Once upon a time, this comedian got a phonecall from a stranger who wanted him to host a TV show he was producing. At the time the comedian was doing standup comedy to support his dream of working in a call centre. Despite the ecstasy of living every waking moment of this dream, he agreed to meetup.

They met in a cafe a few days later. Due to past experiences with TV people, he was very guarded at first, but then the producer bought him breakfast and he instantly decided that the Producer was an okay guy, because he’d bought him breakfast, and just like the breakfast, the comedian was easily bought. He was the kind of open-minded, anything-goes type of guy who if given a slice of cheesecake by a holocaust denier, while he wouldn’t openly agree with them, he would have to admit to himself that they weren’t all bad – of course depending on the quality of cheesecake.

The show idea was that comedians would pretend to be taxi drivers, pick up regular people and then… He couldn’t really remember the rest, he’d stopped listening at that point, too excited about the house special breakfast he’d ordered and how even though he wasn’t hungry (he’d already eaten breakfast), he was still going to eat it anyway (because it was tasty and free(that was the main reason)). The breakfast appeared.
‘So what do you think of the show idea?’ The producer asked. The comedian stared at the slices of fresh sourdough smeared with avocado and butter, the strips of organic bacon, the pork sausages, the scrambled free-range eggs, the home-cooked baked butter beans, the sauteed swiss brown mushrooms, the baked tomatoes and the caramelised onion and wild tamarillo chutney on the plate in front of him.
‘Yeah… Fantastic.’ he mumbled.
‘You think so?’ The producer asked.
He put a forkful of the eggs into his mouth. They were rich, fluffy and delicious. Must of used cream instead of milk in those… He thought to himself.
‘You really think so?’ The producer asked again.
‘Yeah…. Cream… Bacon’s really good too.’

To be honest he didn’t like the idea much. To be honest he didn’t like most ideas much. His usual default position to most things was ‘hate it’. But he had learnt from experience to not say this to someone who was buying him breakfast and waving potential cash in his face, especially when there was no one else buying him breakfast or waving potential cash in his face within a million light year radius.

Also, after eleven years of being immersed in comedy, his tastes had become very particular. What he found funny a lot of people found unfunny and vice versa. He was the guy in the cinema who would laugh loudly at all the wrong bits- say when one of the good guys got his head cut off- only to find out after the movie had ended that it hadn’t even been a comedy to begin with, it had been some kind of horror porn or celebrity snuff film.

He ate his breakfast and watched the producer’s mouth continue to make shapes, not hearing anything. Why did the producer choose him of all people to be the host for this particular show? It seemed incongruous. The comedian looked like suicide cult leader, hadn’t watched TV or read a newspaper in ten years and hardly ever had the money to catch taxis. Yet despite these hurdles and the bits of food visibly cascading down his pubic hair-like beard onto his lap, the producer must of thought,’That’s the guy alright.’ They shook hands and parted, the comedian quickly forgetting what had happened except that he had had a very satisfying second breakfast that day for some reason that had been free for some other reason.

Two months later he recieved a phonecall. The show had been picked up. He was going to be the host of a thing on one of those flashing box things he didn’t own.
‘I’m so excited. I really think this is going to be a great show.’ The producer said.
‘Yeah.’ he said.
‘Aren’t you excited about the show?’ The producer asked again.
‘Yeah, yeah.’
He didn’t give a fuck about the show, all he cared about was the 11 grand he’d be getting and how many house special breakfasts that would buy him.
‘So you’re excited?’ Asked the producer once more. Like an obscure religious cult, the TV industry depended on its participants being perpetually excited about something that might not be true.
‘Yeah, yeah… Bacon.’ Said the comedian.

The following week they went to the network headquarters for a meeting with the network heads. The office walls were all covered with gigantic pictures of the people who were on the TV shows the network made. Their giant faces smiled like they’d had a taser shoved into their spine, excited to be on that flashing box thing he didn’t own or watch, their huge grins like collapsing buildings, caving their faces in and crushing anyone within a certain radius.

They were ushered into the board room. The three network heads sat behind a desk, waiting. They all shook hands.
‘We are very excited to have you on board.’ said one.
‘Aren’t you excited to be a part of the show?’ said another.
‘Yeah.’ he said, thinking about 11 grand’s worth of house special breakfasts.
‘I mean where else do you see an ethnic host for a TV show?’ the network head continued.
‘Dunno.’ He replied.
Suddenly the comedian realised why he had been picked to host this show he wasn’t suited for. He was ethnic, and they probably just needed some tokens to appeal to the other tokens of his type. Not that he cared. As a 32 yr old creative autist with no backup option or financial stability, for 11 grand he would gladly tapdance on a beachball in blackface even if they’d never asked him to do so in the first place.
‘It’s so good to have ethnic host.’ The network heads all chanted.
‘I get it, i get it. I’m ethnic. It’s good.’
He hated the term ethnic. Wasn’t everyone ethnic? Wasn’t it all relative? Why was anyone who wasn’t caucasian considered ethnic and what did caucasian people not have that made them not ethnic? He didn’t even know what ethnic was. He didn’t speak the ancestral language or follow the customs. He just looked a certain way and people made assumptions about him. At heart he was just a Western pig in ethnic drag like so many other second generation non-caucasian ethnics. There was no race anymore, only a wider range of more easily accessible international cuisine options. He stood up and shook their outstretched hands.
‘Aren’t you excited?’ One asked again.
‘Yes, I’m excited and ethnic.’ he said.
He was excited to be ethnic for 11 grand.
There really was no business like show business, except for prostitution, which was pretty much the same thing only with less risk of catching a venereal disease.

(To be continued…)


1233982_10152163855613437_6924619531658482709_nThis is Nick Sun’s facebook profile pic (this is what i actually look like)


Catherine Nakamuli’s (I don’t know if this is real or not)

(Also I didn’t intentionally make my image bigger than Catherine’s, that’s just how it came out and i cant be fucked and don’t know how to fix it. Also I have a greater facebook spiritual power than her so thats why its bigger i think thats how it works)

Catherine Nakamuli – Hello

Nick Sun-  Who are you? are you a spam bot? are you real? Oops sorry you are real- i have been harassed a lot by scam bots lately

CN – Am real person like other people use see

NS- haha who knows anymore on social media

CN- Where do you leave now

NS- I’m not leaving anywhere at the moment, I’m here.

CN- Ok

NS- New zealand

CN- Ok how is Zealand

NS- New

CN- Ok that’s good

Am also leave in Uganda

NS- whats taht like?

CN- In uganda we have interested things you can see or you do. We have river nile rafting.

It’s Africa country with a good climate. Many people especially tourists from different always come and they enjoy

NS- ah sounds nice but im broke

CN- Sorry

NS- I accept your apology

CN- But I think you will not be broke always

NS- one hopes

CN- I think you wanted to come

NS- Who doesn’t want to come?

CN- Ok that’s good

So you can go there and enjoy

How old are you

NS- 45

CN- But you don’t look 45

NS- I go hunting lego a lot

CN- Am 25

Are you

Are you working

NS- nope dont have a job

CN- Your studying

NS- Nope

just doing nothing, its great

love being a good for nothing doing nothing

CN- Ok

But I see you work as information

NS- Yes I am information

CN- Ok

Are you single

NS- I am in an open relationship with many men and women

CN- Ok

When are you getting married

Or do you wish to marry?

NS- Marriage is a dead institution and i dont believe in it

CN- Ok

That’s means you enjoy

You can send me message

NS- i have been just then

CN- You have been?

NS- i am a godless heathen

nothing is real

except for uncertainty

and illusion

are you too a shadow

sleepwalking in the dark

looking for the light switch?

CN- OK enjoy




(Next time i will attempt to lead them on for longer till they get to the bit where they ask for my bank details or something)




‘It’s a… It’s a TV’ The doctor said puzzled, cradling the newborn object in his arms. On the TV screen was a picture of a baby crying. No one could tell if it was a boy or a girl because the reception was lousy. It’s cries were very piercing so the nurse turned it to the cooking channel. Everyone was glad because watching a crying baby on a TV that had just come out of a woman’s uterus had made everyone feel weird. On the cooking show they were making french toast. The french toast looked delicious. Everyone was hungry now. The nurses wrapped the TV baby in blankets and wiped the blood and amniotic fluid from off the screen and put it in the mother’s arms. She tried to cuddle it tenderly, but the sharp edges and it’s hard rectangular shape made this difficult.
‘What are you going to name it?’ asked one of the nurses.
‘Uhh I’m not sure… I don’t know what it is…’ the mother replied.
‘It’s bad luck not to name a baby. The longer a baby remains without a name the higher chance that a spirit will take possession of it.’
‘Umm well I’m not sure if this is a baby is it? Seems more like a TV to me.’ The Doctor said.
‘I guess you’re right.’ Said the nurse.
‘I’m hungry. Do they have any fuckin French toast in the cafeteria?’ The doctor said, moving towards the door.
‘Excuse me!’ The new mother said to him as he was almost out of the room.
‘Yes? What? You want some french toast too?’
‘Aren’t you going to sever the umbilical chord?’
‘What? God no! That might be it’s power cable or something. If I cut that, who knows what I’m liable for. Not taking that chance, oh no, nooo way.’
‘Can I switch it off? Or will that kill it?’
‘Lady, I’m a doctor, not a television repairman.’ The doctor shrugged as he left the room. The two nurses followed after him.
‘Do you want some French toast too?’ the other one asked.

The new mother sat there staring at the TV not knowing what to do. Every so often she turned it back to the baby. It was doing okay. But how was she going to breast feed it? She stuck her naked breast up against the tv screen uselessly. The baby saw and reached for it. It was futile. It burst into tears, unable to get the prize that lay so close.
‘Sorry love.’ The mother apologised, turning the volume down all the way guiltily.
‘I just don’t know what to do.’
She watched the baby cry soundlessly.
She twiddled it’s knobs and adjusted the picture a bit. It seemed to respond.
‘Well at least I know how to cuddle you now.’ She twiddled the knobs a bit more and it giggled.
‘Let’s watch some nature documentaries yeah?’
She changed the channel to some nature documentaries about exotic amazon frogs.

CHAPTER 349953

Mary had been watching Pop Idol when it had happened. Lightning. Striking the television aerial of her trailer and surging down into her combined sitting room/kitchen/bedroom. It was a trailer after all. A cold blue aura permeated over everything in the small cabin. Low hums and crackling air. Then… A hand, followed by an arm of blue television static reached out from the screen and started… And then out of the television set, She couldn’t believe it was happening at the time. She thought perhaps she had been struck by lightning too and was having some kind of hallucinatory seizure. But it felt good so she just sat there and let it do it to her. It had after all, been a while. Like as in, never. And wherever that weird blue static hand came from, it knew how to do the job. She lay back in her dappled brown fuzzy setee moaning with pleasure. Staring up at the Jesus on the crucifix that hung crooked on the wall. But her head was tilted up so that when she stared at it, it looked like it was hanging crooked and upside down. That’s when the fear kicked in. Is this the work of the devil? She asked herself silently.
‘Jesus Christ in heaven, please forgive me.’ She prayed as she lay there, in simultaneous fear and pleasure. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She wanted to look down at it but she was afraid of what she might see. And secretly, she was afraid that if she tried to look, it might stop. She had been so lonely for such a long time. She bit her lip till the skin broke, and grimacing, forced her head downwards and squeezed her eyes open.
It was no devil.
It was a luminous blue being with webs of television static flickering over it’s glowing surface. Going down on her like an expert. It’s flawlessness was so absolute it made perfection look like the 45 year old tweaker who lived a few trailers down from her. The being stopped mid-lick with it’s tongue of vibrating fuzz and looked up and straight into her, it’s cool, blue gaze penetrating her soul to the core and incinerating all the hate and sadness and evil that had accumalated inside of her over the years. And as it spread it’s wings wide and mounted her, enclosing her in a canopy of fizzing blue feathers, she knew then in her heart that this was no devil.
This was an angel. An elevated being that had come down to this dirty earth with a divine purpose. To do her. In multiple positions all night long. It’s long, thick staff felt warm and cold, solid and immaterial at the same time, gently breaking her hymen with great care. And then… It rode her to ruin. Down a highway of pleasure to the break of dawn. As the first shafts of light streaked over the horizon and in through the dusty windows of her trailer, she was brought to a spirit wrenching climax. The air hummed and thrummed, filling with the sound of a thousand digital monks chanting. She came, convulsing as if she had been electrocuted, features twisted in what could of easily been mistaken as either agony or ecstasy, crying out from a place so deep all moments that had led up to this one were obliterated, her face shoved deep into the settees dirty cushions, smelling traces of expired flatulence, eyeballing a clump of multicoloured lint that had accumulated there over the years.
And she knew in her heart that after this night, and till the end of time, she was and would always be, a bride of god.

When she came to, she opened her eyes to see the Angel gingerly putting it’s blue robes of flickering static back on.
‘Will I see you again?’ She asked hopefully.
It declined to answer, clearing it’s voice loudly and somewhat awkwardly while avoiding eye contact.
‘You’re not coming back are you?’ She asked plaintively.
It turned it’s back on her, gingerly running it’s hands through it’s fizzing quicksilver locks.
‘You just came here and used me and now you ain’t coming back now are you?’ She said, tears sliding down her cheeks.
The angel turned and shrugged irresolutely.
‘That’s okay. I understand.’ She said plaintively.
‘Probably wouldn’t work out anyway. Me being just a fat lonely… I don’t know what I am… And you… a weird magical… Glowing freak being thing and all…’
The Angel nodded and gently walked up to her and kissed her on the forehead gently. A crackle of static surged down through her cranium and all the way through her body. She felt like jacuzzi bubbles were streaming through her core and her sadness was no more.
‘Well better to of loved and lost then not loved at all right?’ she said instantly perky and smiling. The angel nodded and then gently placing one foot into the television set that was still buzzing, and then the other, slowly slid back into that fuzzy void, waving and smiling at her as he disappeared. The television jolted and American Idol returned to the screen.
She lay back down on her bed not knowing what to do. She would of sworn it was a weird dream had it not been for her bloodied hymen that lay seeping into the settee cushions and a strange fizzing glow that emanated from deep within her belly.


Last night, three years ago, a bunch of us played spin the bottle in an alleyway with a bottle of black sambucca stolen from a nearby bar. It was my turn. As I watched the bottle spin, I realised I was finally making up for what I had missed out in highschool. And university. And every year of my life up until the age of 22…


… I was a ‘late bloomer’ in the ‘biological reproductive act’/’complex pscyho/spiritual/emotional phenomenon commonly referred to by the problematic and grossly inadequate term, ‘love”, department – possibly due to my insistence during courtships rituals on referring to the sexual act as the ‘biological reproductive act’ and love as the “complex psycho/spiritual/emotional phenomenon commonly referred to by the problematic and grossly inadequate term ‘love’- which tended to destroy the romance, or as i called it, ‘Quasi delusional mental state caused by idealised wish-fulfillment misrepresentations in the capitalist-driven mass media.’
The main reason for my late flowering was that between the ages of 14- 22 i never left my room, because I couldn’t find my shoes and it was very difficult to meet a mutual personal space coinhabitant in my room, other than myself, my hand and my varied arsenal of whacky character voices.
22 years I endured this desert, chasing mirages that evaporated upon the horizon. 22 long years of enforced monkhood finally brought to a brutal end one night in an Edinburgh broom closet, under the calm management of a Swedish single mother and nurse, ten years my senior. ‘Are you really a virgin?’ Maria asked as she consensually raped me, and after a few misguided strokes, she responded to her own question with, ‘Oh. I see.’. My rancid cherry was not so much popped more than squished, a rotten, foetid odour released into the air as the monkey on my back fell to the floor, dead and glad, both it’s hands curled into a double thumbs up sign upon it’s final exhalation. I kicked it’s tired corpse into a bloody pulp all night, trying to drain Maria’s oasis of all the water i had never drunk, even attempting at one point to crawl up inside of her womb to eat cake and hide from all the bad things until the time came to begin again.
Oh the horror.
The horror.


The bottle came slowly to a stop, pointing directly to my gay friend.
‘Hmmm.’ I said.
‘Well are you gonna kiss me or are you gonna be a faggot about it?’ he asked.
As my tongue systematically explored his firm male mouth with all the detachment of a scientist mapping the terrain of an alien world, i involuntarily reminisced about the only other time i had ever had my otherwise extreme, alpha-warrior, hetero-masculine gender identity seriously challenged, the memory breaking into conciousness in the form of the following poem:


Age 25, dumped
first true love denied
my dog had just died
Love like a knife
plunging in whispering,
‘I love you.’
pulled out again and
you aren’t sure
which was worse?
Knife in? knife out?
(Knife out definitely)

Bad times.

Poly-drug binge
to help lift the weight
bad shrooms, bad pills,
bad times
Instead of being high,
Trapped in a sad hell
can’t stop crying
inhaling nitrous oxide till
Out of body experience
talking to entities
who called themselves,
‘The Architects’:
Who were living parts
of the same superstructure
they were building:
a hyper-dimensional haunted house
with wall’s full of poltergeists
perpetually renovating

Shit was fucked up yo.

And then:
images of me as a female
flood my mind.
Fear, panic, terror.

Next day im down.
but female me
still inside
won’t go away.
Can’t stop thinking
‘Am I a girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop
fear, panic, terror.

At the time
doing a writing internship
for the Channel 10 show,‘Good News Week’
In a little office on a laptop
tapping away one liners about
topical forgettable stuff who cares
all the while
‘Am I a girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop

In the boardroom
reviewing jokes
‘What about this one? What about that one?’
Not there. Thinking,
‘Am I girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop.

Final day of shoot,
binge eating at catering table
The head writer tells me, I’m a cunt
Word got back
I said the
show was boring
truth sucks sometimes
Staring at him tell me im not welcome back
Staring at him calling me a cunt,
but can’t hear his words
‘Am I girl? Do I need a sex change?’
on a loop.

Walk home.
Must do something.
Call my lesbian friend,
‘Jen… Hi I need you to dress me up as a girl.’
‘Sure.’ She says.
Open door Understanding hug relief.
It’s the secrecy of shame
that kills us in the end,
not the urge.
underwear, bra, stockings, wig,
dress, make up,

I laugh.
staring at a dude in a dress
with make up on his face,
accepting his Anima,
‘Am I girl? Do I need a sex change?’
No and no.
Very glad, it would’ve been
So inconvenient.

I laugh.
Staring at a dude in a dress
with make up on his face
In the wake of first heartbreak
attempting to become
his own replacement girlfriend
by cutting out the middlewoman

It would never of worked out.
loop ends

Our lips parted. ‘Definitely not gay.’ I told the man i had just kissed.(Ed note: sorry gay fans)
‘Are you reverse coming out to me? Really, at a time like this?’ He asked.
The game continued.

At the time, I was seeing this girl. She was a wild one. She’d begun talking to one of her female acquaintances in hushed tones. The game wore on and people began to leave. Soon it was just the three of us left, watching an empty black sambucca bottle come spinning slowly to a stop and pointing into the neutral space between us.
‘(Long pause)So… Like do you wanna have a threesome tonight?’ the wild one asked me.
‘Uhh…’ I replied…


… I wasn’t too sure. Other than that time when i masturbated wearing fingerpuppets, the only other threesome i’d ever been involved in had happened at this party in London, when an English hipster and a Motley Crue T-shirt wearing Rock Chic, who hadn’t met each other up until they began to fuck on the spare mattress four feet away from where a Maltese-Australian Plumber and I attempted to sleep on some couches.
I remember thinking as I pretended to sleep, ‘Maybe they are just dry humping.’ But then i heard squelches and after some preliminary detective work, I concluded that it couldn’t be the sound of dry humping because there was definitely some moisture involved.
Suddenly the plumber awoke, roused from his drunken slumber by the sounds of the biological reproductive act taking place nearby. He sat up, saw what was happening and loudly announced, ‘I’ll have a piece of that.’ then got up and joined in, causing the hipster to immediately disengage, jump up into a defensive wingchun stance and say,
‘What the fuck? What the fuck?’
A dissagreement took place.
‘When i have a threesome, it’s me and two girl’s, not me, a girl and some other dude.’ Said the hipster.
‘Chillout mate, sharin’s carin’s bro.’ the plumber actually said.
‘Ridiculous.’ the hipster grumbled, gathering his things and preparing for a premature ejection.
I stood up from the couch, grabbed my coat and made my way to the exit.
‘Hey guys, i can pretend to sleep while two people fuck, but I can’t pretend to sleep while two people fuck and another one argues, it makes me feel like a pervert with a very obscure fetish. But have fun and enjoy!’
‘Can you believe this?’ Asked the English hipster, turning to me for support as he dressed.
‘Well i guess the moral of the story is maybe next time don’t fuck in front of strangers, cause one of them might try and join in.’ I said.
‘I guess it’s just another story to tell the grandkids.’ He replied.
I pictured him as an old, no longer hip, hipster, putting his grandkids on his knee and traumatising them with the innappropriate type of bedtime stories they never asked for.
‘I don’t think your grandkids need to hear about this, and if this is the sort of stuff you plan to tell your grandkids, i dont think you should be a grandfather.’


‘So are you in or what?’ The wild one asked. ‘Sure.’ I slurred. Perhaps i could get some material out of this. We all went back to her sharehouse. She had a kitten that she kept in her room all day because it was still too small to wander the streets. As a result, her room smelt like a kitten toilet. I am allergic to cat byproducts in high concentrations and upon entering the room, I immediately began to produce copious amounts of mucus from all of my faceholes. I had no tissue paper. It was torture. In the end I used an old crumpled setlist of jokes, the mucus smearing the ink onto my face.
She lay a rust stained mattress on the floor and we all got naked and started kissing and making ‘MmmmMmmmm’ noises. Our mouths all had that dry, sweet, licorice, black sambucca drunk stink that cut the ambient smell of kitten piss and shit at an interesting angle. Then things progressed very suddenly and life became hard. Or not. I couldn’t get it up. I’d discovered at a very inappropriate time, during a very high pressure situation, that I didn’t feel so comfortable with putting it in someone I barely knew, or putting it in someone I knew, while someone I barely knew licked my balls. It went from ‘Hi’ to ‘Put it in’ to ‘Let me lick your balls’ way too quickly for my liking. There had to be at least a few more frames in between, to link each disparate point fluidly enough, for me to want to put it into someone that I didn’t know, who was licking my balls.
I tried to wake it up with whispered threats of physical violence but it was no use. Not only had I failed the societal expectations of my traditional gender role but two women as well, all at the same time. I wasn’t a man/traditional male gender stereotype.
The two female goddesses entwined around me like twin snakes around a flaccid staff, a failed caduceus. I kept trying to get hard so I could join in the show that i didnt want to be a part of and salvage what was left of my wounded masculinity, thinking that this was pretty much most men’s dreams, but I couldn’t be a part of this dream because 19 years ago, all these kids had called me fat in school all the time and made me hate my body and myself. I thought about building a time machine and going back in time to molest the children who had done this to me as revenge for what was happening now. Thinking about this, I managed to get a semi-erection, more from the vengeance aspect of the fantasy then any latent paedophilic urges.
To be fair, aside from drunkeness and a lack of coordination, multi-tasking was never my strong point. It was hard to switch from one lady to the next, with one hand doing one thing and the other hand doing another thing somewhere else, rubbing and licking and stroking and kissing all while they themselves were doing a variety of things to my body. I found it difficult to concentrate. It was like trying to defecate at gunpoint while being forcefed neverending sushi train, on an actual train heading towards a cliff. It was exhausting and confusing. Input, output, input, output, output, input, input, input, output, output, input, repeat, reverse, reverse repeat etc…
In the end i was relegated to the role of towel boy. Nude, useless, thinking mostly bad thoughts while I watched them frig each other, occasionally patting them on the back, saying stuff like, ‘Good for you.’, ‘Good for you too.’ ‘You’re doing well.’ ‘I’m so proud of both of you.’ like some impotent, creepy cheersquad. They didn’t seem to take notice, they were occupied with other things.
I didn’t know what to do while they did it. ‘Perhaps I should bring them some half-time oranges.’ I thought. Instead I played dead, pretending to sleep next to them while they did things to each other. I felt pretty creepy laying there with my cat allergen puffy eyes closed and making snoring sounds but I was too drunk, too tired and too far away to go home. Finally they stopped. The other girl got her things and left the house without her shoes while the wild one snuggled up against me and we lay there listening to the sounds of the city waking up as the sick dawn trickled through the dirty windows and I stared at the ceiling with kitten allergen mucus dripping out of my joke-stained face wondering if what had just happened qualified as a threesome, or if it was just a twosome plus some other guy.
Either way, I realised I’d probably have to watch what had just happened again as i died, the grainy footage of a failed sex scene in my own low budget home porno biopic with not enough porno and not enough plot in it.
My cracked petals parted into a smile that bore the sweet scent of stolen liquor.



I was living with a cat on heat.

I was the closest thing she could find to a male of her species, so she would just sit and stare at me while mewling- a low, frustrated whining noise that sounded like a complaining child that wanted something that it couldn’t get, and that something was some hot cat dong jammed in her cat pussy.

Then it would raise its tail and present itself to me and wait, and when I didn’t respond, it would back into my shin, like a reversing truck waiting to be loaded full of fresh hot catdogs at the fresh hot catdog factory.

Occasionally it would turn it’s head to look up and meow at me as if to say,

‘Don’t you like what you see?’ and I would picture one of those sassy black women on Jerry springer who would move their head from side to side when they yelled at their man.

While on some level I was flattered by her attentions, it was mostly off-putting and I began to avoid the cat.

‘How come most of the females who are attracted to me are the ones I’m not attracted to?’ I wondered. Life wasn’t fair like they had told us it was supposed to be, back when our heads were soft and dumb.

My best efforts to avoid the cat were in vain. The more I pushed her away, the more she wanted a piece of me. It was the cat and string theory as demonstrated in real-life, but with a real cat as the cat and my hot fresh humandog as the string. She would sit by the closed door and mewl and scratch for hours on end, while I tried to write more hard-hitting comedy material to justify my pointless existence.

‘Go away cat! Wrong species!’ I would keep yelling at her, while trying to work out another insightful, truth-illuminating satire about jerking off.

‘I’m sorry cat! It’s not going to happen. Society would frown upon us. Besides, what would we tell our parents?’


I was sleeping on a futon at the time, and one morning I awoke to my alarm and opened my eyes to see the cat’s vagina 3 inches from my face.

There’s a very obvious joke here involving the multiple use of the word ‘Pussy’ but there have already been way too many references to cat genitalia in this piece, so if you want it bad enough, you will just have to write your own.

The point is that seeing a cat’s vagina while hearing your alarm clock ring as the first experience of your day puts a surreal spin on the remaining waking hours of that cycle. It’s impossible to move through your mundane daily routine without hearing alarm bells and seeing that image as mental wallpaper every time you close your eyes.

I just lay on the futon not moving, staring at it, not fully awake enough to process what it was, and when I finally did, I just lay there in denial, watching it’s tail slowly swish hypnotically from side to side like a pendulum, in what I thought it hoped was a seductive manner.

There was no doubt about it.

I was in.

Nothing happened mind you, but if I’d wanted it to, she’d of let me.

I stared at it and thought about the girl I’d recently broken up with. If only she could see me now. I stared at it and saw civilisations rise and fall in the blink of a second. I saw millions of planets floating in black space. I saw leaves falling from maple trees that lined an endless country road in the autumn. I saw the end of the human race. I saw a paramecium divide endlessly on a speck of dust floating in a boarded up room in Baltimore. I saw time was a circle. I saw boats in the Aegean sea rubbing up against the wooden slats of the wharves they were moored to.

I saw a cat’s vagina.

The more I stared at it, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, the more I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the animal.

Us humans take for granted our opposable thumbs which grant us many luxuries, one being the power of self-pleasure. This poor quadraped animal did not have this power. I kept picturing diagrams in my head demonstrating various ways a cat might be able to get itself off, but they were all rejected on grounds of implausibility. A cat couldn’t afford, let alone construct a low-positioned, wall-mounted dildo. I briefly contemplated bringing it off as an act of buddhist compassion more than perversion. I would have to wear gloves though, and then probably some kind of lube so the gloves wouldn’t chafe.

What would Buddha do?

In the end I just did what I had done to most of the women in my life up till that point: I pushed her away from me while apologising profusely.

‘I’m so sorry, but this just isn’t going to work out.’ I said.

‘It’s not me, it’s you’re a cat.’


A few days later I heard all this caterwauling on the balcony and went to the kitchen window to check out what was happening.

My cat and some Tomcat were fucking on the balcony.

I couldn’t help noticing that she was getting fucked good.

I stood at the window with my hands on my hip and a smile of satisfaction on my lips, watching them fuck good like a proud parent watching his children fuck good. I decided to do the washing up while watching them fuck so as to be productive.

While I watched them fuck, I thought about how straight forward non-human animal courtship rituals were as opposed to human courtship rituals. If you were a female cat and you wanted a fuck, you would just throw off a scent and whine and mewl and keep pushing your cat vagina into various animal’s faces until you got to the right species. If that female cat was a female human and acted like that, she would be called a slut or something and be ostracised.

And if you were a male cat and you wanted a fuck, you would just go to where the female cat was who you knew wanted a fuck, cause you could smell it in her scent and then you would just jump on board the cat fuck train and ride it all the way into the white, sticky sunset.

Instead because I was a human, I had to go out to clubs and wait for a female to start dancing near to me with that look on her face like she was ignoring me, but also inviting me to talk to her, but not being obvious enough to allay the tremendous self doubt at my core that destroyed my confidence and then I’d have to be all charming and funny and not nervous at all and then get their number and then work up the courage to call them after waiting the correct time period that both parties knew they were waiting and then go on a date with them but say that it wasn’t a date, so there would be no pressure or expectations in case it got awkward if the non-date date didn’t work out, and be all presentable and funny and comfortable and appeal to all sorts of standards and criterias and variables in her head enough for her to let me access her non-cat vagina which she wouldn’t shove in my face the first thing in the morning, but instead have me work up to it and really earn the right to access it, if she allowed me to…

It was enough to make man want to fuck a cat.

I watched them fuck through the window wistfully, washing the dishes, wishing I was the male cat so my romantic life would be a lot simpler and active.

I watched them fuck through the window, wondering how long I could watch them fuck before I was considered a pervert.

I moved out soon after.


A few months later, I visited my old house and the cat had just had two cute kittens. They had faces the size of thumbprints. Fucking Christ they were cute. They were climbing all over her with their new kitten energy that she barely tolerated. She had aged heaps, even though I had only been away for six months and she was still only 2 years old, but her cat titties drooped and she was all fat and tired and had that harassed mother in a shopping centre look about her.

We made eye contact and she gave me a look as if to say, ‘I’m over this.’ and then lay her head on the ground and sighed. Her clubbing days were over.

I watched the kitten’s climb over their mother’s inert body, splayed out in resignation on the floor, while reflecting on the inevitable passage of time that would eventually break us all.

Her days of pushing her vagina into strange men’s faces first thing in the morning were over.

It was time for the both of us to move on to the next stage of life.

I had missed the pussy pussy boat.



(I don’t know how to do links on wordpress so you will just have to cut and paste the following address to get to the review: http://www.heraldsun.com.au/entertainment/comedy-festival/nick-sun-in-foryomeuevax/story-fni0fdju-1226881803499)

Michael Ward’s review of Nick Sun’s (FOR(YO(ME)O)EVA)x is one-sided, incomplete and lazy. Firstly, the twenty minute late start Ward mentions had nothing to do with Nick, but with the venue’s previous shows running over time. Secondly, Ward portrays Nick as some kind of chaotic anti-comedian with no jokes, when in actual fact, Ward seems to of conveniently forgotten the huge chunks of material Nick did about boat people, the idiocy of nationalism, the extended act out of ways to kill Tony Abbot, the relativity of suffering in the first vs. third world, the perils of aging, putting women/men in basements as an alternative to dating, the mindless worship of youth in the media, not to mention the call centre dialogues and the surrealist story about the dream Nick had on his 30th birthday exploring the theme of lost innocence. Ward goes on to say that he ‘gets it’ when he clearly does not. Sure, Nick has anti-comedic elements in his peformance, but they are mere dressage to the beating heart of Nick’s act which is basically jokes. Jokes that admittedly derail and wander off into different things but ultimately come back together again by the end. It is by no means a traditional show, but Ward mistakes stylistic choices for mere error. Ward mentions that Nick does not have a flow, when he does, it is simply non-traditional and on the off-beat, utilising rhythmic displacement to achieve an off-kilter rhythm which Ward may of noticed if he wasn’t so blinded by his innate critical prejudices. Ward also does not mention that the majority of the audience enjoyed the show and that it was a good gig (with several punters complimenting Nick post show). One cannot deny that something is of value just because it is not to his subjective taste, which judging from Ward’s other reviews are mostly the kind of inoffensive shows that pretentious yet conservative middle to upper-middle class phoney baloneys (that seem to infest Melbourne in abundance) like to see. Ward also neglects to mention that Nick may of prejudiced his review by saying during the gig that, ‘The Herald Sun is an awful right-wing, hate and fear mongering piece of Murdoch sponsored shit.’ (which it is) and that, ‘Any publication that offers Andrew Bolt a platform to spout his idiotic garbage should be used as nothing more than toilet paper and/or fuel for fire…’ A fire that Michael Ward may perhaps want to step into, out of guilt for writing for such a terrible waste of trees. He also neglects to mention that in a moment of spontaneity, Nick also said, ‘Now I’m not saying you are a cunt for writing for the Herald Sun… But you probably are.’ Which Nick admits in retrospect was perhaps an untoward thing to say to a critic and that this may of in some way negatively biased the review but have a sense of humour about it you fucking wanker.
After some background research, it was discovered that Michael Ward has written and produced for the following hilarious and comedically progressive programs:
– Spicks and specks
– RocKwiz
– Talkin’ Bout Your Generation
– You’re Skitting me
– Skithouse
– TV burp
– Newstopia
– Rove live
– The Footy Show

So judging from Ward’s very impressive CV of cutting edge hilarious television that he has written for, televisual socio-cultural artifacts that will live forever not just in the Australian psyche, but the global collective consciousness at large, it can be deduced that Michael Ward is a stupid piece of shit who doesn’t know jack about what he’s talking about and I hope you die motherfucker with the shrapnel scarred hands of a flashbacking 3rd-world refugee wrapped around your useless, pointless throat you cunt.




I don’t know who’s fault it was
don’t know why i got this hate
in me
for you
don’t know why you did not like me
until I racially framed myself
for you
in me
upon which
you exploded
into laughter a boil
full of shit
in that instance
hating you all
so much
an intense despair for humanity
for my uncertain
future realizing
my hatred for the majority
of this species
a major obstacle
standing in the way of

To make people I don’t like
like me
to entertain the undeserving
oh the irony
the horror

I try
to understand why
you are like this why
you don’t want to change
I try
to feel compassion
but pity is all
I can find for your
proud ignorance
looking out
at you in the dark while you
call me nasty things
over the top of my punchlines
and boo when I’m not what you want
staring like I’m the weird guy
you fucking peasants
make a good case for

how we can be so different yet still the same species

what I’d have to do to make you get my existence

I suspect severe adjustments to my innate being
that I’m not willing to make

stale mate

(I’m not your friend)
(I don’t want to hang out with you)
(I’m not sorry)

I look out at you in the
all I see is
with individual tiny lights
keeping me bright in the
I love those tiny lights
so warm so light
but the rest of you are
an insult to all
human potential
the gift of life is
wasted on you
wish there was a
shiny red button
to press right now
releasing zyclon b
from the walls
to make this
a better world
one bad audience
at a time

I wear a gasmask
and sleep well
knowing one day
you will
all be
so get

I’m letting it go,
got another gig tonight
to redeem myself plus
nothing really matters
peasout don’t sweat
the small stuff


Humanitarian from a
distance I love you
more the further
you are away



handing out flyers
in a giant tooth suit
but it was all dirty
didn’t fit me
looked stupid
gave me license to
dance in public
like a weirdo
at people on their way
to more qualified
sometimes forgot to handout
the flyers too busy dancing
like a weirdo
giant dirty
crooked tooth trouser legs
sticking out the bottom dancing
like a weirdo
no one noticing
how strange it all was
(only black people
took the flyers
don’t know why)
Best job ever
6am start.

putting flyers in letterboxes
Couldn’t be fucked
wearing an ill-fitting tooth suit
(gave me a bad back)
too early in the morning
(Not a morning/night person
more an afternoon person)
anymore fine with me
best job ever
got very fit walking around
five hours every other day
clocking in late clocking
out early long lunches
getting high
on the job no one to tell
us what to do no need
to show up if you didn’t feel
like it no need to tell
anyone you weren’t coming in
old people waiting
by the letterbox to tell
us off like they had been
waiting all day
to talk to someone
a lifetime of regret
spewed onto you
for putting a piece of paper
in their mailbox (just junkmail
and bills addressed to people who
didn’t live there anymore)
I don’t know
maybe I was reading into it
too much but I guess when we
get old we all go crazy
from spending too much time
in ourselves
by ourselves
being ourselves
it’s frightening to think
about the inevitable once your
wave breaks and slides back in
plus you shit
and piss yourself

who got us to rip
apart his old dentistry
we took to it with
best job ever!!!
counter tops
My friend patiently
pulling things apart
Me running screaming swinging
a hammer savouring the noise
of things breaking violent
orgasm catharsis
plus we salvaged
mouthwash water
filter oral hygiene
goods slightly out of date
stripped copper
wiring from walls
to sell to gypsies
(never did it just sat
under a ping pong table
in a garbage bag
after we found it would only
get us 20 quid)
a canister of pure oxygen
when inhaled the world
became sharper clearer
an extended moment
wondered if we were in a
world with not enough
oxygen in it this whole
life deprived but
not realising
if only it could be that clear
and sharp all the time
Then looked
metal tag oxygen
past expiration date
by a couple of years
never knew air could spoil.

cool guy
tall jovial chap big
laugh lots of girlfriends
sold his practise
for millions
to retire
Bahamas age 40
good for him nice
to know someone
occasionally wins
the game good
people are a minority
but they are out there
when you look thanks
Mike I hope
you’re happy
on the beach
in the sun
having a laugh
with your girl
drinking a
with a


Last night, I dreamt I was dying of pancreatic cancer.
I can’t remember who diagnosed me, all that I knew was that I had pancreatic cancer and I was going to die and all I could think of was, ’Fuck does this make me a hack, dying from the same cancer as Bill Hicks?’
But then thought, even though I am almost the same age as Bill Hicks when he died, I hadn’t achieved nearly as much as him and neither was I as good as a comedian as he was and I felt depressed.
My legacy would be nothing more than the epitaph I’d leave on my tombstone that would read, ‘I am gay.’
Then I thought, ‘Maybe seeing as that I am dying, I will finally start writing some good shit already. Maybe now that I am dying I can write some really fucking memorable REAL shit that doesn’t end in some cheap wank, sex, retard or death reference like all the other shit I hate yet can’t help writing, but then I realized hey my new stuff inspired by my impending mortality would just replace all the cheap wank, sex and retard references with more death references on top of the usual ones and I realized you can never get out of a box when you are the box, you can only take to it with a razorblade and scatter the cardboard pieces in the recycling bin you stupid fuck.’
Then I stopped thinking and felt nothing but total fear and maximum regret wash over me and pull me under and I can’t really remember what happened afterwards but it was just a general vague feeling of all encompassing yet unfocussed wild panic.
I just ran around the indistinct dreamscape and whoever I ran into, I would just grab them by the shirt and shamelessly blurt out, ‘I’m dying of pancreatic cancer!’ into their featureless faces with absolutely no dignity. Not even with a ‘Hi.’ Or ‘How are you going by the way?’ but it didn’t matter because apparently tokenistic sympathy from faceless dream mannequins doesn’t cure dream pancreatic cancer in my dream body effectively enough to make me stop doing what I was doing.
I didn’t know what to do or where to begin doing the things I had always planned to do but kept putting off, because now at the top of the list of my things to do before I was dead in big, black, block letters was ‘DIE YOU WORM.’
I woke up, glad to be awake for the first time in a while.
I got dressed and went to work a ten hour shift in hell.
On my way to work I tried to figure out if that was a premonition dream and if I should go see a doctor and what would happen if the dream turned out to be true.
What would I do?
What would I change?
It was too immense to even contemplate. I would cross that bridge once I had burnt it. But at a stretch, I decided I would go to Burning Man and blow all my money on a holiday in a country on the brink of collapse or something.

Maybe I will do that one day.



NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons) How are you?
MAN: Mate, do you really want to know how I’m doing?
NICK: Yeah?
MAN: Well mate, it hasn’t rained for three years up where I’m at and my bloody farm is going under.
NICK: That sounds pretty tough mate.
MAN: Mate, you have no bloody idea. I’m in debt a couple of hundred grand. I just had to go kill a bunch of my sheep the other day.
NICK: Why did you do that?
MAN: Mate, why do you think?
NICK: I don’t know, maybe you didn’t like them.
MAN: Mate, there’s not enough food for them!
NICK: What a waste huh?
MAN: You’re telling me mate! A bloody waste. This fucking drought.
NICK: When was the last time there wasn’t a drought? There always seems to be drought on.
MAN: A long time mate, it hasn’t been good for a while now.
NICK: How long?
MAN: A good 15-20 years I reckon.
NICK: That’s a long time. And before that?
MAN: It was okay… I guess. Not great but okay yeah.
NICK: … Compared to how things are now.
MAN: Yeah. Things are fucking lousy at the moment.
NICK: Maybe it’s not a drought, maybe we shouldn’t farm sheep in a desert.
MAN: Yeah it’s hard.
NICK: What about camels?
MAN: Nah fuck camels mate.
NICK: Don’t like camels huh?
MAN: Fuckem.
NICK: Kangaroos?
MAN: Not enough demand for em.
NICK: I quite like kangaroo meat. It’s very lean and tastes good.
MAN: I don’t like it. Fuck kangaroos.
NICK: Don’t like kangaroos either huh?
MAN: Yeah fuckem.



NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons) How are you?
NICK: I’m just calling on behalf of the (name deleted for legal reasons)
NICK: We just provide funding support for the (name deleted for legal reasons)
NICK: Ok, well you know the volunteer fire fighters?
NICK: Okay well you know fire fighters?
NICK: Well you know bush fires?
NICK: You don’t know what a bush fire is?
NICK: Well you know fire?
NICK: Fire. You know what fire is?



NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons) uuhhh… How are you?
OLD WOMAN: Not well.
NICK: Oh… Why’s that?
WOMAN: My husband and my only son recently passed away within 4 months of each other.
NICK: Oh god… That’s not very good is it?
WOMAN: I’m all alone.
NICK: Oh… Umm… Gee’s…
WOMAN: Well… You just have to deal with it… There’s nothing you can do except to keep on going…
NICK: Yep… You just got to keep on going I guess.
WOMAN: Yep… Nothing you can do except sometimes just go somewhere and just… Just… (starts crying)…
WOMAN: (crying) I miss them so much.
NICK: Oh god…
WOMAN: (crying) My husband was so good to me… And my Son… And…
NICK: There, there.
(WOMAN crying)
NICK: I’m sorry…
WOMAN: (crying) I’m an old woman… I got nobody…
NICK: Uhh… well umm… Look I’m sure you will get through it.
WOMAN: I will.
NICK: Well…
WOMAN: I don’t know… I don’t know… I just… What did you want?
NICK: Uhh look don’t worry about it… Hope things get better…


strong>DIALOGUE #19

NICK: Hi my name Nick, I’m just calling on behalf of (Name deleted for legal reasons)… How are you?
OLD MAN: Not bad mate, not bad…
NICK: How’s the weather there in… (suppressing a laugh) Cumboogle?
OLD MAN: Pretty good actually. Lots of rain.
NICK: What’s it like living in… (suppressing a laugh) Cumboogle?
OLD MAN: Pretty quiet really… Nice, small place, not many people. Just a few houses. Lot’s of rain at the moment… The lawn’s getting pretty long…
NICK: You got a long lawn huh?
OLD MAN: Yeah, yeah… Gettin pretty long yeah…
NICK: Long lawn, long lawn… (pause) Are you going to cut it soon?
OLD MAN: Yeah, yeah.
NICK: Make it a short lawn huh?
OLD MAN: (Chuckling) Oh yeah, yeah…
NICK: Do you like shortening your lawn?
OLD MAN: Hmm? Nah… It’s a hassle now that I’m old…
NICK: Oh really?
NICK: Are you old?
NICK: You know what you need to cut your lawn?
OLD MAN: What?
NICK: Goats.
OLD MAN: Yeah?
NICK Yep you just need a herd of goats. They will keep your lawn short and you won’t have to do a thing. Just let them eat your lawn.
OLD MAN: (Chuckling) Yeah, yeah I could do that.
NICK: … Plus you could milk them as well.
OLD MAN: Yeah I guess I could do that.
NICK: Think about it – all the goat’s milk you’d ever want, plus long lawn no more.
OLD MAN: (Chuckling) Yeah.
NICK: You ever tried fresh goat’s milk?
OLD MAN: No. No I haven’t.
NICK: Do you know what it tastes like?
OLD MAN: What?
NICK: It tastes like how a goat smells!
OLD MAN: Yuck.
NICK: Yep, I put it in my coffee, and it made my coffee taste like the smell of a goat.
OLD MAN: Yuck.
NICK: Yep. It was pretty yuck. I think maybe goat’s milk is more suitable in savoury dishes I reckon.
OLD MAN: You reckon?
NICK: Well I don’t know really. I have had goat’s milk cheese. That’s pretty good.
OLD MAN: Never tried that. I’m more of a cow man.
NICK: You are a cow man?
OLD MAN: Yep I’m a cow man.
NICK: Half-cow, half-man?
OLD MAN: Oh no, I mean I like cows.
NICK: I’d like to think I’m more of a goat man but when it comes to the crunch, I’m a cow man too.
NICK: Well anyway, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you mate, I hope you get your long lawn short again somehow without too much hassle.
OLD MAN: Yep, will do, will do.
NICK: No worries man, thanks heaps and have a good day.
OLD MAN: You too mate, you too. Nice chatting.


NB: You will notice the complete absence of sales pitch, as if NICK had just randomly called OLD MAN up purely to discuss the length of his lawn and various aspects of goats.


I was living with this human black hole who was so depressing he could make paintings of children cry, fuck he was depressing, what a wastehole.

But he did let me live in his house virtually for free so he was okay.

Just before I finally left, he demanded money off of me, but i had none left and he got pissed off at me even though the agreement was that I could live there basically for free.
I did the washing up a lot though.
He made me really racist, because he typified everything bad in the English character:
Dirty, mean, passive-aggressive, whinging, depressing, racist etc…

But he did let me live at his house virtually for free so he was okay.

Well actually, about 85 percent of the time he was a loathsome piece of shit.
15 percent of time, he was a nice guy, even likable at times.
He did teach me a few things about life though:
1. Never complain.
2. Depressing people suck and are horrible to be around.
3. Never again be at the whim of a man who has power of you because he is letting you stay in his house virtually for free.

I only realised how depressing he was when I’d leave the house to go on tour and it would feel like a heavy weight was lifted from me and I’d feel bouyant, as if I were a balloon that had been caught in a tree for a long time that had suddenly been freed so it could float into the sun and burn to death.

He would complain about being depressed all the time and how hard his illness was, but it was difficult for me to sympathise with his condition because he did nothing to help it. He didn’t take his medication. He’d sit in his room watching TV from about 4pm to 9am chainsmoking joints and eating shit food and talking about how depressed he was.
I think he got off on being depressed.
He was a nice guy a few times and it was like getting a glimpse of the person he could be if he wasn’t such a fucking cunt piece of shit.
He was from a broken home. Is that a good enough excuse? I don’t know…
He was a ‘comedian’ but the only remotely funny thing about him was his humourlessness.
He took himself so seriously it made me want to throw up.
I hated his guts i fucking really hated him so much believe me.

But he let me stay at his house virtually for free so he was okay.

He had this nice girlfriend, but she would get pulled into his orbit and all the negative characteristics of her personality would come out.
When I was finally leaving, I pulled her aside- and I’m never one to intervene- and I was like, ‘Hey you gotta save yourself, this guy is like a fucking black hole, you have to get out or you’ll get sucked down.’
She said she was going to stay by him. She said he just needed to be loved.
And their love of bad things.
And their love of trying to save shit with their love.
God blessem.
I heard recently they had a really nasty break up, and three days after dumping her, he met his new girlfriend on the internet.
Good luck to them.

He had this pet bunny and this pet cat and he was very tender with them.
Well, after he got the cat, he neglected the bunny.
It would just sit out in the snow in it’s own shit, surrounded by it’s rotting food and i would feel sorry for it.
It’s probably dead now.
I just wanted to get out so badly, but I was in a tight situation so what are you going to do?
I just ended up spending as much time out of the house as possible.
When i was away, I would find myself for days on end getting into arguments with him in my head, it really drove me crazy.
It would always end up with me screaming,
‘FUCK YOU!’ at his imaginary image while i was on a bus or walking down the street or something.
I tried to confront him non-aggressively about himself and i felt we made headway, but then the next day it was back to normal again.
I guess it’s very difficult to tell somone they are a terrible person and that they should kill themselves in polite terms.
Everytime I looked at him, I would see a twisted hate filled old man that he seemed destined to become.
Everytime I looked at him, towards the end of my stay, I would see me slowly pushing his head beneath black water until he was no longer there.

But he let me stay at his house virtually for free so i guess he was okay.

Well no, even though i didn’t have to pay to stay, it wasn’t free, because i had to act as a buffer and psychic sponge for all the demon filth that spilled out of his pores, polluting his immediate surroundings and infecting anyone in it.

I thought about writing a story based on him about a man who was so depressing and negative that any living thing that came within a 5 foot radius of his bandwidth rapidly aged and dies.
He becomes a vaccuum of anti-matter. Darkness seeks to absorb as much light as possible and it’s hunger is never-ending.
All he wants though is love and affection, but he cannot get it, because no one can get close enough to him to give him a reassuring hug without dying because he is so depressing.
He consults an experimental sock puppet psychiatrist who counsels him at a safe distance with the aid of a megaphone.
He discovers that although he is frightfully unhappy, he is attached to his misery and on a sick level enjoys being depressed. While his motives have been brought to light, it does nothing to fix him and despondent as always, searches far and wide for a cure to no avail.
Finally during his endless travels he meets a woman with a similar affliction.
When they come into contact with each other they have a depression off, trying to out depress each other as their force-fields of anti-matter clash throwing off bright black light. They declare a truce and move in together. While living with each other, they both come to the same conclusion that living with a depressed person is a tedious bore and they both agree that life isn’t all bad and decide to cheer the fuck up.
Their romantic and sexual tension is not resolved to ensure continued reader interest.
While my story idea had a happy ending, his does not really.

I heard he recently made some disparaging comments about another comedian on the internet and that comic didn’t take too kindly to him, so he followed him down an alleyway one night and beat the shit out of him.
Hearing about this made me feel good inside,
but then i realised that he let me stay at his house for virtually free, so i shouldn’t feel good.
I still felt good.
Then some more disparaging remarks were made pertaining to his attacker’s Muslim background and charges of racism were made against him.
I didn’t even know racism was a legally recognised crime.
I don’t know if he was racist. I suspected it heavily. He would make those jokes against various races, mostly black people and muslims in that ironic ‘I’m joking, but I’m not joking.’ racist way, but he would do it enough times in that, to make me sense that maybe that was how he truly felt.

But he let me stay in house virtually for free, so I’m sure he wasn’t a racist.

I hope he has a happy ending, but I don’t know what his chances are because he has to keep on being him.

My story had somewhat of a happy ending because i left and will probably never see him again.

I’m glad to be away from him and I hope I never see him again.

But he let me stay in house virtually for free, so I wish him all the best for the future.

P.S. If he is reading this, thanks for letting me stay at your place, I really do appreciate it, but christ you were a cunt 85% of the time and i hope you’re not like that anymore. Good luck.