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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.
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.


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.
"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

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.


Thoughts on a Bad Day

Posted 30 October 2002, 10.01 pm by Shaggy

As a character in Richard III (Shakespeare's rendition) once said, "Now is the winter of our discontent." Indeed, winter is approaching, and the leaves are starting to change colour.

In fact, I was rather cold walking to/from school today.

At any rate, this may come as a shock, but I have been thinking. What is it about the concept of an Outsider (read: Albert Camus' The Outsider, you'll thank me) that is important? Is it the concept of différance/différence that amuses people, the concept that language, as in a structuralist sense, is composed of differences? Is it important that there be white, so that it can define black?

Being the type of person that one could safely call eccentric (among many things), I agree that I relish in my differences and my "outsideness." It is what defines me as opposed to every other person who matches my biographical details (20 year old English honours student in long distance relationship, let's call me Student A). It is what makes me Student A as opposed to Student B.

Yet, how is this possible, that I exist merely through the characteristics of those who can be classified as "absolutely not me?"

One set of footprints in the sand, who was guiding me all along?

I often find myself striving to be a "good" person, and yet, especially in light of my social-perspective experiments as of late (for those who didn't get a chance to read them, I basically embodied everything that I am not, as far as morality is concerned, in order to deconstructionalize myself, and to gain further perspective into this thing called "Reality"), I find myself wondering: is there good without evil? I do not mean in a strictly biblical sense, in which case you have both good and evil, and to believe in one theoretically is a belief in the other. I mean, in the moral and Real sense, the "good inside of us." Can we say that a veterinarian is a good person if we do not have anyone who is cruel/insensitive to animals?

Perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps it is as easy as "yes and no." Perhaps I have to lock myself up in a monastary for decades in order to truly find the answer, but until then...

I will strive to be good, regardless of evil. Whether or not evil is necessary, I will not consider, but rather, I will be its brother, hoping to become its police officer.

Thank you.

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In 2018 I started painting again. This was one of a series of acrylic sketches I did to relearn techniques and revisit my skills from art college.

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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 ?


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