Author Topic: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil  (Read 430 times)

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Sprague Dawley

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Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« on: August 14, 2018, 10:56:43 PM »
Review of Korean Woman I Met In Library in 2004. A True Story. Typed Out In 2004.

Have run into her before in the library. I am married and do not fuck around with women but we have chatted. As I suspected, she's too effusive to be a local. After scoping me with numerous lancing and glancing looks, she had initially approached me. Nobody approaches me. Language leeches? Pfft. Some other fuckers problem.

She is Korean yet has been in Japan for 20 years. She's 38. Her daughter is 21 (ding ding, ages too clooose, alarm bells, potentially loose moral fibres in closet). She speaks Japanese and quite good English. In conversation, there was a certain chemistry. Then again, I will blithely interpret any signals mistakenly when they are being relayed by an eyelash-batting MILF sporting a leopard-print mini-skirt.

I remembered her telling me she was an English teacher.
So I venture "Hows the teaching job?"
"I was fired. I want to go to Gold Coast in 3 years".
"What job will you do til' then?"
"I have panic attacks. Japan Government gives me 300,000 yen (US$4,000) a month for panic attacks. And daughter 60,000 yen". Gulp. Then she takes out a clear plastic bag containing 5 or 6 small white pills...
"These are my pills. This one is for panic attack. This one is for blah blah. This one is drug".
Her eyes widen. "It is illegal in America".
All 5 pills look identical to me. I think of asking "during a panic attack, isn't there a certain likelihood you may grasp the wrong pill?" I refrain. She continues. "My daughters boyfriend is Australian but he is dropout, his salary only 50,000 yen a month. So they break up. We don't like poor man". Then she goes bulbously wide-eyed and makes knuckling motions indicating splittage. I try to imagine this gesture as being indicative of some sort of mother/daughter/Dawley-tryst-souffle-carnal-calisthenics scenario but I just can't do it... she is obviously batshit crazy.
 "I don't like Japanese man..." she goes on "My husband was bad man... I don't like American or British man... I like Australian and New Zealand man. They are gentleman" (ding fucking [hide the] dong).

"My husband dead 15 years ago. He was yakuza boss. Very rich".
So I ask, "You say he was a bad man, yet you had 2 children with him. Did you know he was in the yakuza?"
She does the bug-eyed schtick again and says "Nooo.. I did not know" (Ding dong? Nope. That's a fuckin' AIR RAID SIREN, GET IN THE FUCKIN' SHELTER, SHITHEAD).

Then she went on with another story about someone slitting her sisters throat in Osaka 10 years ago but I couldn't quite catch it as the air raid sirens were wailing imploringly at me by then to take fucken covvverrr.

Finally she sashayed off. Leopard-print buttocks wiggling in an exaggerated and bewitching manner. I go back to my book. A minute later, I hear footsteps. She has come back. Smiling, she hands me a piece of paper. It has her name, address and telephone number. She takes her leave. Her goddamn address? Crazy.

I HAVE A NEW FRIEND.

Crikey. In one foul swoop she had almost completely dissolved my "libraries are the place to meet the most palatable strain of female" notion.

Of course, this slip of paper is going straight in the fucken bin. Talk about the road to ruin. This is a fork in that very road. A very sharp fork paved with bad, bad intentions. Although who knows, perhaps in the cumming days, I can eke out some fertile "fantasy thrashes", conjuring up images of her, her daughter and I in the throes of ruttage.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #1 on: August 14, 2018, 11:04:05 PM »
Review Of Korean Woman In The Library In 2004; The Unfortunate Continuance. Also Typed Out In 2004

My Bobbiting is drawing inexorably closer.

So I shuffle dejectedly (what other way is there?) into the work enclosure the other day, through the students lobby when I'm startled from my black stupor by a "ahhHHHH SPRAAAAGUE!" damn near perforating my eardrums.

hOLY SHIT, that was loud.

I look to my right. There's an unattractive teenage girl sitting there, radiant, eyes shining, bug-eyed with joy.

I have never seen her before in my life.

Yet she's gleefully looking up at me and has just greeted me as if we had spent the last weekend running gaily hand-in-hand through the fucking lavender fields together.

This is not good.

I make a point not to look left at the counsel of 3 receptionists, undoubtedly sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, scowling at this situation. Surely now, they're suspecting I've spent the weekend rogering this shrieking harridan of a child something silly. Shameful, man of his age.

"Oh. Hi. How are you?" I respond shakily to the girl. I collapse into my very best Frank Spencer smile.
"GREAAAAT!"The child grins maniacally. Then she starts yammering away but I can't make head nor tail of it. Good grief, I cannot continue this conversation. I start body-languaging my way towards the office door. This barmy child is shouting the funereally-quiet building down.

Oh shit. The penny's dropped. The eyes. The shrieking. This is her daughter. This is pill-popping, yakuza wife's daughter. Oh god. She's even louder than her mum. I imagine during her incubation the DNA somehow coiled tighter to produce a compounding reverberation in mums womb... setting her volume sensors into some sort of permanent fritz mode.

Now Bug-Eyed MiniHer is half-yelling at me like she's known me for years. Oh god, her mother must have told her everything about me, oh god, oh god, oh G

I extrapolate. Quickly. As you tend to do when you're being pushed towards a well. The child has joined the English school I work at. Oh fuck. That means mum is on the scent too. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Last thing I need. Irate Korean pill-dropper mother blanching the wallpaper off the fucking lobby walls with a "WHYYYEEEE DIDNT YOU CALL MEEEE, SPRAAAGUE, I GAVE YOU MY PHOOOONE NUMBER IN THE LIBRARY, DID YOU LOOOOSE IT?"

But didn't I meet Princess Bug-Eyed Braying Terror's daughter in the library? This child is a different person. No doubt about it. The other child was much smaller, different face altogether. Jesus, I would remember a person of this... bearing. If only for her psychotic process of vocalising thoughts into atonally bellowed words.

I feebly make excuses with the "work" word and simper into the office. Thought about telling the receptionist's the whole story. The pills, the stalking, the dead husband whose carcass Mum had surely cut up to feed her and her daughter through the long winter months. The thigh bones used to beat the futon as it aired on the balcony.

I came to my senses quickly. Not coincidentally, The Golden Rule of Work is the same as The Golden Rule of Marriage;

#1. Just. Shut. Up.

Two days later the receptionist greets me in the lobby then tells me "Lucky you weren't here. That noisy students mother sat right there waiting for you for 2 hours. She is... a little ..."

Oh shit. Oh shit. I'm too young to die, mummy. But she does have a nice bum Dawley AAARRRRGH

"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #2 on: August 15, 2018, 06:45:29 PM »
Review Of My 2004 Bus Rides Home From School

I ride the bus home from my teachy teachy school each day with the Special Ed kids. I (pretend to) teach English to the normal kids at another section of the school.

Me and the spazzmo's. Yeah, I fit right in. Same intellectual plateau, and all that. Except they speak Japanese - albeit garbled and largely unintelligible - still Japanese. One up on me there. In conversation, I kowtow to them. I think I like the tards better than the regular people on the bus. Phalanx of cute college girls, bedecked in their precious plummage, all pageantry and pomp. They grimace, looking grimly down and straight ahead as 7-year old Joe Spazzmo, in the back next to me, unbound by social mores and constraints, screams volcanically from the back of the bus at each of his friends that disembarks "SEE YOU TOMORROW!!!" Actually most of the little bastads do that when one of their chums gets off. Team spirit. Good for morale. Straightjacket society? Not for this lot.

Another young chap spends the entire 30 minute trip staring intently into my eyes and, every 30 seconds or so, we have this conversation:

Him (earnestly): "Cat".
Me (smiling): "Yeah, yeah, cat, cat"
Him (earnestly): "Dog".
Me (smiling):"Yeah, yeah, dog, dog".

Come to think of it, don't the spazzmoids usually have their own bus? The normal kids from the same school as theirs have their own chartered busses yet the wee loonies ride public transport? Go figure.

The Downs Syndrome girl, who is ugly as hell, somehow becomes gorgeous when she speaks. She persists in earnestly telling me where she will get off the bus. Ad nauseum. Ad fuckin' infinitum. Actually she's talking to me most of the time but I can only make out every 6th or 7th word. She probably gets home and says "Christ Mum, I met such a fuckin' spazz on the bus, he didn't know what the fuck I was talking about! TARD!"

The ludicrously cheerful little porky bugger next to me is unfazed by my quizzical looks as he continues unintelligibly asking me "Whey wanno wonno? Then he'll gesture to use my headphones (again) and confidently stand up to slowly and unabashedly shake his arse to James Brown. None of his cohorts bat an eyelid but a couple of Mums giggle and point.

Every now and then, seemingly just to challenge the funereal pall occasionally encountered on these bus rides, one of the shrimpy buggers will let loose a skull-shreddingly loud, wake-the-fuckin'-dead scream. Just for the hell of it I suppose. Seems rational to me. Perhaps if the stinkin' fuckin' norms did that more often they (we) wouldn't be so tightly wound.

In summary I give the little bastads full marks. 10/10.

This has been a Sprague Dawley review of the spazzmo kids on the bus. As pointless as it is irrelevant.

Thank you for your time.

All the best.

Dawlers.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #3 on: August 17, 2018, 08:37:25 PM »
Review of Rugby Refs vs Soccer Refs

After viewing some of the diveball world cup then going back to watching international rugby, itís so easy to see why rugby is failing hard as a spectacle.

First whinge point: rugby goalkickers taking 3 excruciating interminable minutes over every fucking penalty shot. Ref, 30 seconds max for these cunts, then ping em. It shits me blind. Itís not hard to kick penalties, the gap between the posts is wide as fuck yet some of these unnatural laborious cunts are taking the piss. eg, take Japanís Tamura, an innately dogshit goalkicker. Elaborate windup and cockfluff and chest pout and big screen hair-check and subsequent hair adjustment flick, then a few toe-jabs and some elaborate Jonny Wilkinson tai-chi wank with his arms, then 3 minutes of breathing exercises before he eventually wanders in to kick the fucker. The whole damn stadium is expected to just sit there entranced at this vainglorious rigmarole. Yes, rugby hates their fans. ďFuck he must be good if heís taking this long, Jonny Wilkinson and Dan Carter didnt even take this longĒ the fans murmur. Eventually Tamura remembers why heís there and then proceeds to wander in and heroically shank yet another piss-easy chance wide of the posts, a la Goromaru style.

In contrast to rugby, soccer flowwws along, the ref has fuck-all to do really, you dont even notice the prick let alone know every single fucken thing about him as we do with miked-up rugby refs, their every waking thought broadcast live. We know their every quirk, every foible and mannerism, every trait and tic. They are one of the stars and they not so much officiate the match as imperiously and omnisciently adjudicate over it. In comparison, in soccer the ref is basically the 23rd guy on the pitch. In rugby heís #1. Soccer goal goes in and itís an explosion, boom, players and fans go berko. Celebrations break out. Whereís the ref? Fuck knows, who cares, itís all about the players, the sport, and the fans. Great release. The entire focal point of the sport has just been attained. This is the moment. What a moment. Were you there?

Compare that with rugby these days when a try is scored, fans immediately start to whoop but BAM, down comes the inevitable stiffy killing double-tweet whistle-blast cockpunch from ref that shatters you out of the moment as well as bombing you right out of the entire try-scoring narrative, yes, the purpose of the entire fucking sport and hello, the reason why youíre there in the first fucking place. Instead of exultance, everyone, players and fans, just quietly sags and droops. Not unlike their stiffies. Players proceed to stand around with hands on hips. Checking the big screen. Having a drink. Maybe time for a quick massage. Maybe even time to wander up to the concourse for a quick pie.



The game has stopped. Itís at a standstill. This could go on for minutes. No one fucken knows. The fans? Fuck the fans. They were ready to erupt and yet now theyíre left there with their dicks in their hands unable to shower their love jazz all over the show. Those fan cunts are dead fucken last on the modern rugby agenda. They can wait for as long as it takes, fuck them. By now the thrilling try-scoring moment, the tapestry framing the entire purpose of the sport, is becoming a fading memory, minutes have gone by, the thrilling moment has been reduced to a phantom limb in limbo, as if it were Shroedingers Cat, neither dead or alive, cruelly banished to an uncertain realm of memory while TMO George Ayoub tries to keep his grot browser from going up on the big screen.

For fucks sake soccer, do not go down the video ref path. Goalline technology is all you need.

Time drags on for a bit. Still no decision. Fans just stand there confused as they surreptitiously "accidentally" wipe the sad wee drops of smeggy precum on the back of the fan sitting in front of them.
ďWHY have they structured our entire sport to self-defeatingly and repeatedly clang the brideís skull on the eaves as the player whisks the mad ho over the threshold at the peak moment of ecstasy?Ē the more verbose fans may ruminate.



Yes, the refís indulgence in indecision at the expense of the fan has stymied the actual main point of the entire fucking experience. The thrill is gone.
Oops, the try is not given. The players have had a nice long rest. Well refreshed now. The fans, um, fuck the fans, the stadium is only 10% full anyway. Great hectares of empty seats. Crikey, I wonder why. Refs can now restart the atmosphere-drained match and get on with the business of setting up yet another potential premature ejaculation moment.

Or, eventually, the 4 officials may actually give the try. But, thrill-wise, the moment is lost. Hey, go fuck yourself everyone, no momentous orgasmic celebration for you as there is with every single wendyball goal. A few dozen fans cheer for the TMO decision but fuck you itís just not the same now. Watching a refs arm go up 4 minutes after the fact, hey go fuck yourself buddy, itís just not the same here 4 minutes later, weíre not here to see you, you fucken cunt. Enjoying TMO-awarded tries in rugby is like trying to whack it to the credits of a fucken porno vid.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Hoog

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #4 on: August 21, 2018, 01:29:36 PM »


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Niagara_Falls

The water fall's ok AND....

Don't get me wrong it is a great thing to look at and enjoy, however the drive there always seems to be a pain. The town is also a pain and very annoying. The view is not so great as it is from the canadian site honeslty rather spend a few more min or an hour and go to the canadian side it will be so writh it.

The boat trip from the NY side does not seem as "full" as it is from the canadian side.

Also you do not get to enjoy the mist cloud that you get on the canadian side.

After being on the canadian side the US side is just MEH

Summary - Beautiful falls and everybody should see it once. But I would never go there again unless forced!!!!
[img]data:image/jpeg;base64,/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAQAAAQABAAD/2wCEAAkGBxMTEhUTExMWFhUXGB0bGRgYGB4fGxgeGx8YGh0aIBobHSggGyAlHRoaITEhJikrLi4uHx8zODMtNygtLisBCgoKDg0OGxAQGy0lICYvLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLf/AABEIAL8BBwMBIgACEQEDEQH/xAAbAAACAwEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAEBQIDBgEAB//E

Hoog

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #5 on: August 21, 2018, 01:33:24 PM »


Died at the third gig! This is the worst product I have bought! Have used the gold cables for years with no issues. This is not Monster Quality. Also, I AM NOT ROUGH ON CABLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
[img]data:image/jpeg;base64,/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAQAAAQABAAD/2wCEAAkGBxMTEhUTExMWFhUXGB0bGRgYGB4fGxgeGx8YGh0aIBobHSggGyAlHRoaITEhJikrLi4uHx8zODMtNygtLisBCgoKDg0OGxAQGy0lICYvLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLf/AABEIAL8BBwMBIgACEQEDEQH/xAAbAAACAwEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAEBQIDBgEAB//E

Hoog

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #6 on: August 21, 2018, 01:36:47 PM »


I would rate this product as mediocre. The price was fine, but the blades aren't particularly sharp, as I would expect a brand-new nail clipper to be. It's hard to say whether the larger nail clippers or smaller ones are more user-friendly. The pick and handles don't swing out smoothly. However, it's decent enough to use. I would rather have purchased one or two higher-quality nail clippers than a pack of four that don't work as well. If you are looking for quantity and just want something decently functional, this is fine.
[img]data:image/jpeg;base64,/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAQAAAQABAAD/2wCEAAkGBxMTEhUTExMWFhUXGB0bGRgYGB4fGxgeGx8YGh0aIBobHSggGyAlHRoaITEhJikrLi4uHx8zODMtNygtLisBCgoKDg0OGxAQGy0lICYvLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLf/AABEIAL8BBwMBIgACEQEDEQH/xAAbAAACAwEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAEBQIDBgEAB//E

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #7 on: August 21, 2018, 02:16:28 PM »


Haha, quite an imaginative photoshop effort there.

Like a golf course would ever be positioned that close to that scale of water hazard. l0ll! Just unnecessarily penalising the good -to-average golfer iHomo.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #8 on: August 21, 2018, 02:18:59 PM »
ps for some reason I get the feeling user@Hoog is unnecessarily rough on cables.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #9 on: August 31, 2018, 03:01:47 AM »
This belongs to Mr Michael Goodcock esq.

He wrote it, I saved it, and here it is.

let's call it Japanese Review of The War

"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #10 on: November 13, 2018, 05:38:38 PM »
Today's Subway Ride

such a weird one today. Businessman seated directly across from me, dressed to the nines, salt and pepper hair, polished black shoes, brolly, ffs, the guy was decked out like Patrick Macnee from the goddamn Avengers.



Minus the bowler of course. But he did look for all the world like a posh solicitor en route to his swish downtown office at Tunbridge, Snodgrass and Bellend or some shit.

Anyway, first alarm bell was why was he sitting in the handicapped seats? These types never do. Then I noticed his tic. A sort of simian baring of the teeth and snouty coiling of the nose and upper lip. Except he did it all the fucking time. It was fucking out of control. Tourettes, aspergers, fucked if I know. Schizophrenia? The eyes had that schizo look, completely retreated from reality, glazed, utterly unaware of his suroundings or whether or not anyone was looking. In summary, all dead giveaways for Bonkers City Limits, pop; this guy.

WFT, I haven't even got to the part that had me transfixed in morbid fascination for my 20 minute train ride. He seemed to be biting his nails or something. Fine, not an exhibitor of sectionable behavior. But after looking a bit closer I could see what he was actually doing was picking scabs off his skull behind his ear... and then eating them. Continously. Like a mental squirrel who'd missed his brekkie.

Now my main point of curiosity was how the hell did he pass the interview to land his supposedly swank job given his completely mental facial tic, questionable dietary habit and obviously generally bonkers comportment? There's no way he could get to the office and hide that shit. He didn't give a fuck who was looking. Maybe he developed it recently and his poor bastard firm can't fire him? What the hell does he do all day? No way he gets that spruced up to go to sit in some basket weaving class with all the other nutters. Where was he going?

oh well, either way, at least I know now that Prokash either has a job or dresses very well.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #11 on: December 05, 2018, 08:26:49 PM »
What is the thought of the forii literatii illuminatii on eBooks? I expect detailed responses. I have NO IDEA about "eBooks" and have never seen one. I am a luddite cunt.
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

Hoog

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #12 on: December 07, 2018, 09:26:39 AM »
What is the thought of the forii literatii illuminatii on eBooks? I expect detailed responses. I have NO IDEA about "eBooks" and have never seen one. I am a luddite cunt.

There are some okay ebooks out there. Here's just a quick list of my favorites:

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton
Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert
Echo Park by Michael Connelly
Emma by Jane Austen
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje
The End of the Affair by Graham Greene
Eugene Onegin by Alexander Pushkin
Empire of the Sun by J.G. Ballard



[img]data:image/jpeg;base64,/9j/4AAQSkZJRgABAQAAAQABAAD/2wCEAAkGBxMTEhUTExMWFhUXGB0bGRgYGB4fGxgeGx8YGh0aIBobHSggGyAlHRoaITEhJikrLi4uHx8zODMtNygtLisBCgoKDg0OGxAQGy0lICYvLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLS0tLf/AABEIAL8BBwMBIgACEQEDEQH/xAAbAAACAwEBAQAAAAAAAAAAAAAEBQIDBgEAB//E

Sprague Dawley

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Re: Reviews. Of Anything. Bit Like Forrest Macneil
« Reply #13 on: December 07, 2018, 04:19:11 PM »
Goddamnit, sometimes I walk right into these things. When will I learn? WHEN?
"We are here on earth to fart around and don't let anyone tell you different."
-K.Vonnegut

 

anything