THE FAILY BLOG AND THE DAILY SLOG

Recently, I set myself a challenge:

Spend 30 minutes writing a daily blog, and then post the typed words on this here page (which I aptly titled The Daily Blog). 

I started well; with all of the vigour and enthusiasm that one experiences, when undertaking something new and exciting, but alas . . . 

I failed. 

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THE NIGHTLY DILEMMA

ME:

I'm tired as hell. Time for an early night. I'm going to get under the covers, lie down in bed, and get comfortable. Just close your eyes. Allow yourself to be taken towards slumber. Relax . . . 

MY BRAIN:

HEY, SUP BRO? WHILE YOU'RE LYING COMFORTABLY THERE, I JUST WANT TO REMIND YOU ABOUT EVERY BAD DECISION YOU'VE EVER MADE, AND POINT OUT A NUMBER OF THINGS THAT ARE CURRENTLY GOING WRONG IN YOUR LIFE, BUT OFFER NOTHING IN THE WAY OF A LOGICAL SOLUTION.

P.S. YOU'RE A PIECE O' SHIT.

Fucking Brain and it's thoughts!

SHRED IT

It's pissing down outside and I've spent the vast majority of the day shredding old bank statements with my new shredder — I ordered it from Argos last night and it was with me by this morning (Amazon, step up). 

(You know you're entering into your 30s when you're impressed with both the speedy delivery of your new shredder, and the fact that you've purchased your own paper shredder.)

There's something quite cathartic about giving your cupboards a de-shitting from time to time. I tend to go through elongated periods of hoarding, interspersed with sporadic, frantic, episodes of decluttering — often including the sale of basically everything I own. 

I've managed to fill three whole bin bags full of statements ranging as far back as 2005; including every single paper payslip I've ever received. 

The cleansing is almost complete. 

(Re-hoarding will commence shortly. As is tradition.)

PMSL: FART JOKES ARE ALWAYS FUNNY

I walk into a toilet at a local supermarket, before commencing the weekly "big shop". I'm at the urinal next to another gent when almost immediately, comedic style shitting noises begin to erupt from a nearby cubicle.

It sounds as though somebody is flogging a flock of angry ducks with a dripping wet towel.

Mayhem.

The smell that begins to disperse throughout the Hall of the Porcelain Gods is what I imagine an Oxo cube production line fire to smell like.

We stand there and struggle to control our streams, as both of our shoulders begin to shrug. As I attempt to maintain myself (and stop myself from laughing aloud), every single fart joke I've ever heard in my entire life comes flooding back to me . . . 

I quickly shake the drips and exit the toilet (after washing my hands), visibly crying.

As I'm leaving, I hear a concerned party asking the shitter:

"You alright in there?"

Well, I for one would be astonished if the man is still physically well, and not crumpled in a faeces-splattered heap on the floor, with an arsehole like a comet crater.

The bottom line is, fart jokes are (and always will be) funny.