Cancer, Goldilocks and Superman's Pee of Fire!

Cancer is a motherfucker.

He most often turns up as a tumor. Just walks into your body like he owns the place. Sits in your chair. Sleeps in your bed.

Like Goldilocks if she were a fat smelly parasitic crack whore.

Cancerous tumors are mutations of our own cells. These affected cells start dividing uncontrollably - a cockroach’s bursting egg sack sending its dirty babies out to deliver carnage.

OMG! Goldilocks is a giant cockroach crack whore pumping out cockroach babies!

And cockroaches are fast. They race past your bodies defenses. It’s called asmetastasis. The cockroach spawn find their way into your bloodstream, spread through your whole body.

Cells from malignant tumors can invade many different tissues. They’re not choosy. They can get to your lungs, spleen, bone, everywhere.

Each metastatic cell sets up camp. Goldilocks going global. And forms a new tumor in the new location.

Put simply: If this happens you die.

Your body can’t support the growth of so many tumors. Your organs, working so hard to keep you alive, get a big fat bastard sitting on them. They can’t work anymore. They stop and YOU DIE.

So you think, fuck this shit, and call in Chemotherapy.

Chemotherapy is grizzled angry Superman without the dorky costume who really, really hates Cancer. Seriously, if cancer were on fire he’d pee on it only because grizzled Superman’s pee IS MORE FIRE!!!

Chemotherapy is designed to kill rapidly dividing cells. All those cockroach babies. Grizzled Superman uses his telescopic vision to spot them and then uses his fucking huge fists to pound them into oblivion and then just to be safe he pees his FLAMING PEE all over them.

The problem is some of those rapidly dividing cells aren’t cockroaches. They’re beautiful butterfly babies that only want to kiss and be nice. They’re normal healthy functioning cells. They’re your hair follicles and stomach lining.

That’s why chemo patients lose their hair and feel like puking most of the time.

Grizzled Superman has to kill just enough cells to kill the tumors, but not so many so he kills you.

And then he pees on them. Did I mention that grizzled superman PEES FIRE? He does. I mean, FIERY PEE!!! Awesome!

They need money to make grizzled Superman more awesome and make his FIERY PEE even hotter.

Give generously. Don’t be cheap. Someday Goldilocks might sneak through your window. Sit in your chair. And pump her cockroach crack whore babies through your body.

DONATE HERE:
https://www.cancerresearchuk.org/get-involved/donate?gclid=CjwKCAjwndvlBRANEiwABrR32AqIIN7wtHFU3f7U5wRj-xZkRY80QfQphkILqNLWs6x48QuYRQbSlRoC81IQAvD_BwE&gclsrc=aw.ds

MORE INFO HERE:
https://www.cancerresearchuk.org/

Here There Be Monsters!

The Hound of the Baskervilles is a true story!

Well, not really, but Arthur Conan Doyle did base his Sherlock Holmes novel on the Dartmoor legend of the Beast of Bodmin. Doyle stayed a while in Princetown, Devon, on the moors, and heard the legend of the ‘Beast of Bodmin Moor’ from his pal. Bertram Fletcher Robinson.

There have been sixty reported sightings of the Beast - a five-foot long black panther-like creature with yellow eyes - and coupled with the numerous reports of mutilated livestock, the police decided in 1995 to investigate its existence.

Of course, they found nothing. Monsters don’t exist. Ha! It’s all just stories.

But then, not long after the po-po concluded that there was no Beast, a young boy found a leopard’s skull on the banks of the River Fowey in Cornwall.

Oh my Dog! Monsters DO exist! It’s all real.

Then the Natural History Museum discovered that the skull had made it into the country as part of an imported leopardskin rug.

Spoilsports.

But then Benjamin Mee, the owner of Dartmoor Zoo, said that in 1978 he was expecting a delivery of five pumas from the closing-down Plymouth Zoo and only two arrived. The owner of Plymouth Zoo, Mary Chipperfield, apparently had a breakdown of some sort and couldn’t bring herself to give over her favourite pumas to another zoo so she released them into the wild.

This was okay, because it was 1978 and releasing ‘exotic species’ into the wild wasn’t illegal until 1981. Good thing it wasn’t these days - Imagine the twitterstorm after she tweeted it on Twitter, the twit!

Her husband denies the story, and Mary passed away in 2014 so she can’t argue.

Even now police get reports of “a tiger on the loose” or a “beast digesting its dinner in my back garden” in Axminster. A Google search will reveal dozens of photos and videos allegedly of the Beast. In October 2016 giant paw prints, 4 inches wide like those of a lion, were found in Cornwall.

But Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t hear any story about an escaped zoo animal. He died in 1930 - long before Mary Chippenfield claims to have let the cats out. So what Beast was his mate talking about?

YOUTUBE VIDEO HERE:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XsncL2sJvFE

the God of Garbage

it was around 8.19am when the God of Garbage revealed himself to me. i was in the greenhouse, having a coffee and a smoke, when the bin in the corner stood up.

he wasn't tall. maybe a head and shoulders shorter than me. he was made up of dirty napkins, crusts of bread, and a Coke can. he was wearing a bin bag. his voice was normal, but i couldn't place the accent.

i said, "Hello." he replied, "Can I pinch one of your fags?" so i rolled up a ciggy for him and he sat down across from me.

he asked, "What are you writing?" i told him it was my journal. "A diary?" he said, "I keep one too." he seemed pleased that we had something in common.

he sucked on his cigarette and ate the butt when he was done. then he reached into the ashtray and started munching on the rest of the debris.

i rolled him another smoke.

"Thanks," he said, "I hate all this fresh air."

he finished that one same as the last. then he waved goodbye and climbed back into the trash.

a summer's day

trousers rolled up like Huck Finn. straw hat shading his face. glass of lemonade and a cigarette. a gentle breeze keeps him cool, as does Van Morrison on the radio.

the cat sleeps in the shade, too soporific to chase the birds in front of his nose.

he regards his toes. they look rotten. his pasty feet have been cooped in socks and shoes for months. but now they're free. soaking sun. shoeless. liberated.

he surveys the garden. flowers in bloom. colourful explosions frozen in the heat.

on a day like this there are no troubles in the world. he feels sunk in contentment. he sighs heavily. releasing any tension from the day's work. he sits up. stretches. arches his back and wriggles his toes.

time has stopped. he writes in his journal. filling a page even though he's written today already. he sips the cold lemonade and considers rolling another smoke.

a butterfly zig-zags past.

he thinks of stolen fragments of a day.

with no one to please but himself.

Broke Lads & Annoying Ads

I ride the bus because I’m way too important to drive myself. Also I get to read a book, listen to music, and have strange conversations with the other proles.

What is it about bus drivers? They have a fairly easy job - no heavy lifting, no boss in their face all day, a place to sit - so why are they always so surly?

Anyway. I’m at the bus stop, in the rain because this is England, and maybe it’s my mood that causes my irritation and not the sad lame stupid poster for Ladbrokes. “When you know,” it proclaims, “You know you know!” or “When you win it’s skill. When you lose it’s bad luck.”

Underneath each pearl is their slogan: This is the Ladbrokes Life!

So going down the betting shop in a tracksuit to spend your dole money is a lifestyle choice? Ah, now I understand.

Maybe hanging around outside Tesco swigging a Special Brew tinny and leering at schoolgirls is too.

And the bloke swaggering down the road with a badly behaved staffie shouting abuse at his pram-pushing teenage missus is a cultural icon 

As British as bangers and baked beans.

“When you win,” the poster tells me, “Get them in.”

This is the Ladbrokes Life!

I’m not sure if the Ladbrokes media boys are trying to be ironic, but I wouldn’t think their customer base would have much insight into such subtleties. In fact, I can only imagine the guy chucking his benefits cash on football results and horses would get a kick out of seeing a version of himself splashed over a bus stop wall.

It’s truth in advertising. Too much of it.

Next we’ll get a “Citybus Legends” campaign - A guy with greasy hair and sweat-stained armpits telling you he doesn’t have change for a tenner; or grinning through yellow teeth as he watches you running for his bus and drives off just before you get there.