Super Yes Brothers

Porn! Love it or hate it, it’s everywhere. I chose to love it. Reason being, it doesn’t answer back when I ask for it. Just torrents upon torrents of the filthy stuff available at my finger-tips. Not just mine but yours, your partner’s, mum, dad, boss, teacher, colleague, barista, hairdresser, therapist, local park ranger and your friendly neighbourhood dogging enthusiast (other stereotypes are available). So easy it is to open up a Google and type in my very heart’s desire and within 0.30 seconds my laptop is turned from a family friendly tool used by everybody in my household, to a cock stiffening sluice of heart pumplingly obscene and psychologically-nightmarish, flesh based horror designed to make me feel shitty about myself at the very second I chose to make myself climax into a lubricated receptacle of my choice. Marvellous stuff.

The flat’s fine. I like it. I love living here. It’s cosy, there are enough shelves to put all my crap up, and the landlord doesn’t mind me putting up a couple of nails to hang stuff from the walls. It doesn’t get much light, so it’s kind of dingy in the day, but its affordable and the location is OK.

It’s the bear who lives upstairs who’s the problem.

Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t got anything against bears myself. And I love animals, really I do. Some of my best friends are animals. But this bear, this bear, I just can’t bare.

I’m not sure where he’s from. I’m not sure he knows either. He’ll never give you a straight answer. Sometimes he likes to imply that he’s from a rainforest somewhere in South America, other day’s he’s got an American accent. I once heard him claim he had family in a small woods in Kent. There aren’t any bears in Kent though, right? I’m pretty sure he’s lived India though- he’s always going on about hanging out with his friends in the jungle there. Who the fuck knows with bears though, right?

I guess the biggest problem is the dancing. I mean, you’ve seen the size of some of those guys? 3 o’clock in the morning and suddenly BANG BANG BANG, bloody tap-dancing bear and his awful jazz music or whatever it is he’s listening to. Bits of plaster falling from the ceiling.

“I’m a bear”, he said to me when I pulled him up about it, “I’m nocturnal”. I looked it up on Wikipedia: While it is a commonly held belief that bears are nocturnal, they are in fact diurnal, active for the most part during the day. He’s full of shit is what he is.

Speaking of shit, you should see the state of his garden. According to him, it’s the closest thing to a woods around here, and of course we all know where bears prefer to go, right? That’s maybe true, but then again, he’s living in a flat in east London so if living an authentic, bear-like lifestyle is really that important to him, maybe he ought to bugger off back to the wild.

And wow, I’ve never seen someone with such terrible fashion sense put so much effort in to what they wear. I know I’m not exactly a bastion of sartorial elegance, but this guy is on another level. I mean, on a good day, they guy just wanders around bollock naked. That’s fine, I suppose. It’s cultural, innit? But then sometimes he wears these ridiculous red wellies. Have you ever seen a bear in wellies? They’re not designed for bear feet. The claws pop through the bottom. They’re the wrong shape. The duffel coat isn’t much better either. And then he wears this stupid checked scarf. You’re a bear! you’ve got fur! What’s with all the winter clothing? In July? Trinny and Susannah could have a field day with this guy.

I’ve never met anyone so accident prone. I’ve lost track of the amount of times he’s come downstairs asking for help to get his hand out of a jar of honey. I came home last week to find his backside hanging out of the living room window. He’d locked himself out, tried to break in and got stuck. There were about 6 of his mates there, all trying to get him out. Half of them on the inside trying to pull him in, the others outside trying to pull him out at the same time. Morons. Not one of them though to open the bloody window wider.

And I’m not even going to bother telling you about his weirdo mates. That bloody depressive donkey that he hangs around with all the time. Barrel of laughs he is. Or the nervous little pig guy. That guy adores him, follows him around everywhere, worships the ground he walks on. It’s creepy is what it is.

Anyway, I’d better get a move on. The tiger’ll be round for tea soon, and if I haven’t got his tin of cat food ready, you’ll know about it.

Hippo, every time!

As a commuter, it’s important to indulge myself with thrifty life hacks in order to make my journey to a place I would rather avoid more tolerable. Such systems I put in place are that of; free, overly milky weak coffee from Waitrose; Repeatedly checking social media on my phone so see if anybody gave a shit about a picture I found from when I was 5, and; Playing a game I call 5 Seconds, in which I force myself to decide which of the people in my visibility would I choose to re-populate the earth with should there be a nuclear fallout and I have – you guessed it- 5 seconds to choose. It’s important to have these devices in place. However none of said hacks are as affective as picking up my free copy of The Metro. When I pass through the barriers at the station, I am welcomed to a vast selection of the same edition paper from the stand in front of me, being careful never to take the top copy out of fear its structural integrity has been compromised. Despite having an e-reader with the latest Murakami book which I would rather lose myself in, I choose to pick up the flimsy shitrag from its stand, instantly regretting my choice in literature and by the time I’m on the platform, its oily print as already found its way into the deepest pores of my soul. This today, I think I indulged in what the critics have hailed as ‘The greatest edition of the Metro I ever did see’. Here was my experience of that edition: Upon picking it up, I thought to myself Oh no! I appear to have accidently picked up an advert for Compare The Market!! I shall put it down immediately, however after further inspection I realise it IS in fact the right document to start my day with. I open the front page advert only to be warmly welcomed by the headline THE PAEDOPHILE ‘CHILD EXPERT’ AT THE HOME OFFICE. Oh great, I think, another paedophile. I HATE paedophiles. In a day and age which we are so thickly surrounded by these social wasps, my wife must be feeling pretty damn lucky that she did not marry one. I turn the page to read about how Sherridan Smith is set to play Cilla Black in an imaginatively, named ITV biopic Cilla. Yeah! my idtio and equally deslektick internal monologue continues, I can really see that work. I must tell the wife. She loves ITV. My journey through the paper continues. Learn to Speak Cat appears to be missing today in lieu of the Celebrity Big Brother contender analysis. Oh well, there’s always Rush Hour Crush to look forward to. I break at this point for a quick round of 5 Seconds. Redhill is a good place to have a quick game due to the high level of commuter traffic. Lots to choose from, but there can only be one lucky winner (Turns out the winner is a rather trashy Asian lady with pleasingly thick thighs). I trudge through the paper, past the food section and London Night Life pages, only to stumble into the worst part of my conscious existence. This fucking asshole, again!

This

It's not the easiest thing, being an alive person with brains and thoughts in those brains. There are a huge amount of things you can do with those brains, these days. It is entirely possible to learn so much about dinosaurs, for example, that you are allowed to call yourself a Doctor. You could spend all your time taking photographs of owls until you have so many pictures of owls you can put them in a book and then sell that book to people who like looking at pictures of owls. You could get really good at balancing things on top of your head and then balancing other things on top of those things in new and creative ways and tour the country charging people to see you balance things on things on things on you. These are all perfectly valid lifestyle choices and I applaud anyone who has the motivation and energy to dedicate themselves to such tasks. 

However, sometimes it's all you can do to convince your eyelids to prise themselves apart in the morning, so you can lay there and stare vacantly at a bedside table covered in used tissues and Kit-Kat wrappers and think 'Welp. Another day of trying to find something to occupy my brains with'. Brains are wonderful things to have, and it's great being able to use them do do things like help tie your shoelaces or come up with vegetable based movie puns, but they also are fairly demanding. They like to be occupied. They like to have things to do and thoughts to think and problems to solve.

But sometimes brains don't really know what they want. Because all a brain is, is a place to collect all of a persons experiences. A hard drive, constantly recording every thing that goes on all around it in the hope that some of it, at some point will be useful. Sifting through all that information isn't easy, and sometimes a brain will wonder if all the effort that it's put in to achieving whatever it has at that current point was really worth it. What has it got to show for it? Does it really want the things it has, or the things it thinks it wants? If it tries a thing, will it fail or will people laugh?  Will it be the right thing? And rather than spending energy on working towards a thing, a brain can easily be convinced to spend its energy on telling itself that it's no good, that it's not worth trying anyway. It's amazing how much energy and time a brain can spend on thoughts that basically amount to telling itself how awful it is.

Obviously, despite being a brain owner myself, I don't speak for all brains here. 

But it's easy for a brain (or some brains, anyway), a machine with all this capacity and potential to get so caught up in itself, to spend so much energy putting itself down, to tell itself that nothing it does is any good anyway so why bother, to see how well all the other brains are getting on with their doctorates and books and families and ability to balance logs on their foreheads, that it just kind of feels like giving up. Sometimes it's easier to distract itself from all that negativity by spending a lot of time on Facebook, or watching all of Netflix or playing Bomberman or masturbating five or six times a day because then it wont have to think about all that other difficult stuff, like how unpleasant it is, how lonely and fucking useless it feels and oh look - a listicle titled 234 Cat GIFS you won't belive you haven't already seen!

Which is not particularly helpful. Because while there's nothing wrong with watching half a series of The Golden Girls in one sitting, or masturbating once or twice a day, eventually that brain just finds one more thing to hate about itself, because it's spending all that time doing something useless when it could be out there, I don't know, discovering a cure for CancerAIDS, or writing a children's book about a helpful parrot or fucking something. Or shit, just doing some exercise and eating healthily instead of subsisting on a shitty diet of readymeals and Cornettos so that every time the body that that brain is encased in exerts itself it doesn't feel like somebody is trying to push a fistful of hot thumbtacks through it's chest. For example. 

And the brain keeps telling itself that it should be doing something different, something better, something helpful or creative or intelligent, because anything less than that is a waste and why bother at all in that case and better just watch another series of Malcolm in the Middle today instead of worry about all of that probably something better will happen tomorrow because even though its spending all of it's energy beating itself up, it's so used to doing that that it hardly feels like any trouble, and it's certainly easier than trying to change things. It's a piece of fucking shit anyway, so probably not worth it. 

And the whole thing just goes round and round and round again.

But occasionally the brain might just be able to grab on to something. A moment of self-awareness or something. Something that tells it that perhaps change is possible. That never mind if it hasn't done anything to help find a cure for CancerAIDS, or adopted any kittens or written any books about dinosaurs. Because it's still a pretty smart brain. It is capable of doing other things. Of being a good friend. Of drawing whimsical pictures of instruments. Of occasionally being clever or witty. Of being able to drive an incredibly fast and ridiculously expensive car round and round in circles for two hours in front of thousands of cheering spectators better than any of the other people who also have incredibly expensive and fast cars and are also currently driving them round in circles in front of thousands of cheering spectators. For example. 

It takes a lot of effort to re-channel that energy from something negative, when it is so used to it, to something positive. It can feel like a Sisyphean task. It's so much easier to dick around on the internet. But if it sees a way to maybe claw back some of that energy, to channel it in to something that might actually feel good about, or enjoy, or get some pleasure out of, then if it can, it should take it.

Which is why it might, for example, ask Facebook to ask it to review random things.

Jesus, why do you people hate me so much? First of all, what's wrong with you? Are you one of those people who literally can't watch a film without first reading the Wikipedia page, ostensibly so "I can see if I'm going to like it'", (which is a bullshit reason in itself), but actually so that you can see exactly what happens through the film and at the end. The way I see it there are only two reasons why one would do this. Either a) You have so little faith in your own intelligence and ability to understand the plot of a film that, rather than put down your phone and focus the full might of your intelligence on a piece of simple entertainment for 180 minutes, you'd rather let the internet do all your thinking for you, thus freeing up your mind to think about tits or cocks whenever a particularly challenging piece of plot rears its ugly head, or b) You hate life and have a crippling fear of experiencing anything, ever. Whatever one it is, I pity you. 

So yeah, thanks for asking me to ruin a thing I'm enjoying, just so you can derive some small pleasure out of it. I'm sure you're very pleased with yourself. 

Anyway, I haven't got a Snickers and fuck you if you think I'm making the 100 meter walk to the corner shop just for you. I'm going to eat a handful of peanut butter MnM's, which still fulfill the vaguely Snickery requirements of being both peanutty and chocolaty, whilst also being a lot fucking tastier and not doing that thing where it feels like you've eaten a brick of sludgy sugar. 

Whatever, I'm currently half-way through season 2 of House of Cards, which is pretty great if you like watching Kevin Spacey wobble his jowls over a 24 year old's tits. I guess there's more to it than that and season 2 has just hit the midpoint where all the shit is coming together, things are starting to fall in to place and everyone is trying their damnedest to stab everyone else in the back. So yeah, a pretty good place for me to ruin it completely for myself, thanks a bunch.

So I took myself over to Wikipedia. Cramming handfuls of crispy-shelled peanut-butter in my mouth did little to dull the sense of shame I felt in the pit of my stomach as I scrolled through the Season 2 overview section. I don;t know how some of you people can live with yourselves. When I was done I went and deleted the whole section from Wikipedia, but it was back five minutes later. 

Brilliant. Well now I know how the series ends and who fucks over who in order for it to happen, so congratulations on ruining one of the few pleasures left in my life right now, I guess. I mean, I suppose I'll still enjoy watching K-Spac drawl his way through 6 more hours of political intrigue while also talking to himself, because I've literally got nothing else to do these days, but for all the good it'll do me I might as well go outside for a walk and get some fresh air. Also, while the peanut butter MnM's were delicious, crunchy, sweet and peanutty in all the right proportions, they were also highly addictive, and now I feel sick. 

We live in a society that has somehow elevated milk production to such ridiculous heights that there's pretty much no stopping it now. This is actually a true thing. It's ingrained in our culture in a way that is quite frankly stupid, so if you hate milk, guess what? Tough, 'cos it's here to stay and the people who produce it are going to do everything they can to get it inside of you. It's like cigarettes only more disgusting. Thankfully, it can be alchemized in to a glorious substance known as cheese so thank your lucky fucking stars or we'd have to be guzzling pints of cow-tit juice every day just to keep from drowning in the horrible stuff (FYI, the process by which it becomes cheese is known as curdling, which sounds fucking gross when you think about it in terms of raw milk, but there you go). There's a probably a reason that we mainly give milk to babies, and I guess it's because mainly they're too small to complain effectively about it.

Whatever, the thought of drinking the stuff neat, and not at least sloshed over some kind of teeth-buzzingly sugary cereal makes me want to cry, but I am a professional. Or if, not a professional, then at least somewhat dedicated to authenticity, so I drank a glass of the fucking stuff because you demanded. 

I guess the first mistake I made was drinking the stuff shortly after brushing my teeth. There's not a lot of ways you can fuck up drinking a thing, but I managed to make an unpleasant task that much more unpleasant, so hoo-fucking-ray for me.

It didn't really get much better than that. After the toothpaste-taint had disappeared it still basically tasted like watery cream, with a sort of eggy aftertaste. The taste sticks around in your mouth for fucking ages, which I guess is maybe why babies cry so much. My mouth had the same taste as that smell our fridge makes. 

I was about to write milk off as a complete fucking waste of time: Skip to the cheese, that's the good stuff. But then I realised I was looking at this all wrong. What I actually had in front of me was one third of a perfectly serviceable White Russian. With the addition of a couple ice cubes and some generous helpings of vodka and Kahlua, milk is actually pretty fucking awesome. Yeah, it's only 11:30 am, but I ain't got to be anywhere today. 

Where can i get a copy of Marie fucking Claire?

The corner fucking shop.

Is that all there is?

Hello. There is a lot to address in the question, so I hope you won't mind if I answer it in parts.

1) Firstly, do you even know what an advice column is and how one works? This is a place where dilemmas can be discussed and hopefully some kind of solution can be reached. It might be a problem with deciding what to wear on a date, or advice on the best way to carry out some kind of horrible sex act (In my house these things are essentially the same problem) , but rest assured, advice, whether it is actually practical, or in some cases even advisable, can be found on these pages. Sometimes there may even be jokes, swearing or nudity. However, at the end of the day, however god-like our advice may seem, however regularly it can be seen to have proven results in areas such as getting people laid, improving a lacklustre salad or evading law enforcment officials, we are, at the end of the day, mere mortals. Your existensial bulllshit question is obviously, on the face of it, beyond the remit of our mere 'advice' column.

2) What do you mean, is that all there is? Have you seen how much stuff there is? Are you so numbed by the tedium of everyday existence that you can't wait for it to end just in case there might be something a bit better? You know that feeling you get when you're looking at porn on the internet, trying to find just the right video to capture the mood of whatever it is you're up to on your own with a satsuma and roll of duct tape? You know that feeling of i'll just watch this one more video of a chick dresssed as a pterodactyl giiving a blowie to two guys in swamp thing costumes? That there has got to be something just slightly better if I just keep on clicking? Untill you've been sitting there for two hours, dick limp in your hands, oblivious to the fact that you just watched 3 girls dressed in gingham stick their heads between each others legs and roll out of the room like a giant human cartwheel? Stop lookng for something better all the time. All there is is a fuckload of awesome stuff. Have you ever seen a fucking giant squid? Those things are all 8 meters of tentacles and beak. They fight fucking whales! Which are also fucking unbelivable! Do you know how big a whale's lungs are? Neither do I, but I bet they're fucking massive. I just googled them right now. Lung capacity - 5000 litres. I dont even know what that looks like, but it sounds bloody huge. Plus there's space, and black holes and shit. Did you know we are all literally made of stars? Everything that ever exists was once just a bunch of stuff inside a star that exploded? Its true! If that isn't enough for you, if you are truly devoid of any sense of wonder of or fascination with the world, then maybe you should just give up now.

3) Is your question in relation to the content of the blog? Well, I guess thats all you get when your sole form of advertising is a few lazy links on facebook. Its not like we do this for money. You want something more professional?  Buy a copy of Marie fucking Claire.

In conclusion: Be more specific.