removing litter from truck stops and hotel parking lots across the country.
Hobbies: fast food, redheads, and slim-fast’
Thank you typeonegative.net

Now one can either take it all serious and really belief that Peter Steele (or as he was named in Carnivore Petrus) actually have been devouring females and think he is cool. People like that remembers everything shitty like that and they believe in it with every fiber in their beings. Like Manson and his missing ribs.

I think that it is great that TON makes fun of it and thereby makes you think about all the poor souls out there who want to believe it so bad.
Yeah I know, I could have been one of those but I’m just too fucking cool to be an arse like that…

Oh well. Despite Steele’s massive body and impressive look – he has the most wonderful voice. I mean he does not even need that little spade of a bass he plays – his voice does it all. I have never heard a man do magic like that. It really makes you fall head over heals in love with him. I must admit it. Heh.

Now back to the lyrics. All the lyrics TON makes are supreme, I mean look at this one…

‘In her place one hundred candles burning
As salty sweat drips from her breast
Her hips move and I can feel what they're saying, swaying
They say the beast inside of me's gonna get ya, get ya, get...

Black lipstick stains her glass of red wine
I am your servant, may I light your cigarette?
Those lips smooth, yeah I can feel what you're saying, praying
They say the beast inside of me's gonna get ya, get ya, get...

I beg to serve, your wish is my law
Now close those eyes and let me love you to death
Shall I prove I mean what I'm saying, begging
I say the beast inside me's gonna get ya, get ya, get...

Let me love you too
Let me love you to death

Hey am I good enough
for you?
Hey am I good enough
for you?
Am I?
Am I?
Am I good enough
for you?’

Most music in this godforsaken genre is empty and has no depth – well only if you are a wannabe – which I of course never have been…

Well I must end this now – I hope that some have read this to its end… hehe if not I do not blame you.

Peace

Archives: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94

Submissions Minimize

0 Articles awaiting authorisation

Users Online Minimize

Members: 4 Guests: 241
Google

Art Collection Minimize
Click for larger image

This was an illustration for a poem called 'Edmonton, thy cemetary' by Stevie Smith. It's ink and pen on wet paper, a technique I was using quite extensively at the time.


Chat Minimize

Hmph

80s candy bars were pretty good

only because i traded it for a candy bar in the 80's.

lol we all know you don't have a soul ghoti

my soul for some carbs...

But of course!

Yo ! Does this work ?

Support

If you wish to help AKPCEP grow, please use PayPal.
RSS Newsfeed: https://www.akpcep.com/akpcep.rss
Articles posted are copyright the respective authors and may not express the views of akpcep.com. All other content ©Alexander King 2001-2019. ver 4.0
This page was built in 0.0153 seconds