“Ryan Gosling Won’t Eat His Cereal”.
The internet is a very silly place.
Brooding Cityscapes by Jeremy Mann
Original Bill_Nye_tho appreciation blog before it was suspended~
the best twitter in the history of twitter!
oh my fucking god
Yasmin Nakhuda, the former owner of the ‘Ikea Monkey’, who was an internet sensation last year, testifies in court on Thursday
I actually had this problem once when the computer screen was blurred and I couldn’t watch any videos about tractors on Youtube or Dailymotion and I was struggling to read a PDF document I had downloaded about hair loss solutions but then I realised that the problem was that I had smeared the screen with fat from the Ginster’s pasty I had had for lunch while stroking a picture of Claudia Winkelman that I use as wallpaper, for good luck in the darts tournament I would be taking part in that evening at my local pub, the Horse and Anchor, and it was a delicious pasty really but I wiped the screen off with a page from the Daily Mail with an article about immigrants on it and I was even able to scrape enough off to put in a brown bread sandwich which I put in the fridge next to my tins of non-alcoholic ale, because I’d given up alcoholic ale for Lent, which was a bloody difficult month I can tell you, and just above a lovely piece of smoked salmon wrapped in tinfoil which I’d been saving since the week before when my brother Bernard came over for his supper and we played Pontoon and drank non-alcoholic ale, and I had the sandwich after I came back from the darts tournament in which I came third, which I thought was bloody good considering the fact that it’s difficult for me to hold darts properly now what with my fat, stubby, sweaty fingers and rheumy vision, and a lovely sandwich it was too, and I washed it down with a non-alcoholic ale and a nice bit of smoked salmon in front of Countryfile which I had taped because I tape it every morning because I can’t watch it because I’m usually out rambling when Countryfile is on with my two cocker spaniels, Ian and Julia, and Ian’s getting on a bit now but they’re both lovely dogs, I had Julia spayed last year and she was right fussy for a while and wouldn’t eat her Pedigree Chum but she’s cheered up a bit now, I just couldn’t handle her whelping another litter now because my wife died a couple of years ago because I shot her in the face with my shotgun and I told them it was suicide and they believed me.
Ee, just talking about it I’ve come out in a sweat thinking about that lovely smoked salmon, I think I’m going to go into my freezer and see if I’ve got any left, I threw quite a lot out about two months ago because I needed the freezer space for all the dead pheasants and ducks I’d collected in carrier bags from Waitrose while out rambling with Ian and Julia; I’m not even sure why I’m collecting them but I saw their heads off and boil the flesh off and I use the feathers as flies for fishing and once the skulls are clean I use them to decorate my Secret Room with the dead-bolt in which I keep my gun and my pictures of Claudia Winkelman with the eyes cut out and I strip naked and I dance with my red jowls flopping around and I put on my wife’s old clothes and I chastise myself for shooting her in the face with my shotgun and telling them it was suicide and then I weep, and soon the weeping turns into laughter, and I dance till I drop and I collapse sobbing onto the settee and usually fall asleep and then I wake up in the morning about 7:30 and it’s time to go out rambling with Ian and Julia and I collect more dead birds and it never occurs to me that Ian and Julia died years ago and that I’m just talking to myself and there isn’t a pub near here and I’ve never played darts before and my house smells like dead flesh but I don’t notice it any more and one of my toenails fell off when I took off my walking boots the other day and about six months ago I took all the mirrors out of the house and I burnt them because I couldn’t recognise the leering pervert staring at me from within them wearing my dead wife’s clothes and sipping from a can of ale, and sometimes Bernard still shows up and he leaves little packages for me with food in them but I very rarely see him and whenever I do he tells me he’s not my brother and that Bernard died when he was 9 years old and that I must leave him alone and being bloody rude, and I think the next time he comes I’m going to be waiting for Bernard, and I’m going to get my shotgun out and make him go into my special room and then I shall make him dance with me and then I shall show him my skulls and then we shall weep together and I will laugh and I shall dance for him, then I shall add his skull to my collection and it shall sit in gleaming majesty in the pride of place amongst all the others and I shall talk to him whenever I wish and I shall eat his hands so that he lives forever inside me.
They rent the rooms out by the hour, the rooms in a certain hotel by the motorway near Ipswich that I won’t mention by name where once a month I drive down in my Land Rover to meet an Eastern European gentleman who has procured for me a lovely little Asian filly and we have a little bit of fun and I wear my wife’s old clothes and she beats me with a paddle, and by the end of it we’re both usually weeping and once or twice I’ve slapped her around a bit in the heat of the moment and I have to pay the Eastern European gentleman a little extra but he doesn’t mind really, and we say to each other see you next month and I go home and have a nice ale and a mince pie and fall asleep and wake up with my two cocker spaniels, Ian and Julia, licking the grease off my face and we go out rambling while I tape Countryfile, and those girls can never look me in the eye, they never look me in the eye, they never look me in the eye.