e Squared (38 page)

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Authors: Matt Beaumont

BOOK: e Squared
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blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Tiga
25/01/09, 14.52 GMT
 
Good News/Bad News
 
Good news:
Mum. She finally realized what a loon she's been and she took off my ankle tag! OK, she had to cos it was totally broken, or at least it was after Bex got me to stick my leg into her mum's crystal healing pyramid and after like an hour it went “sproingg” and packed up!
 
Bad news:
Dad. Yesterday he decided it was time to “sort this family out.” Nightmare!
 
Good news:
got a new tattoo!
 
Bad news:
Dad's got one too. He took me and Metaloid (my idiot brother) on a “bonding trip.” To the tattoo parlor! Huh? I mean, I'm mad for tatts, but doesn't he get
anything?
It's like clubbing, snogging and dropping acid. Not something you do with the fossils.
 
Good news:
at least my tatt is to die for. Google Amy W's Rolling Stone cover. It's exactly like the one she has on her right shoulder. Except a tiny bit smaller. And one eye is a bit lower than the other. Totally gorgeous though.
 
LOL news:
Metaloid decided to get Queens of the Stone Age on his arm, but he's such a wimp that he fainted! We had to take him to ER. The really funny bit is that the tattooist had only managed to get halfway through the “n” on “Queens” before he keeled over!
 
Bad news:
Mum. She wasn't pleased. Not pleased at all! Like the complete and total opposite of pleased!! Dad's moved out. Who knows when he'll be home?
 
Slightly bothering news:
my new tatt hurts. I know it's supposed to be sore, but is it supposed to ooze yucky pus?
Comment posted by
littlepinkpony
:
My best friend's BF tattooed her when she was drunk and totally out of it. He used his mom's trussing needle and she'd just done the turkey and it hadn't been washed and the tattoo went septic and she lost her arm. So, yeah, I'd get it seen to. Oh, and just in case
anyone at all
in the
whole entire world
is interested in
my situation,
I am
still
locked in my room. And I am down to a dangerous 258 lbs. I'll probably die here of vegetable poisoning and no one will give a damn. Right?
 
Comment posted by
Sexi Bexi:
Wicked blog, Tamz!! Love it, love it, love it!!!!
 
Comment posted by
littlepinkpony:
See?
No one
cares.
 
Comment posted by
Tiga:
Total duh, Bex! This is supposed to be literally anon. Now everyone in the entire cyberspace universe knows my real name. Thanks for nothing.
 
Comment posted by
Sexi Bexi:
Soz. But at least Tamz could be short for anything like Tamsin or Tampa or Tamalada. I didn't actually write Tamara.
 
Comment posted by
Sexi Bexi:
Oops!!!!
 
Comment posted by
littlepinkpony:
Hello! I'm here and I'm totally dying.
blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Desperate
25/01/09, 14.58 GMT
 
Dear Baby
 
Well, it's been some weekend. Your sister now has what looks like a 1950s prostitute with a serious facial deformity tattooed on her upper arm and your brother has “Queer” emblazoned on his. I suspect you'll be sensing from my tone that I'm not overjoyed at developments on this side of the uterine wall. It's not even as if I can shrug them off as the usual dull teenage rebellion because your father—who's 51, I must point out—also sports a sparkly new stud in his ear.
 
And a ridiculous ring of barbed wire around his bicep.
 
Oh, and my name on the back of his neck.
 
As if indelibly marking his commitment to our “relationship” somehow makes this
all right.
 
I appreciate that you're still little more than a hodgepodge of cells and lack firsthand experience of social mores, so you will probably struggle to process what I'm telling you. You may even imagine, in your innocence, that seeing my name in gothic script on your father's slightly doughy neck should have had me giddy with love and gratitude.
 
Let me set you straight: this situation is just about as far from all right as it is possible to get.
 
I'm sorry, Baby, deeply sorry, but the first thing you will very likely see upon emerging into the light is a saggychinned, balding Robbie Williams wannabe. He'll expect you to call him Daddy.
 
Unless I snap before you get here and smother him while he sleeps. Or knife him in the chest. Or bludgeon him about the head with a leather-bound volume of
Britannica—
that one is my favorite, mostly because those encyclopaedias cost us only slightly short of £2,000 and arrived just in time to be trumped by Wiki-bloodypedia. Well, they've got to come in handy for something.
 
I promise I will do my utmost not to succumb to my more violent fantasies between now and your due date. However, upon your arrival should you find yourself being whipped away by social workers while I lie hysterical on the delivery couch handcuffed to a prison officer, please try to forgive me.
 
And even if you can't, I do believe that as you grow up and assimilate the full horrors of your family's history, you will come to realize that I was doing you a favor.
 
Your loving mother
Comment posted by
Krishna Mom:
Confinement, honey, it's the only way to keep them in line. I've still got my daughter safely locked in her room and hubby is in the basement until he learns that Monday Night is Foot Rub Night, *not* Football Night. I recommend you keep that little one of yours in the womb until he/she appreciates the necessity of boundaries.
blogass.co.uk
Posted by
Hornblower
Crépuscule dans le Périgord : Partie 82b
Comment posted by
Topolski:
Hi, Simon. ‘Tis you, innit?
Simon Horne,
formerly of
Primrose Hill
and a veteran of the
London Advertising Scene,
where you worked at
Leo Burnett, O&M
and
Miller Shanks?
 
The
Simon Horne
that, at
Miller Shanks,
made a final, desperate lunge for glory with a 90-second commercial for
Simon Horne
(pack shot: Asian transsexual licking genitals, about 1/10 for appetite appeal
*
)?
 
The very same? Thought as much.
 
I agonized long and hard about the ethics of outing you. I considered your desire for anonymity, evidenced by your decision to blog under a nom de plume. I also took into account your wish for an undisturbed retirement after so many years sweating in the oppressive heat of the media kitchen. Indeed, I thought deeply about all your rights.
 
In the end though I was persuaded by the submission of my learned friend, Vince (you remember him, yes? He despised you like a dose of hepatitis B). He reminded me that in the thirteen months we worked for you, you were never less than a craven, unprincipled and monstrously vain self-aggrandizer—though he was characteristically more succinct in his appraisal. One word, in fact: cunt.
 
So, enjoy the spotlight once again,
Simon Horne.
It's reassuring to know that, having fucked the careers of so many, you are now getting agriculturally screwed by a grizzled French field hand. Any of your former employees reading this will appreciate the karma.
On récolte ce que l'on seme,
as your frog-spouting readers would have it.
*Anyone who wants to put a face to the name should click
here.
It's Porn Hub's 15,774th most viewed clip—though I suspect it might become this week's highest climber.
 
From:
Liam O'Keefe
To: Harvey Harvey
Sent: 25 January 2009, 16.05
Subject: Security issues
 
Hi bwana
 
You'll be pleased to know I'm around yours. I just called by to check you'd canceled your milk. And to make sure any pets you may or may not own were being adequately cared for. And to deal with any important correspondence (I know the inconvenience of red reminders, repossession notices and such like).
 
Oh, and while I was at it, I thought I might as well get myself a nice hot shower—had a tough day shifting some heavy gear and worked up a bit of a man-sweat. Hope you don't mind, but there's no gas or electric at my place. Or furniture.
 
Also, there's a Turkish bloke who got his wires crossed about a message I left him, ended up in hospital and probably doesn't feel too well disposed toward me, so it's best I lie low for a bit. That's by the by, though it does mean I'll be crashing here for a night or two.
 
At least I'll be able to keep an eye on the place while you're away. On which note I've got to pull you up on your home security. It's fucked, mate. I expected to at least have to jimmy the door open with a credit card. Keys on string went out with the two-shilling pint and Buddy Holly. This is the twenty-first century. FYI, the chaps who roam the streets in hooded leisurewear aren't kindly Franciscan monks. They have knives and methadone habits, and their stated mission is to make you poor.
 
And you need to tighten up your computer security. I didn't even have to be a grade-D hacker to figure your log-on is David Tennant. The
Dr. Who
wallpaper was a clue. And your password? Five letters, first letter D, ends in K. Got it first hit.
 
What next? You getting your PIN tattooed on your forehead? Sorry to be so harsh, but ours is a bad, bad world. Jobless bankers roam the streets, vying with the homeless for the increasingly thin pickings. You're going to have to buck up. I really do fear for you in Nigeria. The gangbangers over there probably don't actually wear hooded leisurewear on account of the clement weather, but their knives are doubtlessly bigger and you can bet they're a sight more incentivized than ours are. Poverty is a great motivator—any Marxist analysis will tell you that.
 
I don't know why I'm telling you all this because you're dead already, aren't you? I can feel it. Here in the gathering gloom. Of a drear Sunday afternoon.

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