Ra Ego Has Landed Back!
7:30p.m.
I arrived back tired but happy at the Unheard of and McDonald Islands a couple of hours ago to find a rejection letter waiting for me at the cave entrance.
Some semi-illiterate merchant banker from Curtis Brown sent me the usual. We have to be a 1o0 percent sure, etc. This is the same letter they send to everyone of course. Bet you the idiot hadn't even read it, whatever it was. I send messages by email so I don't have to find shit like this sitting waiting for me at home. I'd forgotten I'd sent this moron anything and thought the letter was from a friend of mine. I've a good mind to set one of my wrathful deities on his sorry arse. I hope your legs fall off the next time you walk into a restaurant for a chicken dinner!
It's good to be back! No nice buddhisty people around! Say what you like! There are no things, just labels and functions. Probably no sentient beings, just aggregates and neuroses! Say what you like about buddhist philosophy, but take away the compassion and you can have anyone's guts for garters!
Come out and fight, you stupid English bourgeois pig! We've going to have a boxing ring down on the beach here soon and you are cordially invited to get your block knocked off by the champ of the nearby Flat Island, Adolf the Hun!
888 visitors to this blog so far and 2727 hits. Of course, most of these aren't human beings. Some are definitely robots while the Martians are obviously looking in. Any Masai warriors who would like to send Curtis Brown a ton of horseshit from CrapRUs, be my guest.
Now that I'm not dead at fifty two after all, (like my da) I've decided I'm going to live to 104 like my great granny, Mary the Flea. That means I'm only half way there. Plenty of time to recoup the karmic damage caused by offting at least twenty literary agents. Milarepa, the great Tibetan saint, offted at least thirty folk before he got cold feet. Twenty flatheided agents would only cost about ten years in the hut. After meditating ten hours a day for seven days down at the wonderful Samye Ling, ten years in the allotment hut would be a real pleasure!
For the benefit of those people not from these islands, I should explain some vocabulary here.
Merchant banker is rhyming slang for literary agent. Most of them can't read and sign their names with such a squiggle that you can't get on the blower and make their legs fall off on the spot.
An allotment is a patch of ground about the size of a tennis court given out by the local governance for the purpose of growing vegetables and hiding from flatheids.
Offting someone as in: Spagetti Sam just offted the Batman!
Still got a fortnight's holiday. I think I'll take my voodoo dolls up to the allotment tomorrow!
I arrived back tired but happy at the Unheard of and McDonald Islands a couple of hours ago to find a rejection letter waiting for me at the cave entrance.
Some semi-illiterate merchant banker from Curtis Brown sent me the usual. We have to be a 1o0 percent sure, etc. This is the same letter they send to everyone of course. Bet you the idiot hadn't even read it, whatever it was. I send messages by email so I don't have to find shit like this sitting waiting for me at home. I'd forgotten I'd sent this moron anything and thought the letter was from a friend of mine. I've a good mind to set one of my wrathful deities on his sorry arse. I hope your legs fall off the next time you walk into a restaurant for a chicken dinner!
It's good to be back! No nice buddhisty people around! Say what you like! There are no things, just labels and functions. Probably no sentient beings, just aggregates and neuroses! Say what you like about buddhist philosophy, but take away the compassion and you can have anyone's guts for garters!
Come out and fight, you stupid English bourgeois pig! We've going to have a boxing ring down on the beach here soon and you are cordially invited to get your block knocked off by the champ of the nearby Flat Island, Adolf the Hun!
888 visitors to this blog so far and 2727 hits. Of course, most of these aren't human beings. Some are definitely robots while the Martians are obviously looking in. Any Masai warriors who would like to send Curtis Brown a ton of horseshit from CrapRUs, be my guest.
Now that I'm not dead at fifty two after all, (like my da) I've decided I'm going to live to 104 like my great granny, Mary the Flea. That means I'm only half way there. Plenty of time to recoup the karmic damage caused by offting at least twenty literary agents. Milarepa, the great Tibetan saint, offted at least thirty folk before he got cold feet. Twenty flatheided agents would only cost about ten years in the hut. After meditating ten hours a day for seven days down at the wonderful Samye Ling, ten years in the allotment hut would be a real pleasure!
For the benefit of those people not from these islands, I should explain some vocabulary here.
Merchant banker is rhyming slang for literary agent. Most of them can't read and sign their names with such a squiggle that you can't get on the blower and make their legs fall off on the spot.
An allotment is a patch of ground about the size of a tennis court given out by the local governance for the purpose of growing vegetables and hiding from flatheids.
Offting someone as in: Spagetti Sam just offted the Batman!
Still got a fortnight's holiday. I think I'll take my voodoo dolls up to the allotment tomorrow!
posted by Hotboy at 7:24 PM
4 Comments:
Do you find that a week's meditation does wonders for the tolerance?
Unfortunately, there was me again. How disappointing. But I think you've got to expect to feel humiliated and depressed. I hope this helps. Hotboy
Hotboy! Too blissed to blog? I know how it is.
I get it now. You've gone to Mexico with PinksAndRoses, to teach the peasants creative writing and spelling. Why didn't you just tell me? I'm not the jealous kind.
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