I’m two months and a half away from my 24th birthday and I hold absolutely no weight in this world.

I pretty much gave up drugs and alcohol and partying altogether because, well, I think I outgrew that phase. The damage, I hope, is not irreversible and I can honestly say I feel a lot better off without them. I’m not going to waste anyone’s time ranting on how chemical experimentation is bad because frankly, I don’t think it is. Chem abuse, on the other hand (much like any kind of abuse) will heavily damage one’s health, mental health and especially one’s ability to cope with every single layer of reality.If you’re looking for a retrospective inventory, I’ve pretty much done them all and as far as the mind can undergo a downward spiral, I’ve pretty much been there, and by there I mean withdrawal, OD, alienation and numbing. I snorted, shot up, smoked and swallowed more chemicals than a paint factory.

The worst part about this shit isn’t the pain you feel, but rather the stuff you don’t feel. Emotional instability, self-loathing, despair and the unshakeable feeling that you don’t amount to anything and are missing out on so much. Sure, those only settle in after quite a bit, but they take a whole lot more to creep out of than it took for them to settle in.

Now I’m not saying these things should apply to everyone. I know plenty of people who can keep a balanced lifestyle while only indulging in soft drugs and social dabbles in alcohol, but I frankly can’t. I even know two or three people who have mildly succesful careers while entertaining a part-time hobby of shooting heroin, but I’m not one of them. I have an addictive personality and I’m terribly lazy. I’m the poster boy for procrastination and a common victim to my own biggest flaw: I give up on everything before it’s done. I have an incredible resistance to effort, an outstanding inertia when it comes to rolling downhill and a unique talent for misadventure.

I’ve lost a lot of friends, most of them because I was an asshole on more occasions than I care to remember. I spent a fortune I never earned on things my body consumed and believe me when I tell you only the first few experiences with each one were amazing. None were lasting and all were damaging, to some degree.

I think I smoked my first joint in the tenth grade, and by the eleventh I was stoned more than I wasn’t. But that’s not the root of the problem. No one cares how high you are or how long you’re high if you can keep up appearances and actually do something with your life. But if I step back far enough, that has nothing to do with how I spent – or, well, wasted – the last decade. Oh no. The root of my demise started in my pre-teens.

The dumbest kids are the smart kids who aren’t half as smart as they think they are.

It took a lot for me to learn we’re only as special as the things we do. Growing up, I always thought I was special. And I don’t just mean middle-class A-grade special, I mean -holy shit- I’m somekind of genius special. Looking back, I was kind of like the one-eyed douchebag in a land of blind idiots. I made the common mistake of comparing my achievements to my peers’, and about ninety eight per cent of my peers (according to Mensa, at least) were considerably slower than me in any process involving analythical thinking or creative endeavour. I was lazy, useless and not a particularly likeable kid, though, and no matter how well I scored against my overly tolerant reference system, I feel I was quite bland.

You might have had a similar upbringing. Upper middle-class parents in a predominantly working class neighbourhood. Even before my leap into a rainbow of pleasant toxins, I was inebriated with self-sufficiency and a lack of direction. Despite my dad’s best efforts to turn me into a mathemathician, I was content with proving him wrong a couple of times and letting him down a dozen. That doesn’t justify his turning his back on me, but it motivates it.

I started hating myself and being emotionally unstable long before it actually showed. I was never bullied while, conversely, I was never particularly liked, either. Most people in my final gymnasium years and all of high school mostly thought I was too weird to grasp, but that was only a facade covering up how boring it felt to try to be rebellious. I was just as annoying and unjustified as Holden from The Catcher in the Rye, which is probably why I was so annoyed with that smug little fuck when I read the book.

Moving on, I had a few crushes over the years, but my first and only love took the cake in my senior high school year. She wasn’t particularly bright but – I thought – she was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen. We were on and off for the next four years but she cheated on me five times. I took her back. Every. Single. Time. Really.

I did a lot of stupid things, but this one takes the cake. It’s one thing to forgive a mild adolescent indiscretion and a whole different ballpark of stupidity to succumb to the cliche of taking the early train home while your girlfriend is getting double-teamed at a New Year’s party. I’m not making this up.

That was when I pulled the trigger. Four months later I was shipping my ass away to Germany to start film courses when I picked up a nasty cocaine addiction fueled on whatever money my parents sent me for what they thought were clothes and food and videogames. Well, I didn’t let them down on the videogames part. I spent about three years doing blow off cases that read GTA IV and World of Warcraft. Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad.

Had they not divorced years earlier, news of that surely would have broken up a relationship that had already hung on the sole owning rights of a house too big to fill for more than a decade. Mom got it in the end, though she still struggles with the upkeep. I guess it’s true, the loneliest people live in the biggest of houses.

But I don’t blame my folks for what followed. I got an education too expensive to justify, one I certainly didn’t pay back to this day. After living abroad for what seemed to be forever, I made the incredibly bad decision to get back to one of the most uncivilised countries not torn by apartheid. And no, I didn’t get the cheating girl back. This story doesn’t have a happy ending.

The silver lining is, it’s not a tragedy either. Since I’m still alive.

What did I do next? Well, nothing to write home about. I went on with my debauchery and hedonistic tendencies, to recent times.

And while several isolated deeds I chalked down are worth remembering, my life as a whole is just as common and lowly as every loser you’ve ever met. That’s the bad news. The good news is life goes on, for better or – if it’s possible, worse. Long periods of depression intertwined with short bursts of make-believe happiness.

The good news is I’m finally putting an effort into not letting just every day go to waste. I don’t break my back working, but I have a job. I’m making rent – but I’m not getting rich either. Mostly taking it one day at a time. I learned a lot in this long, exhausting period of not learning much and though I let a lot of people down (pretty much everyone who was there to let down), I’m committed to staying on the straight and narrow just long enough to carve something of worth from this carcass. In the end, I can only make myself proud and if I manage just that, nothing else matters.

I’m sure my course through life is neither as low or as high as some people out there, but I’ve learned by now that I have only my modest dreams to chase and I have many, many flaws to patch up before I’m happy with myself. I feel like I’m taking modest steps towards what is finally a dream worth chasing, and I’m – again, finally – partaking in an endeavour that I’ll try hard to see the end of. I’m really sorry if I wasted your time ranting on the partial adventures of a sickeningly honest nobody, but it’s not an exercise in false modesty for me to say that I didn’t write this for the attention, but the cleansing value of letting it all out.

Thanks for reading.

I sip another inch of whiskey before I get eyeslapped by a nipple.

Strippers are more or less hookers in their headquarters. They’re the cynical, miserable, expensive coinflip of the game some call love.

I’m a serial loser at that game so when she asks me for another whiskey I go
“fuck off.”

Of course, she thinks I’m cute. That’s partly because sure, I’m not half as bad looking as the people who actually need to visit a strip joint and partly because she wants to squeeze me for all my money.

See, you’re not getting laid if you buy a stripper a drink. Not even if she likes you.  Oh no. You might settle at the end of her shift but that’s gonna cost you extra. Unless you’re that mythical guy who’s so slick he can get them for free (chances are you’re not), you’re going to pay a full hooker price after buying her a few drinks and pretending like you’re not utterly disgusted with the thought that she’s there, week in, week out, rubbing wet panties against a metal rod for the delight of the drooling working man who spends his hard-earned money on his standard 3AM pretend boner.

Street hookers are easier. You almost never see their clientele and it’s an upfront deal most of the time. In a way, it’s cleaner. Then again, I’m not here to fuck these broads. I wouldn’t pay for something like that – not because I’m cheap, but because if I want to throw money away on empty promises and expensive illusions, I could always start paying my taxes.

A fat and greasy figure stuffs a fat, generous bill in one of the girls’ panties, making sure to tickle her pubes just enough to get some shiny sweat on his nails when he pulls his hand out. In case you didn’t know, strippers stuff their tips into their underwear so their bosses won’t take it away when they finish working. I mean, those guys know better, unlike the depraved fools who clap when one of the girls rubs her oily tits with sketchy sensual gestures. I catch a glimpse of a dude getting a lap dance with his wedding ring clasped around her butt cheek. He’s jonesing for what his wife could never give him.

But that’s not me. She moves on to me and suggestively rubs her thumb against her index finger to suggest payment. So when I tell her to fuck off again, she meows and bats her eyelashes for a while before giving up. It’s half past pathetic.

What I like about strippers is not their acting – you can only fall for that if you really, really want to or you’re really, really dumb. You can’t act stuff like romance when you’re putting up a show for the desperate and the alone, because acting is about planting a new seed, not sucking the pollen that’s already there. I don’t even like getting lapdances. What I like about strippers is their pole dancing.

If you get to see a good pole dance, it’s like seeing good ballet. Actually, pole dancing doesn’t even come from the slums of decadent pay-per-view adventures of the drunken burgeois, but the circus.

So as I’m watching her spin and her panties fly like a boomerang and land straight into the ice bowl, I’m not thinking – she’s Whoever the Hooker with a Motion Promo and slippery clothes. I’m thinking she’s an artist. For two minutes there, she spins and she spreads her legs and does a vertical flip with no hands and it all reminds me of a suave acrobat fairy.

For a minute there, it’s not that I’d want to hit her like a locomotive – unlike every other male with a pulse on the couches around me. It’s about her waving her magic wand of a body and it doesn’t matter that she’s probably got more germs than a Bangkok public toilet, because for a minute I forget that and she’s just a silhouette performing for my eyes and my eyes alone.

And I know this because while all the other pairs of eyes are wet with greed and lust, zoomed in on her boobs and her ass and her fat, custom lips, I’m engulfed in a strange, blind admiration that makes me wish I didn’t have to come here to see this.

I wish I knew a girl who did it as a hobby and saw the spectacle without hunting down the naive and the generous. I wish acrobats were in town. I wish the drinks weren’t this goddamn expensive and I wish I didn’t have to pass through a redlit hallway to get to this show.

But I don’t, so I stay and sigh and when she’s done, the thin female figure I had earlier told to fuck off whispers in my ear that she likes me. I’m not seeing the dance anymore so she’s back to being a drinkmagnet and I’m back to being bitter.

Beauty and art don’t last much in this world, and when they do, it just serves to emphasize how hopelessly you have to dig for it and how rare and improbable it is. But without that, the world would be made of rich drones jonesing for hot callgirls and hot callgirls jonesing for rich drones.

Drawing ugly things for a beautiful cause. It’s like swimming in a river of shit for a kiss.

I’m tired of petitions, debates, endless, pointless and unsubstantiated talk shows revolving around poverty and contemporary issues that can be fixed. Everyone has a say and a strategy in it.

But I’m not tired of the issues themselves. Just people yapping about them to no end.

So let’s fix them. I came across Red Nose Day, a fundraiser encouraging people to put ideas into practice that would encourage people to donate to a worthy cause. And some dude had the idea of running a digital painting marathon and streaming it live.

What’s that?

Next Friday, on the 18th, we’ll start drawing monsters and streaming it live on the Internet for 24 hours. This means we can’t stop for anything other than bathroom and smoking breaks and we have to keep drawing monsters until the deadline expires.

Here’s the Team Page. Here’s my Live Stream Channel. Oh and this is Jamie, he came up with the idea on his blog.

I’ll let you know the exact time well in advance, and thanks for reading.

Zoné and I got a bit shitfaced and figured we could have some live fun. So we hit Skype and I read the “Talent is Bullshit” post out loud while he did some live mixing. End result was pretty fun, though it’ll get some tweaking whenever.

Talent is bullshit by Neon Machina

Fun was had. At the end there will be cake.

... and over there's where we'll play the harp and Checkers when we die."

Hope. Hope is a convention. It’s Man’s inside joke, mocking the terrifying notion that his course through time is wholly independent from his wishes. Hope is what tricks you into abandoning your fears and acknowledging  that the odds are always, always against you, and it’s nothing personal. Hope makes you lean on superstition, hollow assumptions and an absurd confidence in the validity of your grasp on what you conclude must be objective reality.

You hope to get to Heaven and you hope there is such a thing. You hope you’ll experience a superior amount of satisfaction as time passes. You hope your age makes a difference. You hope your looks make a difference. You hope your brain makes a difference. You hope your  actions, reactions and ideas make a difference. You hope you make a difference. You hope someone listens, cares and loves you. You hope God made you in his own image. You hope your mind really exists.

Hope is what gives you strength and makes you blind. Hope is what keeps you warm in the Icy Caverns of botched expectations. Hope is God’s flashlight and the devil’s television. Hope is life as simple, quick and comforting as heroin. Hope is death wearing an optimistic mask. Hope is sleeping without dreams.

And yet, where does this flower grow? If you look around you, what does the field hope blooms on look like?

The picture always has a few common elements. It’s always in someone’s mind, and always used as a shield against doubt, unlikeliness or as a desperate response to perceived doom. Where there is misery, improbability, conflict and risk, there is hope. It’s a cheerleader, a morale stimulant, an amphetamine to fight the fatigue of certainty. We are cursed with unwarranted self-importance, we think of ourselves not only as focus points for the Universe’s development, but its owners. We expect life to be crafted for us, we demand to be guided like schoolchildren lurking in the parks with the quirkiest of naive thoughts and a grandparent holding us by the hands.

Well guess what, the law of gravity won’t knit you any sweaters. It won’t change your diapers and won’t tell you bedtime stories. It really doesn’t give a shit about the fact that you’re a sensitive lamb of God who reads poetry, listens to self-help audiobooks and attends self-enlightenment seminaries.Lightning will hit you with the same fury whether you think you have a soul or are a t-shirt forgotten on a pole in the rain.  The Sun doesn’t rise for you any more than it rises for the garden variety frog.

Your environment is not run by an entity with a conscience similar to yours – you were not created in God’s image. You’re a fleshy, frail dummy getting tossed around two insignificant points in time, until your entire species becomes redundant enough to die out one way or another. You’re a biological automaton in an environment so perfectly amoral, apersonal and timeless that ending you isn’t ever a question of worthiness or capability. Rest assured,  nature will kill you. Disease, bacteria, chemical reactions, faulty systems in your organism or plain old kinetics are daily perils that don’t question your faith and don’t punish you for your sins. They just do their job.

"You mean all these beautiful, beautiful groceries weren't made for my personal delight? Well then, FUCK YOU MOTHER NATURE!

It gets worse. The only thing you can be sure of is that your mind exists. Not even that you’re living and certainly not anything your brain concocts. And you know what the worst thing about your mind is? It can be wrong. About anything. About everything. It can morph reality in so many ways and for so many reasons: self-preservation, shock, intoxication, genetics, pop music and psychological trauma. Living in society makes you forget the bigger picture, you amass more and more artificial conventions that provide a calming distraction from the fact that your life, much like anyone or anything else you regard as living tissue, is stupid, meaningless and random. Man made a microsystem of conventions that hides you away from the world as it is. You are promised eternal life by a book and a bunch of people who claim they are hotlinks to your world’s architect, you are told which dreams are worth chasing by fictitious characters you call heroes, role models or protagonists.

You mean these walls LIED TO ME? Well then, FUCK YOU FATHER BRICK!

We are born at a crossroads of customized knowledge, speculation and eclectic forms of entertainment that we follow as if they were roadsigns , informational constructs that stretch like roads in the myst. We don’t really have a roadmap and we’re not really chasing anything, we just like to think our road trip has a set destination. And we forget it doesn’t, so we make one. Then we tell whoever’s in the back to follow us, because we know the way. No, really, we’ve been here before. Alright, we haven’t, but we have a feeling.

Err... Fuck. I think we lost our way to Prospertown somewhere between Vodkaville and San Gamble. Oh well, too late to turn back.

The only thing keeping your brain from exploding is your own ignorance. You do not have the instruments to measure what your power of speculation erects. You feel the need to defend your ideas, and as any other human being, you are always trapped in the prison palace of your mind.

The truth is that despite no mathematically verifiable evidence, we hope there’s a man behind the scenery. We are cursed to always chase a deeper layer. There’s a conflict between our inherent need to find meaning to life and the universal truth that there is none.

Fridge requests

Our office fridge is filled to the brim with wants and requests, as a pretty silly method to pass the time.

“Please drop me a text if you have any flat-sharing offers” T. asks.

“Someone mail me the goddamn comissions before the end of the week you slags.” B. scribbles.

“I need a better job…” L. muses.

“I need someone to share a ride with to the _____ Showcase on Friday, if it’s not much trouble.”. D. politely

announces in a corner with schoolgirl calligraphy, the way she always does.

“Who the fuck stole my mustard again?” J. obnoxiously inkstamps.

At the end of my lunch break, a post-it chain is what I stick on top of all the others’ :” I need a demented femme fatale with kitchen talent, bed fever, character, charm, brutal honesty, catlike allure, a sense of humor, appreciation for my being a Man on a Mission and a penchant for tranquilizing my paroxistic self-destructive behaviour.

but right now i’m pretty sure i can’t find that in this place, so i’m just grateful i have a roof above my head. Thanks!”

Vara asta, confuzia are un nou nume.

Undeva în cartierul general al diletanţilor din România, căpetenia demagogilor cântă şi se petrece. E băieţeală, bairam, apogeul mâncătoriei de rahat împroşcată ca un clei nediscrimnatoriu cam în toate subdomeniile jurnalismului.

N-are nimeni nimic de obiectat. Precum o pajişte populată până la refuz de muşuroaie, n-o să observe nimeni diferenţa dacă zvârli o căcare amplasată strategic între deluşoarele maronii. Pe asta se bazează trei sferturi din media, alături de lipsa competiţiei şi nişte tradiţii convenabile.

Mna, cum ar fi tradusul ştirilor. Nu e nimic în neregulă cu tradusul ştirilor – nu mă aştept să stea un corespondent ProTV la ieşirea fiecărei clinici de dezintoxicare din emisfera nordică ca să avem interviuri autentice cu fiecare superstar anorexic care a dat-o pe meth până a făcut gangrenă pe gingii. Ceea ce mă aştept însă e s-o facă corect.

Adică nu aşa. Adică un alt individ de care n-aţi auzit şi n-o să auziţi niciodată. un anume Răzvan Boboc, a tradus de pe dailymail un top al celor mai confuze filme din toate timpurile. Să trecem peste întrebările de bun-simţ pe care le-am putea adresa redacţiei dailyfail, cum ar fi “Cine a votat în topul ăla?” “Cum se măsoară confuzenia unui film?” sau “Cam cât de retardaţi sunteţi, nu vă supăraţi?” pentru că o să vă răspund eu:

1. Au votat puleţi la liber. Marele public. Acelaşi mare public pe care eu îl suspectez de imbecilitate colectivă, dintr-o puzderie de motive. Într-un poll. Pe Lovefilm.com. Cinemagia nu s-a sinchisit să menţioneze organizatorii studiului, în parte, îmi imaginez eu, pentru că “topul celor mai confuze filme din toate timpurile” nu are aceeaşi rezonanţă şi credibilitate cu “un top aleator în care au votat dârlăi pe care nu dă nimeni o flegmă degresată”.

2. Confuzenia unui film, se pare,  se măsoară în câţi idioţi părăsesc sala de cinematograf hlizindu-se tembel la tine şi întrebându-te adorabil  “Da’ zmeu’ de la final fusese deghizat în nevastă-sa tot filmu’?”. Ce e cu adevărat hilar e că o parte din filmele din top nici nu flirtează cu demenţa, ba mai mult, au fost dichisite şi machiate considerabil ca să priceapă audienţa, compusă, o zic cu oroare, din voi, despre ce e vorba.

Ca s-o zic pe aia dreaptă, n-are rost să-mi înşir eu preferinţele vizavi de chestii de lung-metraj care îţi prăjesc creierii pe teflonul unei imaginaţii bolnave (sunt sigur că s-au ocupat deja destui alţi idioţi de comentarii de genul ăsta), însă tre’ să fii un cineast autoproclamat destul de leguminos ca să nu îţi crape pielea din jurul buricului de râs când vezi un asemenea top. Ba mai mult, să fii site mainstream care tratează domeniul şi s-o arzi aşa trece cu vreo două sute de paşi graniţa penibilului.

Dacă aceşti, ăăă, oameni sunt lăsaţi în ceaţă, după cum spune una dintre organizatoarele studiului (‘It’s clear dreaming is the biggest cause of confusion for viewers. ‘Switching from reality to dream sequences pulls the wool over our eyes.’), de simpla introducere a unei secvenţe de vis, probabil cea mai uzată mecanică cinematografică de la inventarea genericului încoace, atunci suspectez că intră în crize epileptice în fiecare dimineaţă când se trezesc. Fac pariu că intră în megacomă dacă-l văd pe acest sensibil ciupercar:

3. Incomensurabil. Gargantuan de retarzi. Atât de idioţi încât aş face un film în care visez că i-am adunat cumva pe toţi la un loc şi am la dispoziţie toate tirbuşoanele din lume pentru joaca oftalmologică de-a Mengele. Dup-aia să-mi dau seama că totul a fost un vis şi să mă trezesc şi realitatea să fie că tirbuşoanele sunt de fapt vibratoare din sârmă ruginită cu baterii infinite şi neiertătoare. Ca în cele din urmă să-mi ardă colegul de apartament un capac la ureche şi să-mi zică să-mi fac curat în cameră înarmat doar cu un aspirator. Maţele se curăţă greu cu aspiratorul.

Mi s-a luat de oligofreni și cyberpudici care latră despre cât de vulgar aș fi pentru că folosesc cuvinte care le indignează înalta probitate morală. Nu asta definește vulgaritatea. Vorbele astea vâscoase sunt capricii morfosintactice și n-au nici în clin nici în mânecă cu trivialitatea. Ești prea spart ca să te bucuri de libertatea de a ocoli ceea ce îți irită retina, nu e vina mea. Dacă aș avea cincizeci de cenți pentru fiecare sătean care și-a imaginat aiurea că l-am întrebat ce crede despre cum îmi bag eu pula din trei în trei sintagme, i-aș îndesa mă-tii bancnote de 100 de euro în bikini în loc de bilete de metrou.

Nu e absolut nimic de joasă speță în a mă exprima ca un birjar pulă de beat pe 20cmsubnari.com. Aici mă distrez, e groapa mea de nisip. Aici, la mine acasă, pe domeniul meu, unde mi-e absolut tot aia dacă sunteți o sută sau o mie, îmi permit să fac gimnastici compoziționale care să-l facă pe Marchizu’ de Sade să pară un gentilom respectabil. Aici fac ce vrea pula mea și îmi rezerv dreptul de a o arde în ce stil doresc fără să-mi simt caracterul real erodat de părerile tuturor creaturilor care se perindă prin zonă. Nimic din treaba asta nu e de prost gust. Am o pereche de coaie gargantuane doldora de bun-simț alb imaculat, dacă doriți o mostră pură.

Da’ știți ce e de prost gust?

De prost gust e să-ți măsori pula pe Interneți vizavi de cât trafic faci. Să te intereseze activ care vedetă ia a cui pulă în gură și cu cât jind înghite sau scuipă. Să spamezi ca ultima găină pe unde-apuci și apoi să te hlizești vesel la sfârșitul zilei că te-au votat nuștiucâți naivi în nuștiucecăcat de top pe care absolut nimeni cu un IQ mai mare ca numărul de la șlapi nu dă doi franci. De prost gust e să fii fan, gata să-ți aperi idolii falși indiferent de ce inepții regurgitează. Era să scriu să-i pupi în cur și când contravin principiilor tale, da’ oamenii de prost-gust nu au principii. Au dogme, scripturi, instrucțiuni rigide și minimaliste implementate de alții ca să nu își înghită limba într-un moment de neatenție. De prost-gust e să mănânci rahat pe teme la care nu te pricepi nici măcar pasager. Și așa mai departe.

Vă plac priveghiurile? Şi mie. Se holbează o cameră întreagă de invidizi la un hoit. Nimic mai distractiv, poate doar să ţi se facă o muie în timp ce te holbezi la un hoit. Aviz amatoarelor – câteodată e nevoie de o ţărancă umflată care se şuşoteşte că ar fi mă-sa mortului să horcăie şi să zbiere din străfundul plămânilor ca să mi se scoale. De cele mai multe ori e suficient să ne prefacem că l-am admirat pe răposat prin conversaţii profunde şi ortodoxe deasupra vreunui fursec sfinţit de popa care strânge cheta la sfârşitul chefului.

Cea mai mişto erecţie pe care o poţi avea însă la astfel de evenimente mondene se trage din descoperirea faptului că din masa de feţe triste, singurul care e cu adevărat trist e de cele mai multe ori mortul, şi asta doar fiindcă îţi dai seama că manechinul ăla semiputrezit pe care se bat rudele să-l pupe şi să-l ia în braţe e o carcasă şi are la fel de multe în comun cu omul pe care l-ai cunoscut pe cât are coiul meu stâng cu faţa lu’ Mădălin Ionescu. Sigur că seamănă, dar unul e o componentă importantă a unui trust multicelular care încântă interlocutoarele prin şarm şi prospeţime şi celălalt e un căcat cu ochi care trebuie bătut cu un fier încins.

Dacă n-am fost suficient de clar, mi se rupe pula la modu’ dublă fractură de ritualurile astea barbare creştine, zeloţi, muişti prefăcuţi şi omagii rupte din monoloagele vaginului ăluia de Florin Piersic. Cu toate astea, mi se pare de un prost gust legendar să transformi o înmormântare în evenimentul săptămânii, chit că e vedetă. Şi având în vedere că sunt un individ de aproximativ cea mai joasă speţă, Lucru Slab după standarde unora, când zic eu că e ceva de prost gust, apăi chiar că e.

A crăpat Mădălina Manole. Foarte frumos. Asta e bine pentru mai multă lume decât ăia pentru care e rău. Pe bune. Se vând ziare, se intervievează toate jegurile de oameni cu păreri variate precum nuanţele pe care le poate dobândi căcatul în funcţie de dietă şi se fac filme interzise minorilor. Nu glumesc. Intraţi pe Cancan.ro. Săptămâna viitoare o să se schimbe banneru’, aşa că na aici.

În primul rând, eu nu văd ce morţii mă-sii poa’ să fie interzis minorilor la un film de înmormântare. Sper da’ nu bag mâna în foc că nu s-a lăsat cu futai de moaşte. În al doilea rând, eu nu pricep ce pula mea e treaba tuturor lătrăilor din ţara asta cum a ars-o muierea aia sau de ce exact a dat talpă o halbă de insecticid. Borăsc în gură când aud că se mieluşeşte alde Trăistariu că “Mădălina Manole era tristă fiindcă sexualitatea a invadat muzica“. Asta vine din partea unui individ care n-ar fi cântat nici la tavernă în port dacă nu-i cumpărau pizde impresionabile cât se poate de sexual trilurile de plastic făcute în FruityLoops. Păunescu declară candid “Moartea surprinzătoare a Mădălinei nu ar trebui să îndemne pe nimeni la această soluţie. Şi eu am trecut prin momente de cumpănă. Am vrut în patru rânduri să mă sinucid, dar m-au ţinut în viaţă obligaţiile.” Cuae, având în vedere ce obligaţii te-au ţinut în viaţă, futu-ţi morţii mă-tii de umflat grosolan şi libidinos, ar fi fost o lume mai bună dacă erai iresponsabil.

Singurii pe care-i doare în pulă dacă fac audienţă printre oligofrenii care se uită la televizor sunt TVR-ul. Cred că e pentru prima oară în viaţa mea când mă bucur să ştiu că TVR-ul există independent de câţi se uită la el şi că slujbele acolo s-au dat pe pile, ceea ce generează o durere de pulă uniformă şi omogenă printre angajaţi vizavi de rating şi performanţe. Ceea ce le acordă libertatea rară de a se purta normal: gen să menţioneze înmormântarea ca un memorial obişnuit pentru o cântăreaţă de talie naţională care şi-a stins lumina singură, fără să umple 80% din grila de program cu părerea oricui a dat o labă gândindu-se la mamzel Manole vreodată.

Doar că unora nu le convine asta. Spre exemplu Petrişor Obae, unul din zecile de mii de jurnalişti de care n-aţi auzit şi nu veţi auzi niciodată, pentru că e suficient de retardat să considere că normalitatea e zeamă de scandal pentru articole de căcat, dar nu destul de retardat încât să iasă în evidenţă printre toţi dârlăii care gândesc ca el. Acest pulete ridicol, angajat la gluma aia seacă de paginademedia.ro, vrea să-mi zică mie că TVR o arde nerespectuos fiindcă a împins o ştire de duzină în sertarul cu ştiri de duzină. Muie, bă.

Felicitările mele sincere singurei gagici cu capul pe umeri din toată papalaşca asta. Anca Lăzărescu, producător TVR:

“Înmormântarea, în general, este un subiect privat, al familiei. Cred că circul de pe celelalte televiziuni a fost deplasat”.