Good Sir, You May Wish To Glance Briefly Behind You

I haven’t had time to write to you in a while.

I do have some time to write at the moment, however, because I am [redacted] at an [redacted] on [redacted]. The reason I have plenty of time to write during this [redacted] is, as you may probably guess, strongly connected to my mention of [redacted] in the previous sentence. While [redacted] was on the whole good and interesting, neither adjective can properly be applied to [redacted]. I will undoubtedly explain the sad condition of [redacted] (and, indeed, of [redacted] in general) in my next posting, which will be full, you may be sure, of all the burning vitriol, bitterness, and vague sense of dislocation which you have no doubt come to expect from me, and which is particularly earned by the subject of [redacted]. My anger and dark hatred will also – and on this point I am perfectly clear – lead me to write to you again far sooner than I would otherwise (and certainly before [redacted]).

On which subject, can you believe it’s been this long since I last wrote to you? Because I can’t, and I'm sincerely sorry for it. I could inform you of all that has passed in these months: of good times, of bad times, of Miles Mayhem. But I think we should deal with you first, and the things that you have been up to recently. Because, and let’s be honest here, it’s been a rough ride for you, hasn't it?

Trust me, I've been keeping up to date with your "situation". And I understand, really I do. You're confused. You're lonely. You suffer from panic attacks; nerves; anxiety. Occasionally, you wet your bed. It's unpleasant, and a little smelly. The whole situation, frankly, is rather sad for you. And sure, you think you know why this is happening. You think that it is because I have denied you my writing on this blog for so long. And you certainly have a point – being without my guiding voice has undoubtedly been cripplingly hard for you. In the appalling and unending darkness that is your life, being without me must have felt like the darkening of your very last candle. Well, don’t worry about that, because the good news is that I have returned. Unfortunately, the bad news is that there is far, far more wrong with you than merely my unavoidable absence. You, I'm afraid to say, are rather badly messed up.

Do not fear, however, for I still believe that I can help you set everything straight. Psychology suggests that we find out the real root of your disease, and fortunately for you, I now know precisely from whence all your current problems originate. If you think back real hard, you might be able to recognise that moment too. Yes, that's right. It’s the time when I asked for those pictures of your attractive sister and you wouldn't give them to me.

On the face of things, you might have thought it wouldn't be too much of an issue. Hey, I can see why. Who would have thought that such a small thing could potentially lead to such big problems? It doesn't seem possible, does it? But it is possible, and is definitely what has happened. Pretty much all the tribulations, trials and personal disasters which you've been experiencing can be traced back to that one awful moment when you made a really, really bad decision. But you know what? It's not too late for you. Just like Scott Bakula in Quantum Leap, you can put right what once went wrong. And you don't even have to spend five seasons trapped in substandard genre programming to do it. No, all you have to do is give me those pictures of your attractive sister. And then all your problems will probably just go away.

In short, we both know in our hearts that you've been a bad, bad person. So send me all the pictures you have, and move on with your life.


Notes: But how bad really was that [redacted], you ask? Believe me, it was quite bad indeed. Quite bad indeed.

Won’t Someone Please Pass Me Something To Staunch This Awful Bleeding?

Oh my, there’s so much of it. Seriously, I thought it would stop, but it won’t, I can’t make it stop. I’ve tried holding it in the air and cutting off the circulation, but it’s still like the set of a Tarantino film in here. The stuff is everywhere, everywhere I tell you. I keep slipping over in puddles of it. It’s on the walls, the ceiling. It’s awful, just awful.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that you know what’s going on here. You’re thinking that I’m only tricking you into supposing that the unstoppable liquid flows of which I speak are blood, and that in fact I am about to make a terribly amusing toilet-humour joke along the lines of what you're used to appreciating on this fine internet we've created. Well, if that's what you're thinking, then you’d be absolutely right. At least, most days you would. But not today. Right now I don’t really feel like making any puns of that sort, because I’m pretty much drowning here. And let me tell you, it’s not half as pleasant as you might suppose. I know you’ve got that thing about liquid suffocation, and sometimes you like to indulge yourself. How you manage to find time amongst all your other perversions for things like that I don’t know. But look, you’ll just have to take my word for it. Being knee deep in one’s own blood is just not as enjoyable as you might imagine. Sure, you can imagine a lot. I know, I’ve read your disgusting emails. But believe me, this is quite unpleasant.

This is how it all happened. There I was, minding my own business, when who should turn up but my arch nemesis Miles Mayhem. You know, the dude from that TV show, MASK. Yeah, you remember MASK. Matt Trakker and his fellow have-a-go-heroes of Mobile Armoured Strike Kommand bravely took on the forces of proper spelling with only the power of acronym, cars that can fly, and a big rig with missiles in it. On their off days, they enjoyed videotaping themselves happy-slapping the vile terrorist forces of VENOM. VENOM, or the Vicious Evil Network Of Mayhem, specialised in terrorism which focused on acronymic pleonasm and redundancy. You can see why the two forces might have been in bitter conflict.

Anyway, everyone knows the story of how Matt Trakker’s mission to eliminate all trace of the dangerous letter C from global spelling eventually led him into the infamous Bloody Wednesday Sesame Street massacre. Surely we all still feel a shiver within our souls at the memory of those shocking images: I for one can no longer close my eyes at night without again seeing the burnt and eviscerated corpse of Cookie Monster hovering before my tortured vision. Still, as I say, this is a story with which we are all too, too familiar. Matt Trakker’s righteous anger led him down a dark path which his long time girlfriend and fellow poorly-animated cartoon character, Natalie Portman, could not follow. But less is known of what happened to the unfortunate and misunderstood Miles Mayhem.

Following Trakker’s dramatic fall from grace, Miles attempted to put his criminal past behind him by taking up new and more secure employment in merchant banking. But with a name like that, Miles Mayhem never really stood a chance of a normal life. The markets were slow, investors were nervous; I imagine there were many times when Miles had very fond thoughts of climbing back into the cockpit of his Helicopter That Transforms Into A Plane Which Still Kind Of Looks Like A Helicopter.

Well, to cut a long story short, the Waspinator-for-President campaign outreach programme tried to help Miles, and I don’t mind telling you that we obviously didn’t do a very good job. Because here I am, deep within the campaign bunker, sitting in a whole load of blood. To be honest with you, it’s getting a bit uncomfortable, and I think it would be fair to say that I’m pretty cheesed off with old Miles right now. It’s not like the outreach programme hasn’t had successes. We’ve helped any number of ineffectual cartoon villains find their place in society. Why, Cobra Commander, Megatron, and even Dr. Claw have all learned that packing shopping bags in the local Co-op really isn’t all that bad an end to a career in hero-baiting.

But I guess we’ll have to chalk one up on the failure side now, won’t we Miles? Thanks a bunch. As soon as I heal these rotor-blade shaped wounds, we’re going to sit down together and have a serious talk.


Notes:

I am aware that the phrase “pleonasm and redundancy” is itself an obvious pleonasm. That is why I used it, so please don’t email me to correct me on this. Do email me with pictures of your attractive sister. Thanks.

My Personalised T-Shirt Now Reads “I Know It Looks Like Herpes, But It Probably Isn’t”

So the news is that I’ve come down with a spot of shingles, which is quite like herpes, only socially acceptable. Anywho, whilst scratching my now crusty and infected skin in the futuristic isolation ward of the Waspinator-for-President campaign headquarters, I was treated to a new television advertisement highlighting the hidden danger that is Sexually Transmitted Infection. In this advert, a host of very conventionally attractive girls…well, let’s use the phrase “get it on”. Pretty good, huh? Bet you’d like to see some of that action, yes? But just wait one moment, because the camera is going to switch to a close-up shot of their skimpy discarded underwear, and guess what? It’s got the word gonorrhea written on it in lacy writing! Oh, the horror!

Okay, so I know what the advert is trying to say. Hey, this girl may look pretty hot, and yes she has nice underwear, but, you know, you should probably use a condom. But what it also says, just as loudly, is that this girl looks pretty hot, and she doesn’t mind if you don’t use a condom, which, as far as I'm aware, is quite a nice proposition for exactly the sort of people to whom this advert is so obviously aimed. So why not get out there and spread it around? I’m pretty sure there’s a cure for gonorrhea anyway, whereas there’s clearly no cure for having to wear a condom. STI’s: are you willing to take the risk? Not until watching this advert, but now I think that yes, yes you probably are.

Actually, I think it has real legs, this idea. I was too quick to ridicule the herpes advertisement, because it’s certainly on to something. What if people really did have warnings about themselves helpfully written on their clothing for all to see? Surely there wouldn’t really need to be all this fuss about giving more “stop and search” powers to our wonderful police force if only Arabic-looking juvenile delinquents could be persuaded to embroider their hoodies with helpful phrases such as “actually, I’m not really Arabic, so you can leave me alone officer”, or perhaps “well, I have a PhD in bio-chemical engineering so I’m definitely not a delinquent, but on the other hand I’ve been openly ambivalent about your ideas of political justice, and I can see that this brick-sized lump under here might look like a dirty bomb, so I guess you should stop and search me although in doing so you’ll probably be prompting me towards terrorism anyway”. 

And forget all that public money spent on ID cards. All we really need is for The Gap to come up with a line of comfortable bio-metric slogan clothing. And alongside the fiddly stuff about names, addresses and previous criminal convictions, all sorts of useful phrases might present themselves. Imagine the greater ease and safety with which social interactions in society could be conducted with the application of textualised garments such as “Don’t date this one, she’s had three kids”, or “I don’t actually have any kittens at home, kid, just a meat rack”.

See? It’s a winner.

Join My Quest To Get Something Into The Believer!

Let’s be bitterly honest here: all things taken into consideration, I must have a pretty boring life.

If it wasn’t boring, if it was really exciting, full of wonderful, moving, heartbreaking, exciting, genius moments, then it doesn’t seem particularly likely that I would be writing this blog post right now, does it? No, I’d probably be off enjoying myself somewhere, doing something much better than talking to you. And, to the people that know me, or are friends with me, or serve me delightfully strong coffee (I rate you all equally, if nothing else): this doesn’t mean that I find you boring. Far from it, so please don’t feel insulted. You are the shining beacons of hopeful light who keep me getting up in the morning. You are the sturdy pillars of faith which keep my temple straight. You are each a reliable if inexplicably hirsute Chewbacca to my rakish Han Solo. No, you are not boring.

Talking to you, however, absolutely is. Mainly, this is because the internet, far from being the future, is a dismally arcane means of transferring information which in this case allows me to pretend to care about you while actually simultaneously spending my time doing something else. And what I'm doing today is wandering around, drinking coffee that my doctor says I shouldn’t be drinking in coffee shops full of people who, as far as I can tell, are just as bored as I am. Coffee shops are the place for people like us.

I would like to note, at this point, that I am most definitely not the kind of roll-neck-sweater-wearing-guy who sits in Starbucks po-facedly reading Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. Because that would be just awful, to be that guy. No, I’m the sort of person who wears an open-necked-sweater in Costa while po-facedly reading Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. And that’s a whole different ball game, thank you very much.

So anyway, I’ve been trying to think of ways in which I can keep myself entertained. And that’s when I thought to myself, one coffee-fuelled morning (with disturbing pains inside my body that tell me that I really, really need to stop drinking coffee before something quite bad happens), I thought to myself “well, why not write a nothing poem and then try to get it published, just so I can say Ha! I got this nothing poem published in your magazine, and seriously, it was Nothing!” I think it’s a winning idea, in all sorts of ways: in its nihilism, or its random cruelty, or its essential worthlessness. So anyway, first port of call is The Believer. I should say right now that I sort of like The Believer. Sure, they’re a bit pretentious, and on the whole are as likely to have an article on a trendy music-slash-donut-store as they are to have one about serious books; but Nick Hornby writes for them, so they can’t be all bad, right?

Right. So, I came up with a poem to send them this morning. I fixed on what I consider to be their best feature, Nick Hornby, and proceeded to mock it, in a rubbish way. And what better rubbish way than a prose poem? Prose poetry, by the way, so far as I can tell, is poetry that’s a bit prosey or, alternatively, prose that’s a bit poetic. And let me tell you, it’s not good. I append at the end of today's blog posting a fine example of the form's non-goodness, as penned by yours truly at Waspinator-for-President. I hope to have news shortly of The Believer's response.


Nick Hornby’s Formula For Penning A Good Review

In a dog-eared Believer, he says books are like stews: some are potatoes, meat or veg. Jeez, Hornby, just last month you said you hated metaphors like this, which pander predictably.

And I thought, Hornby, that’s just like you. I could cook your reviews with ingredients: generous dash of self-ironisation; a splash of books read (but more you haven’t); an impenetrable joke about football or Salinger; and drop in somewhere that you read the New Yorker,

But of course you’re funnier, of course.

The Conversation Of Education Could Possibly End Up With Me Seriously Hurting Someone

I know, I know: I’ve been away for a long time. Too long a time. I’m sorry. Really I am. Please forgive me.

People have been asking me (albeit very occasionally) who the “You” is in my blog posts. Who is it that I mean, for example, when I say “I’m going to kill you with a banana”, or “I’ve renamed Old Kent Road after your fat mom”, or “I think you should stay away from farms”? Exactly who is this ethereal you? Well, I’ve got news for you. It’s You. And frankly, you should be ashamed of yourself.

Sadly, though, this particular post is not about you. Yes, you heard right. Not everything is about you, you know. I know you’ll find that hard to accept, arrogant as you are. But this post is actually going to be all about me. So there. Look, honestly, I'm truly sorry for the dark despair my absence must surely have created in your lives. But maybe trying to cope with that absence has made you stronger. And maybe that extra strength has helped you overcome that little problem you’ve had on your mind recently. And maybe solving that little problem will also help you look at some of your really big problems. And if that’s the case, then I think we both know that you should probably be thanking me as much and as often as you possibly can.

But look, I’m afraid sometimes even I feel the pinch of having a real life. Not like some blog writers out there, I can tell you. There’s this guy somewhere in the wacky world of the internet who puts a photo a day onto his blog. A photo! Every day! For like, a long time! Maybe even since the internet was invented, over three years ago! And not only that, but it’s a photo that he’s really thought about. And he writes something to accompany the photo too. I mean, not a particularly good something. Mainly stuff about some girl who doesn’t love him or what a great night the office party was. But still, it’s something, right? And really, how on earth does he find the time? And moreover, how does he find something interesting enough that he wants to take a photo of it? Every day? I can come up with about ten things that I want to take photos of, ever. And five of those things are worrying issues on my own body to show to a doctor. So, what I'm saying is that one photo a day might very well be pushing it.

Yes, sometimes life catch you unawares, and sometimes you can see it coming and still can't do anything about it. Sometimes it even means not being able to update your social media status: really, things can get that bad. 

Random DVD Review #1

Only one line in Knocked Up, last season’s “laugh-out-loud comedy classic”, actually made me laugh out loud.

Actually, it was more of a hesitant approach towards a laugh, which then turned into a rather nasty cough. Still, it’s the closest I came to the product’s description, so I may as well make mention of it. Some way into the film, Paul Rudd, who plays one of the entirely unlikeable characters with which this movie is absolutely packed (and it doesn’t really matter exactly which one he is), says that “marriage is like an unfunny, tense version of Everybody Loves Raymond, but it doesn’t last twenty-two minutes…it lasts forever.” (note: the ellipsis is essentially Rudd’s rather than mine, as I use it in an attempt to textually approximate his very predictable comic timing.)

I found this description funny because I think it’s actually a fantastically accurate description not of marriage, but of Everybody Loves Raymond – which is frequently unfunny, almost always features people being tense and angry with one another, and feels much closer to “forever” in running length than any sitcom has any right to be. In fact, the only thing which is not accurate about this description of the show is its apparent presupposition of some kind of mythical Everybody Loves Raymond show that is funny, is delightfully breezy and good-natured, and feels like it only lasts an acceptable twenty-two minutes long. As far as I know, that show does not exist.

To be clear, Knocked Up was just awful. So awful, that I fell back on insulting Everybody Loves Raymond instead, rather than forcing myself to talk about just how queasily bad Knocked Up was. Just how bad was it? It was very bad indeed. Why was it so bad? I can’t imagine. It certainly has all the ingredients that one would look for in a comedy: frankly unappealing main character who for unfathomable reasons doesn’t use a condom, check; hilarious bunch of wacky screw-up side-kicks who can’t be bothered to have jobs, check; shot of a prosthetic vagina mid-birth, check; people screaming torturously at each other throughout, check; gratuitous trip to the Vegas for non sequitur strippers, double-check. Please don’t think, by the way, that my sarcasm here betrays a snootiness about my taste in comedy films. I’d prefer watching Van Wilder: Party Liaison to Woody Allen any day (who wouldn’t?), but really, Knocked Up is just bad. Knocked Up is so bad, in fact, that it draws other objects (such as poor Ray Romano) into its own badness like some kind of gigantic film singularity.

And why does Paul Rudd keep ending up in such ghastly movies? I rather like him, but he sure knows how to pick a turkey. In fact, I’ve been thinking about this, and I have an idea that somewhere there’s a big book, containing lists of upcoming movie titles, that actors like Rudd can read. I imagine this book looks kind of like an old Yellow Pages (do you remember them, internet?), the sort of weighty tome that you flip open with a crash before running your index finger down the page, despite the fact that you don’t do this with any other book. And next to each as-yet-unmade movie title there is an indication of just how good or bad that film will be: I imagine that for Knocked Up it was not so much an indication as a giant flashing neon sign reading “Crikey! Stay away from this stinker, Rudd!”

But for whatever self-punishing reason, perhaps some unknown horrible event in his childhood, Paul Rudd not only ignores this kind of warning, he deliberately and continually seeks them out. And then calls up the producer to ask for a part. But not the main part, because that would be silly. No, he’ll plump for “Guy who makes faces No. 2”, or something similar. Seriously, Paul, stop it already. You’re delightful, you’ve still got your looks, and you can be pretty funny given the chance. Don’t let the last season of Friends be remembered as your best comedy turn. Don’t let Clueless be your shining hour. Because that just makes me sad.


Notes:

1. I am aware that with Random DVD Review #1 I have broken my own rules about not writing about anything specific or relevant (I would argue Knocked Up is neither, but accept it might be the thinnest of thin ends of the wedge). Let’s be honest, though: I break these rules with every successive post. You know I do it, I know I do it, so let’s not trouble ourselves by worrying over it too much.

2. I really like the unmade-movie-Yellow-Pages theory; I think it has legs. And there’s actually plenty of evidence out there for this theory’s “truthiness” (can I stop using the air-quotes yet, Mr. Colbert?). For example: Will Smith, despite being at best a distinctly average actor, not only doesn’t seem to have made a really bad film, but has also somehow managed to come out looking good from even the rather dodgy ones like Wild Wild West. Matthew Broderick, on the other hand, despite being quite good at what he does, constantly appears in the most appalling rubbish ever to grace the silver screen. Twenty years ago, I bet people were saying “Wow, the kid who plays that Ferris Bueller could be, in an ironic juxtaposition to his physical stature, our Next Big Thing.” Unfortunately, the bright young Broderick then chose to spend the next twenty years appearing in stupefying tomatoes like Godzilla. Or Inspector Gadget. Or The Stepford Wives. Or Deck The Halls. Or Addicted To Love. The only possible explanation for such astounding tom-foolery is that he and Paul Rudd spend lazy afternoons together picking out ever-more ridiculous garbage to star in, from the mighty tome of movies-yet-to-be-made, while Will Smith quietly leaves them to it.

3. As an addendum, imdb’s mini-biography of Broderick begins: “A slight comic actor…”. I presume they meant “slight” as in “diminutive”, but the phrase also works pretty well as a somewhat insulting assessment of talent. Ha ha, nice one, imdb.

Yes, I Put “Jamie Lynn Spears + Naked” Into Google, What Of It?

Techno-illiterati that I am, I had no idea that people kept track of every single random search one enters into Google.

Oh, sure, I know search engines have lists of popular searches and things like that, but I kinda thought they just made it up. Like, whatever the Yahoo-guys happened to like that day would become the most popular search entry. Or that maybe it was all some kind of clever advertising ploy. I mean, how would anyone know?

But no, apparently they really keep track of things. And yes, apparently people have become much more interested in finding photographs of Britney’s younger sister now that there is strong evidence that Jamie Lynn has “matured into womanhood”. The fact that these people have become more interested in searching for such photographs is, of course, incredibly useful information that the world needs to have available. I for one needed someone to tell me that guys want to find pictures of naked pregnant celebrities. Yeah, and also, the Sun comes up in the morning. Does it Google? Thanks for letting me know.

All the same, I am pretty concerned by the revelation (well, at least to me) that somewhere there are vast banks of machines and/or people keeping track of internet searches. That someone has taken note of the world’s quest for tasteful Jamie Lynn photography is, frankly, the thin end of the wedge.

Now, my worry is this: at what volume of searches-performed does someone take note? Because, to take a purely hypothetical example (which, purely for the ease of argument, I will relate as if it were entirely true), I think I may have put a certain ex-girlfriend’s name into Google like, a million times. Not in a weird stalker way of course. Just, you know, I like to keep up with what people are doing. And Google is pretty good at helping to track people down. And restraining orders don’t exactly leave one with very many options, now do they? But here is my fear: what if that name becomes listed somewhere as a Most Popular Search? And she sees it? And it says “Most Popular Search: Waspinator’s Ex.” What am I going to do then?

Thinking about it, that’s probably the least of my worries. Really, I ought to think back over all the random searches I’ve put into Google last year. Maybe we should all do that. It’s like trying to remember the bad parts from a night out at which one drank rather too much alcohol: the brain tries to delete the memories as some kind of primeval defence mechanism. But I’m fairly sure that a list of those Google searches would make for damning reading. Why, even yesterday I distinctly remember entering both “Thundercats + DVD” and, somewhat later in the evening, “light bondage + Frank Bough”. What does that latter pairing say about me, should it ever come out (and perhaps be forgotten that there was a news story involving the two)? And does it make it better, or worse, that it was preceded by my interest in purchasing a classic animated children's television series? Worse, I’ll wager.

More evidence, as if it’s required, that Google is a Bad Thing. Well, okay, the whole Jamie-Lynn-nude business was actually the most popular search as reported by Lalate news (“America’s fastest-growing celebrity news site!”), but I think there’s still ample cause to blame Google for everything. Man, I hate Google.


Notes:

I am aware that the plus sign does not operate in Google as an “and”, but in fact prevents the web crawl from discounting a common word following the sign. But the quotes in the main body of this post just look more fun with the plus sign. Call it artistic license if it makes you feel better. Just don’t email me to say anything about how internet searches work, because I absolutely don’t care. Wow, you internet-savvy types really make me sick. Actually, physically, sick. I’m vomiting painfully while I write this, and it’s because I’m thinking about you, you freaking technocrat.

This Blog Will Be Your Light In The Dark Places When All Other Lights Go Out, Unless One Or More Of Said Lights Is Related To Your Internet Connection

Every so often, I like to make a statement of principles: not merely about this blog (although that is of course extremely important), but in my actual real daily life.

Principles are important after all, and I have plenty of them to go around. You can borrow some if you like. Goodness knows you could benefit from having one or two of them. I have a couple of particularly useful ones that I want to hang onto, like “I really don't like you”, and “please go away”, but otherwise you can take your pick. Why not keep them for a week or two, try them out? You can borrow some deodorant too, if you want.

Now, about this statement I want to make. In many ways, it is a restatement. A clarification, one might call it. What I said in my previous post, if I may trust to my memory, was that the grand and glorious mission of the Waspinator-for-President blog is quite simply the extended production of meaningless nonsense. And nothing more. I believe I made it an election promise, and I stand by that promise. Nothing is more important to the world than this grand enterprise. In so doing, we draw attention to the fact that actually nothing on the internet is about anything at all or, rather, that everything on the internet is about nothing at all, and that on the whole it should just be switched off. And if that sounds like this blog is then really 'about' something after all, I'd like to gently remind you that it really isn't.

Anyway: I have noted, and some of you may also have noticed, that we have just headed into a New Year. Yes, I can hardly believe it either. I'm grateful for your letting me know, everywhere, that there's a brand new annum heading our way. I can hardly even get my head around the very concept of 2008, let alone grasp at what this highly different time might mean for us all. But this new year is upon us nonetheless. And it is at a time like this that people like you and me ought to sit down for a moment and just think about things. We ought to think about where we’ve been, and maybe even about where we’re going. What I’m talking about is of course the grand ceremony of New Year’s Resolutions, a list of ways in which we can better ourselves, or the lives of those around us, as we head into this brave new era. Of course, if you’re one of my North American readers, then you may be thinking “hell, I don’t need a resolution to go anywhere.” But if that's the case, then it’s almost certainly because you’ve misunderstood what I’m saying. The kind of resolution I’m talking about isn’t provided by the UN, it’s provided by your heart.

What this all boils down to, of course, is the sad admission that I have decided to come up with some solid resolutions of my own. And as I think we all know, there is no information more vital to share than a list of New Year’s resolutions. So here, for your delectation, is my own short list of personal “to dos”:

5. Never watch another Michael Bay movie. Ever.

4. Feel bad for the Bayster, agree to give him some more of my hard-earned cash in return for another explosive, high octane and possibly racist cinematic offering.

3. Come out of next Bay movie feeling dirty and used; shower; return to previous stance as noted in point 5.

2. Write some really, really good poetry. I mean, really good.

1. No, really, I’m going to write that poetry. Any day now. Maybe a novel. Or a comic – now that would be cool!

Of course, the list needs some fine tuning, and I’ll be working on it in coming weeks. In the meantime, why not contact me with your own implausible life-changing decisions? I'll be sure to value your thoughts.


Notes:

1. Chances of poetry dream coming to fruition: slim.

2. Chances of Waspinator blog ever getting around to proper discussion of Waspinator (the character from the Transformers franchise, not the miracle bug spray) any time in the near future: even slimmer.

3. Am I talking to myself here? Yes. And so are all of you. 

An(other) Introduction To Waspinator-For-President (Redux)

If you're reading this years in the future, it's most likely because you clicked the 'all about this blog' link.

This means two things: firstly, that you'd like to know more about this blog; secondly, and connectedly, that you've clearly missed the point.

Waspinator, as if you needed to be told, is a character from an animated television series (do you still have television in the future, or do you just have a continuous internet beam displayed all over your wall?) called Beast Wars, a long-defunct descendant of the Transformers franchise. The cleverly named Waspinator is a wasp, who “transforms” into a robot that looks quite like a wasp. In the series, he played the role of comically ineffectual bad guy, who gets blown to pieces a good deal more times than can be proper for the average child viewer.

As interesting a topic for discussion as all that may seem, Waspinator is not the current subject of debate on this blog. Frankly, he never will be. My current mission statement is that this space should concentrate on the production (and constant reproduction) of meaningless nonsense, paying special and particular attention to nothing much. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking “but hang on, why should I read something that isn't anything much?” Your internet time would surely be better spent doing some more of that wonderful scientific research, ideally via following, poking, or virtually hugging some other scientific researchers and thereby building towards the kind of impactful connectivity rating that will win big funding for even more impactful connectivity projects. And I agree, that does sound just great.

But look, don't worry, because I often mean the opposite of what I say. So when I say, hey, this blog isn't about anything much (and it isn't), then just maybe that nothing much might also be a metaphor for something that isn't nothing much but is actually something really interesting and worthwhile (but it isn't). Warning: this kind of writing might require you to think a little. And by 'think', I don't mean the latest emote meme you place next to something online, but that you will actually have to put to use your atrophied brain. I know this will be troublesome for you, and if you get tired there's probably something nice on television (or your internet wall; either way it's unlikely to be Transformers Beast Wars, I'm afraid). Second warning: this kind of writing will become quite quickly repetitive and annoying. How quickly will it become repetitive and annoying? Quite quickly indeed.

So why not stick with Waspinator-For-President throughout whatever amount of time I can keep one very obvious joke running? It’s going to be one amazing thrill-ride of partially amusing musings, endlessly multiplied out until it ends!