I don't know why he's so happy
bad things
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Jul 242006
Two women died. And a child was crushed.
Enjoy life, esp. without buttons.
goodness me, links
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Jul 202006
The strange world of the koumpounophobic:
Looking at somebody´s buttons always makes me want to hold up my palm in front of my eyes to cover the disgusting view on this. Immediately I have to absorb “a non-button-area”, e.g. the sky or the plain floor, to sort of get rid of the insult in my eyes. I also think buttons smell. Even the word button is disgusting. I grew up in Germany to Czech parents. Even in those two languages the word for button makes me wanna vomit: in Czech it´s: knoflik and in German it´s: Knopf.
proof of who I am
Uncategorized
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Jul 182006
there – that was easy.
How bored am I?
bad things, varnish
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Jul 112006
You know how in life you sometimes know that you’re a bit bored but you don’t know exactly how bored you are? This isn’t one of those times. Right now, I can tell you with absolute precision that am THIS bored:
No more bored than that. No less.
It is a measure of how bored I am that knowing precisely how bored I am hasn’t made me any more bored.
There’s some cold soup on my desk.
SHOOT
What Is This A Part Of? -- THE ANSWER
quiz
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Jul 112006
So – you’ve all been wondering – what was it a part of? (See below).
To obtain the answer, click on the face of Drake:
Ben was close when he suggested “Pig?”
What Is This A Part Of?
quiz
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Jul 102006
A new quiz.
W.A.T.A.P.O.
What is this a part of…?
Yes, but what?
Zizou: poet, footballer, god.
sports
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Jul 092006
I love him like granite. Him and his eyes and skull. Ah, Zizou, vous avez une tête de pierre, et vos pieds sont lumineux, comme tient le premier rôle. Manly Zizou. Stern Zizou. (I call him Zizou because I know him quite well. We smoke hookah pipes together sometimes on a Tuesday).
What Zinedine Zidane did in the world cup final, I worry that people won’t understand it. What he did was say: this is where I am, this is who I am – and this is who I will be. I will determine my own future. This is my legend: I will write the end of it.He wrote his own legend. He is a poet. He didn’t hurt the other guy. He winded him, knocked him down and took himself out. Removed himself. Wrote himself.
Self-created. His own god. Only the gods know when they will die.
By the time the world cup was won, he was hip deep in a stream, fly-fishing. Or puffing on a hookah, thinking about stuff.
He won’t kick a football again.
Unless he fancies it.
Jul 042006
but I’m kind of glad they did.Â
Alan points out: in fact, she can’t see the Professor’s anus. He’d have to whop his
buttocks further apart to give her even an obscured view.
LuÃs Figo! LuÃs Figo! LuÃs Figo!
sports
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Jul 042006
Defeat can be sweet when you have no scruples about switching allegiance. We watched the match in Bar Estrela over cockles, cod cakes and Sagres – and slumped into our cockle plates when Ronaldo slotted home. But the slump lasted about 75 seconds before we were jollied into celebration. There was no escaping it. We sang round the lampposts. LuÃs Figo! LuÃs Figo! We chanted his name across Vauxhall Bridge Road, and waved our Portuguese flip flops at the night sky.
In the semis, we face France. Shouldn’t be a problem. Not with Deco back in the squad.