O Lurker

O World of Sheds lurker
 
I see you via my statisitcs module, systematically going through the archives.  It makes me smile.  Thank you.
Advertisements

Tag-o-rama

As an ongoing Angel experiment, I’m going to try and write a story out of the generated words that come up when I hover over the World of Sheds RSS feed. These are the words that were generated today:

Baking
Fat Heads
Sky One
Bank Account
Sky Plus
Wire Rack
Hair Plugs
Game Puzzle

Here goes

The Game of Life, Part One

Janowski coughed.  This event was not unusual in itself, but today it brought its own problems.  The pain shot through his head and he raised one meaty hand to his scalp.  It was as he feared, his coughing had loosened his hair plugs.  One of the hairs became wrapped around his fingers and he delivered the dislodged plug from his fat head to a wire rack for safe keeping.  He put his fat, beading head in his meaty hands and sighed.  That’s where she used to put his favourite lemon drizzle cake.  She loved baking.  The Bitch.  He loved her and now all that was left from their six years together was this fucking wire rack and the Sky plus that she had ordered so she could watch America’s Next top Model on sky one.  She’d cleared out his bank account and spent it on a boob job to keep her latin lover, Armando, happy.  Armando told her she looked like an ironing board.  Janowski loved her the wiry, bony frame, and what he wouldn’t give to iron a shirt, or maybe some pillow cases, on her once more. 

Janowski himself had the hair plugs done to excite the interests of younger girls.  Those blank, staring, glossy, blonde bitches with their heavily laquered eyes and their square nails at Speed Dating night. They regarded him much like one would regard an annoying crawling insect.  They looked past him, through him.  Looking around to see who was next.  It had to be better than this guy.  Meaty, sweaty, past-his-prime. His paunch sausaged into too-light-to-be-trendy Asda denim and a shirt straight from the Officer’s Club.  Where were their heroes in Dolce and Gabbanna, smelling of Issey Miyake with feathered, indie boy hair?  Alls they had shaking in front of them was a broken man, with a whiff of desperation, chip fat, cigarette smoke.  What their mums might have called ‘the smell of dirty houses’.

Janowski didn’t know how to do anything for himself.  Even the washing machine seemed like the most enormous game puzzle, especially when he had to remind himself to breathe as the pain of his loss engulfed him.  He gagged. Hot tears stung his eyes.  Those plugs had cost a couple of grand and now his head resembled that of a baby doll. Tiny Tears

Tag-o-rama

As an ongoing Angel experiment, I’m going to try and write a story out of the generated words that come up when I hover over the World of Sheds RSS feed. These are the words that were generated today:

Baking
Fat Heads
Sky One
Bank Account
Sky Plus
Wire Rack
Hair Plugs
Game Puzzle

Here goes

The Game of Life, Part One

Janowski coughed.  This event was not unusual in itself, but today it brought its own problems.  The pain shot through his head and he raised one meaty hand to his scalp.  It was as he feared, his coughing had loosened his hair plugs.  One of the hairs became wrapped around his fingers and he delivered the dislodged plug from his fat head to a wire rack for safe keeping.  He put his fat, beading head in his meaty hands and sighed.  That’s where she used to put his favourite lemon drizzle cake.  She loved baking.  The Bitch.  He loved her and now all that was left from their six years together was this fucking wire rack and the Sky plus that she had ordered so she could watch America’s Next top Model on sky one.  She’d cleared out his bank account and spent it on a boob job to keep her latin lover, Armando, happy.  Armando told her she looked like an ironing board.  Janowski loved her the wiry, bony frame, and what he wouldn’t give to iron a shirt, or maybe some pillow cases, on her once more. 

Janowski himself had the hair plugs done to excite the interests of younger girls.  Those blank, staring, glossy, blonde bitches with their heavily laquered eyes and their square nails at Speed Dating night. They regarded him much like one would regard an annoying crawling insect.  They looked past him, through him.  Looking around to see who was next.  It had to be better than this guy.  Meaty, sweaty, past-his-prime. His paunch sausaged into too-light-to-be-trendy Asda denim and a shirt straight from the Officer’s Club.  Where were their heroes in Dolce and Gabbanna, smelling of Issey Miyake with feathered, indie boy hair?  Alls they had shaking in front of them was a broken man, with a whiff of desperation, chip fat, cigarette smoke.  What their mums might have called ‘the smell of dirty houses’.

Janowski didn’t know how to do anything for himself.  Even the washing machine seemed like the most enormous game puzzle, especially when he had to remind himself to breathe as the pain of his loss engulfed him.  He gagged. Hot tears stung his eyes.  Those plugs had cost a couple of grand and now his head resembled that of a baby doll. Tiny Tears. 

More soon…

What the press say about 123 Bumming!

Cast your mind far, far, back, a bit further, no, a bit further…jesus can’t you remember past yesterday…to last week when I shared with you the celestial music of the heavenly orbs, also known as the band ‘123 Bumming’.  Learn more about them here

https://worldofsheds.wordpress.com/2009/08/23/angel-muzak/

Since then, the press have predictably jumped on the Bumming Bandwagon and listened to their album ‘It’s all about hats and self publicity’ and reviewed it in the popular muzak press.  Here are just a limited selection as to what they are saying:

They smell like gas and they ratch through bins, but what I wouldn’t give for one night of passion with these guys.”
– Trumpet Arm, Pole Dancing for Pervs
 

“Listening to their tracks make me want to go through Stefan Dennis’ bins and then punch the air in salutation whilst crying out into the void “Don’t it make you feel good!””
– Yabbie Creek, Erinsborough News

“I love this band so much, I find myself having to text them three times in a row without a reply. This makes me the cunt. Everyone knows ‘three times makes me the cunt’.”
– Mr. Eager Beaver, Eager Texting and Sabotage

“Is it so wrong to be consumed with a love that burns like a surface of the sun for this band? No, and I’ll fight anyone with my bare hands who says it is.”
– Mr. Bon Tempi, Hammond Organs for You
 
“Now that I play 123 Bumming during every waking moment, my wife won’t leave me alone. Thanks 123 Bumming!”
– Ebeneezer Goode, Holding Budgies for Profit
 
When I first heard this band, I had to cough into a packet of bourbons. This inadvertently resulted in the Death of East 17’s drummer. ”
– Walkley Netto, Mr. T Weekly
“123 Bumming are so wrong, it’s right. They made me divorce my wife and marry a sea urchin! The sexy fucks! I lost my house and my car, but I just got the fuck on with it!”
– The Noble Gases, ZX Spectrum Fanciers Almanac (Apr 04, 8947)

“I feel so sexual when I listen to this band. Like I might punch a bouncer or anull a marriage!”
– Pac-a-mac, The Sleeping Bag Tribunal (Mar 03, 1754)

“Fuck Me!”
– Spinning Jenny, Crop Rotation Monthly (Feb 02, 1821)

“123 bumming make me howl with delight”
– Cardinal Richelieu, Copper Sulphate Monthly (Jan 01, 1591)
And so, there you have it.  However, Shedders, don’t take thier word for it, make up your own mind.  Tomorrow may bring more music from 123 Bumming! so stay tuned (not literally, you aren’t a radio or a CB system. I mean metaphorically.  Apologies if you are a radio system)

Milk Bottle Manifesto

Take Me Upstairs.  I saw you with my eyes! I'm yours!

Take Me Upstairs. I saw you with my eyes! I’m yours!

My esteemed colleague, Sherby 57, has been campaigning long and hard to brighten up those tired, grey, work weary faces via the medium of milk bottles.

Read more about it here www.poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2009/06/09/milk-bottle-manifesto/

Now, regarde, as our French friends may say, my own attempt at Milk Bottle Manifesto.  Please spread the word.

Milk Bottle Manifesto

Take Me Upstairs.  I saw you with my eyes! I'm yours!

Take Me Upstairs. I saw you with my eyes! I'm yours!

My esteemed colleague, Sherby 57, has been campaigning long and hard to brighten up those tired, grey, work weary faces via the medium of milk bottles.

Read more about it here www.poursomegravyonme.co.uk/2009/06/09/milk-bottle-manifesto/

Now, regarde, as our French friends may say, my own attempt at Milk Bottle Manifesto at World of Sheds Workplace.

Things I hate, volume 1 of a box set.

I can’t explain it, not without seeming like an unreasonable git, why I hate the way on adverts, people place things down gently, like you never would in real life.  Like you’ve used some washing up liquid and once you’ve sqeezed it ever so gently, as if it was a new born platipus, you place it down on your surface, like it was the most precious substance known to man.  Maybe, the elixir of life, or the blood of Christ.

 
BANG IT DOWN LIKE A REAL PERSON!

Things I hate part 2

I can’t explain it, not without seeming like an unreasonable git, why I hate the way on adverts, people place things down gently, like you never would in real life.  Like you’ve used some washing up liquid and once you’ve sqeezed it ever so gently, as if it was a new born platipus, you place it down on your surface, like it was the most precious substance known to man.  Maybe, the elixir of life, or the blood of Christ.
 
BANG IT DOWN LIKE A REAL PERSON!

We were made for each other

 

Yes, I can’t help but feeling so strongly towards you, and we’ve only just met.

I think we go so well together, like vomit and sawdust. I miss you like bog roll on the day after a heavy drinking session. I need you like immodium instants before the flight home from Turkey.  Oh, I’ve a fever for you, like consumption.

What’s brought this on? I’m watching a Romcom. You, Me and Dupree, no less, is on at the moment.

By the way, why are the heroines in Romcoms always primary school teachers?  Does that make a woman more attractive?  Like a playboy bunny emblem on a car or a tattoo of tweetie pit on a cleavage.

Yes. Yes all these things are attractive

A Hazard of Parsnips Chapter 3

The third installment of the most romantic tale ever known.

Chapter 3

Dear Clarance (for ’tis your name!)

O happy day that I learn of your name. i had wondered what the angels would cry when they looked ‘pon your likeness in the heavens. I had wondered what the norse gods where saying to themselves when they carved you out of balsawood. And now, I smile, for i too know the name of perfection and it plays upon my lips like urban cookie collective. How will words ever sound the same once lips have spoken that of which is perfection? How will ears ever hear correct once they have heard the name of all that is great and good? Only your name can restore my senses! That and maybe some beak. and a quick sniff of poppers.

But, my sweet prince, you knowst that i am bethrothed to the Evil lord Stefan of Dennis and we are to be wed infront of the entire cast of Hollyoaks, the wretched swine. Not even satan himself could have dreamed up a crueller torment than this. Our union will please my father, lord Lou of Carpenter who owned the Waterhole by Lassiters Lake once. Lord Stefan has granted to restore the Waterhole back to his parentage in exchange for my hand in marriage. My father is consumed by his love for the Waterhole and would gladly sell his offspring for such a prize and an overnight stay in Lassiters and a chauffeur ride in ‘Home James’. Lord Karl of Kennedy is to be Lord Dennis’ best man and he is under strict instructions to rip out your gizzard should you come within one yabbie Creek’s distance of the Wedding, which is to be held at ‘The Loft’ night club, in Chesterville.

O my hot consumptive knave, our love is a forbidden one that dare not speak it’s name. The only way I can console myself is to replay the image of your body popping and doing the caterpillar in your dad’s garage to Run DMC at our last chance meeting.

Your doomed love

Lady Sheds