(written 27 November, 2009)
Nothing beats an overcooked egg for fucking up an already
fragile morning. Maybe the coffee will be perfect and then I’ll more disposed
to not returning the universe into its .00000000000002ms state which consisted
of a really small (like 50billion of them could fit on the head of a pin) ball
of everything with absolutely no spaces in between, and if personal space is an
issue for you then this is reeeeeeally not going to work for you so if I were
you I’d take a moment and hold thumbs for my coffee turning out just right.
Proviso:
Tom is not an omnipotent being so the above threat amounts
to nothing more than a threat. Tom cannot reduce the universe to a previous
state. He can’t even shift it back a few seconds. This means that you can
fairly safely carry on with you day without actually sparing a thought for his
coffee. Although you've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?'
Well, do ya punk?
Hot milk
Who here thinks I can successfully convince every employee
at every coffee shop that no-body has hot milk with their coffee and that they
should stop offering it as the default form of milk? I mean like NOBODY WANTS
HOT MILK WITH THEIR COFFE, OK! What fuckhead invented hot milk with your
coffee? That’s why I’m suggesting pulling the WWJD line on waitresses, because,
like, loads of people believe in Jesus so if they think that Jesus doesn’t want
anyone to have hot milk then maybe they’ll go with it.
If I can’t get over this I think it’s going to have serious
consequences for my happiness down the line.
Nativity
So we went to the nativity play at the school. It’s a
knee-jerk reaction really: The end of the year comes round and, in the brains
of teachers at primary schools around the world, remarkable chemicals are
released which cause them to go about all of the organisation, sewing,
painting, microphoneing and rehearsing that constitutes 1 hour of a bundle of
old rags about Baby G and his dudes in their base and how they want you in
their base.
Anyhow, they told us this really fucked up story about how
God created the universe, and the stars and the galaxies (cue kids in a variety
of costumes and with silver stars on their heads plus 3 kids were wearing
really weird costumes which I think were galaxies, and one kid was dressed in
what could easily be interpreted as an outfit representing cosmic background
radiation – except that cosmic background radiation kind of puts an wiener dog
in the whole God creating stuff bit, so I guess he was just a blue-shifted
galaxy…) and then God created some flowers (no algae and ferns for God – it’s
rhododendrons and gerberas right from the start) and then he created some Arabs
– 35 of them, just to kick off the human race - and then he created the big 5
and then Baby G was born!
William was an Arab – he did a dance with some hand
clapping, and then spent the rest of the story doing bunny ear behind the next
kid’s head.
Caitlin was an angel and knew all the words to all the
songs.
Sam & Tom failed to bring Poor Man’s Tequila Sunrise –
what were we thinking?
Poem, about our house asleep at 2am:
----------------------------------------------------
The eff and ineffable
Seeing and sawing of
18-wheel articulated
Trucks sway through my dreams
Veering and crashing
And folding in two
On the highway in front of me
And the dogs bawl at
Gifts from their sleep
And the kiddies snort
And rack up their sheep
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OK, so that’s that out of my system,
Tom
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