#danielrudd

Emily ao lado de Daniel e Kotoko Yamaga no Japão

Anyway, it’s worthwhile exercise trying to hold your consciousness liable for all of this reprehensible and hilarious material despite the fact it’s a complete farce to do so (it would be like a Q&A with your own reflection in a mirror). One would expect that the power of mind which woke humans beings to their own existence should at least extend to controlling the magical Rubix Cube maple-syrup pancake zebra orgy happening in my head right now but no it’s running wild and unregulated up there by the very same device which created it. Still it’s a good farce and here we all are in life and awake asking ‘Who am I?’ Will Young sort of answered this with great if incomplete style and this is as much guidance as anyone should get on consciousness.

The hands of a professional wrestler are tremendous. They are big and meaty and even the shorter ones who dress up like foreigners you imagine would have fingers more like chipolatas but they aren’t: each one is a steak slapping and choking and trying to gouge out an eyeball. My favourite move is when wrestlers agree to hold hands in the Test of Strength: it generally ends with the good one receiving a kick or punch to the kidney right before they’ve nearly won. Such is their deserved reward for seeking equality in violence. Finally, the perception that professional wrestling is not real is hilarious and naïve because what is not real about professional wrestling? I see bodies yell and jump and crash and sweat and die, that somebody will win and someone will lose - and I am not definitely not watching some programme on the fucking holodeck aboard the starship Enterprise. It might be that by ‘real’ these people mean ‘predetermined’ which, metaphysically speaking, makes even less sense - even to us poor heels. *See also: ‘Wrestlers’ by Hot Chip

So bare physicality. Chubby bellies are hugely underrated but giant bellies on men are super depressing, I assume they get that way from golf and/or oppressing women. Bellies are nicely sexual, they get a lot done for everybody though they get far too much screentime cinematically: all that soft-focus belly and hardly ever any cock or vagina which are the top weapons for good fucking [ed. both not required]. Coming on your lovers belly can be super cute because both or all 3 or 4 of you goes ‘whaaaa’ and clean-up is straightforward unless some of the come gets into the bellybutton/navel. Well then.

In closing here’s some spiritual guidance: never worship the machine instead of the body that built and drives the machine. It is the one great loss to the fetishist who will otherwise be full of love and  impeccable taste.

Rucksacks. Rifles. Prison. Kids. Pageantry sashes. Blame. Bras. “Too broad?” Unwelcome male hands. Fuck that though: Melanie Griffith’s suit-jackets in Working Girl.

*boom tish* *boom tish* pew! pew! pew! pew! [these are lazer sounds] “It’s so dark in here I can hardly hear you!” “I said go stand next to the woofers!” *sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss* “That sound is the sound of a smoke machine.” “A smoke masheen!” Disco ceiling tiles and tropical house plants are appearing everywhere. “You cannot dance. All your limbs are flailing out of time - can’t you feel the beat right here?” *taps breast repeatedly* By minute 3 I’m so grateful for my chest hair: “Rub it, rub my chest hair! It’s like a beautiful fern!” Todd Terje must be such a great guy. *boom tish* boom tish* *hits repeat*