Shite Unoriginal post by Angus to kill time

I caught myself thinking this fine procrastionation flavoured night: Couch casbah! Now that's a quality blog not getting enough attention at the moment. So, after a 9 month or so long hiatus, I'm back, with something completely unoriginal and no doubt shite (which you dear reader will be the judge of), which will hopefully buy me time to write something half decent. Yep, this baby goes back to the magical year of 2004 in Bondar's famous English Studies class, time spent "people watching" from the back row and dodging all incoming assignments. This is one of the few that I handed either up on time, or at all. Selected Quotation: "I’ll not have your suspicion any more" Johnny and the Whore The smoke from my cigar, Cuban of course, wafted up to the roof, makin’ funny shapes as it got there. I’d rather smoke cigars from the good ole US of A, but I’m a sucker for quality and those Cuban ones are just so damn fine. My friend Billy, he prefers ones from that Dominican Republic, sayin’ how they’re exotic or some shit, but the guy’s a nutcase. Was anyway, before the fuzz put a few slugs in him in the wrong places. Holdin’ up a drug store used to be easy money, but Billy proved that wrong I guess. Always knew the son of a gun would get done someway someday, but ruining the carpet of my local bootlegger was a pain in the ass. Chuck, now he’s the owner, he weren’t too happy about it either. Almost got his ass busted as well, but the officer who blew Billy’s brains out was a friend of a friend, you know. Made him sell some stuff real cheap and clean up the carpet himself just for turning a blind eye, but it was that or Chuck’d be in the slammer for quite a time. Anyway, I was a drifting off back there, so excuse me. I’m in my chair watching the smoke from my cigar mixing with the smoke from my Colt Detective Special. Not too bad for a .38, but above all discreet and pretty quiet, and it sure came out quick when the shit hit the fan. And damn it came out often. If business was as good as my aim, I’d be on easy street. Instead I’m workin’ from a seedy office on 49th in the wrong end of town and getting a bad name with a mob of collection agents. Yeah, that’s me, Johnny Marotti. I’ve got eight slugs in me, one lead and the rest bourbon. Not too shabby before ten o’clock in the morning. The booze packs a wallop and I pack a revolver. I’m a private eye. Suddenly the door swung open and in walked trouble. Blonde as usual, no doubt a hooker, judging from the tits in that top. Parasites they are, because you end up accepting their services instead of receiving cold cash. Not that the cash would be cold. I bet that money would get around faster than hands fold at one of Don Terminelli’s poker games. The hooker, like any other hooker that walks in, was bawling her eyes out, drawling in that annoying twang that pisses everyone off above Kansas, myself included. Or maybe I just seen too many of these damn cases. I listened to the wench wail on, giving her the token tissue or if she was really special, my own snotrag. Clean of course, I aint that low…at least not yet anyways. Standard case as usual, trouble with clientele and far too optimistic in my legal abilities, but probably right ‘bout my shot. Still, I aint squeaky clean myself but when she asked "And just how successful are ya in these kinda things?" I was feeling mighty annoyed. "I’ll not have your suspicion anymore ma’am" I replied in my best north eastern accent, hoping to really rile her and keep my price high at the same time. I was thinking about usin’ "madam" but I can’t stand frog talk just as much as the next Yank. Saved their ass just as many times as they’ve saved ours. Ten minutes through the crying I had all I needed to know. Fat slob Luigi Carbone was popular with the boys, but not with the girls, both in and out of bed. Apparently ran her through with a few choice words and then some choice slaps. Not that I wanted to see, clothing on was better than clothing off on this one. Had my hands tied of course, just with all these cases. Hank, you see, now he’s my second cousin, and I owe him a thing or two from a few years back when we had a run in with some of Terminelli’s men. Used his car as the getaway and told him ten minutes before showtime. When we returned, the baby had twenty nine holes in it and about as steady as a drunk on New Year’s. Mario fixed it pretty quick, but I was still out of pocket with a mighty large favour to repay. After this adventure, Hank decided to move from rye to poppies. Crazy bastard. As you’d know it, the biggest customer of his is none other than Carbone, also a cousin of his but not of mine. Acquitting the guy was likely leading to more trouble than a nigger in New Orleans, and if I took him down myself…easy enough, but even easier to join him six feet under. I had a mighty fine dilemna to solve. The whore wasn’t worth the trouble helping her was gonna cause, but in the end I guess things worked out real good. Her story had more holes in it than Hank’s car. Feeling rather pissed off about the possibility of running around in circles on this case like a chook with no head, just because she couldn’t get her story straight, I went for the deciding question: "How big was he?". Everybody in the city who knows anybody worth knowing knows that Carbone’s as big as baby’s thumb, with the stamina to match. It’s the quickest thirty five most of these ladies make. But I was unsure of this one. Carbone wouldn’t sink this low for the girls he could pay. I’d have to give it to her, but the lady made the logical decision to match his dick with the size of the rest of him. Too bad nature doesn’t work out that way. I suspected a rat from Carbone after I had given Hank a mix up of his order a few weeks back and this looked it. I would’ve put it past Carbone to send a woman for a man’s job, but apparently he was supplying the Don. Terminelli was pissed at Carbone, and Carbone wasn’t happy with me. Pulling a magnum on her, this was the time for her to do some fast talking. I was pretty pissed at Carbone, he sure hadn’t spent the dough needed to knock me off, and the hooker spilt the beans in seconds. The bitch of a son. Shoot first and ask questions later is the gold ole American approach, and it’s a damn fine one if ya know whatcha doin’. I rang Luigi and told him we were square. Hank would have some dry cleaning to be looking after. If Adolf was in this story, this is what he'd be wearing. I love you Wolf 3D. Bondar said it was too risque for the yearbook. Plenty of swimming carnival shots in there though. This story is completely fictional and not based on any Mercedes characters. Fuck that shit, you know who they are.

Dan Brown, more like Can.. Drown... DAMN

This Ron Howard adapted monstrosity is hitting the BIG-SCREEN in the coming week. I read the book, I was given a copy for my birthday and they lost the receipt. All in all it was easy to read, it plays like a fast paced movie and there isn't much to dislike about it. However, the sheer level of hype around it is sickening and I almost feel ashamed for having read it along with every other man and his dog (woman?). Taking part in blockbuster fads makes me feel a tad sheep'ish, by the way the fPod on my desk belongs to ... the milkman. At least by reading it I can now rightfully discuss it. I can't say as much about Harry Potter. At this point I realise in posting about it I am attributing to what I'm annoyed about. IT'S A TRAP. Alas I am only human. Does this mean this whole post is pointless? Not if I turn it into a discussion of religion! And there is so much to see and say regarding this forsaken text in our world lately. Being chronically unable to discern fact from fiction it is no surprise that there is a large portion of Christian outrage over the constructed-to-be-controversial and unsubstantiated fantasy of The Da Vinci Code. Are they angry and afraid because this book of fiction challenges their own? It seems ever more likely. If they are supremely confident in their own beliefs then they have nothing to worry about, so where does all their fear come from? With every cry of “blasphemy” they rock the foundations of the very ethos they centre their stubborn lives on; one of supposed peace, understanding, love, and liberty. That does not spell hatred, distrust, confusion, intolerance, and rejection of challenging concepts however far fetched. Let the blasphemers be blasphemous you heartless tyrannical dictators! Dr. Muow: "It's going to be water cooler conversation, so Christians need to take a deep breath, buy the book and shell out the money for the movie. Then we need to educate Christians about what all this means. We need to help them answer someone who says, 'So how do you know Jesus didn't get married?'" The truth is… you don’t need to do anything, Dr. Meow. If Christians need to be taught how to answer that kind of question then you have bigger problems than this. In other news, the original reel of The Last Temptation of Christ has been burnt by evangelists who also took it upon themselves to crucify Willem Dafoe. Who knows what they were trying to achieve, I guess they felt it was their duty as poor misguided human beings to do something stupid and ultimately pointless. Why God, WHY. He had so much more to offer. That'll teach you to play Jesus.