CHAPTER 1
You better believe those are some kick ass credentials
Thanks Dave and Kurt for those kind words, I love you guys, you truly are my heroes, and I'll even say it, you are my equals, and that's high praise coming from me. Although I do also have to say that while Kurt Cobain and I may have a heap in common, there is one way in which we will always be different. Kurt you see was a small town boy, but unlike him I was always a city boy.
At least I thought I was a City Boy.
I had all the city credentials you see; I lived in a city for example, I enjoyed being in a city would be another example which would suggest I had City Boy credentials, and I enjoyed that I lived in a city would be yet another example of why I thought I had City Boy credentials. And usually you would think that three flawless credentials would be flawless proof that you are in fact what your credentials apparently prove you are. But really sometimes you don't know how much you are a City Boy until you meet a City Girl and you find out that in reality you have shitty city credentials.
The City Girl was really city. She lived in a city, which was one of my credentials that she shared, but she had other city credentials too, like she enjoyed being in the city, oh wait I had that one too, and yes, she enjoyed that she lived in the city, just like I proved above that I also did, but here is the thing, this City Girl had even further city credentials!
Like she smelled like the city, when she sweated she literally sweat city grime. And she cared enough to add her grime right back into the city, in a city supports me so I will support my city ring of help which was both beautiful and a credible City Girl credential.
Plus she looked like a city, by which I mean she was a cluster fuck of awesomenessous, by which I mean she was bad at doing her hair and putting on her make-up, and yet didn't care, just like a city doesn't care how the fuck its hair and make-up looks. And when you share something like that with a city then your City Girl credentials shred up the City Girl charts.
Her city credentials didn't end there no; fear not, she even had a name like a city! Her name was Constantine, which if a city was named, for example, `Constantine City' that would be an awesome name for a city, and therefore an awesome city, which is why I considered her name to be a city like name and therefore yet another reason she could use as a City Girl credential.
That city would also have awesome sporting teams like the `Constantine City Carnies' who would win games by tricking their opponents that the rules of the game are fair when in fact the ball doesn't even fit in the ring, or the `Constantine City Carhorns', who would win games by being rude and obnoxious, or the `Constantine City Cougars' who would be the laughing stock of the league after their fierce cat name has been turned into a name used for desperate horny middle aged women who want to get in three more fucks before their vaginas stop producing lubrication (that's the words of the people making fun of the Constantine City Cougars, not me). Plus even the word `fierce' has been taken by fashion assholes and the like, and so no one would ever want to play for the Constantine City Cougars, which would mean they would end up with all the players black listed from other teams for beating up their wives, and urinating on little girls thinking they were toilets, so oh yeah, you better believe the Constantine City Cougars would play the game hard and with bone to pick, and I mean a literal bone, these guys would eat ribs for sure. Also there would be the `Constantine City Caregivers', who it would turn out would be more of a charitable group that helps runaways than a sporting team per se, but some of those runaways would be running away from their fathers who play for the Constantine City Cougars, so you can probably see in this example how it all comes around. So yeah, you better believe being named Constantine gives you badass City Girl credentials. And they were credentials that this Constantine City Girl had in spade loads of city credential awesomeness.
But did her credentials end there? Of course the fuck not they fucking did not, and fuck you if you even thought her city credentials might cease to conglomerate out of her City Girl pores. Check this out - she even lived in a city. Oh wait, fuck, I've covered that one. Oh, no I got it, she also once showed me her vagina and it had steam coming out of it like a big city manhole! Manholes in small towns don't have steam coming out of them do they? You're God fucking damn it for fucking sure hell right they don't, so Hell Yeah you better believe that if a girl's vagina has steam coming out of it like a big city man hole then this chick has big ass City Girl credentials.
Is that the end of the credentials? Yes it is. Oh wait no it's not, she even once had sex with the mayor of a city, and when you work in city hall that means you've been in City Hall, and when you make love to Constantine that means you've been in Constantine, which means that in this little free flying fucking kick ass factoid, Constantine and City Hall have become one and the same, as in the mayor has been in both of them, and when you share an in with City Hall, you better fucking have faith in the reality that you have kick cunt City Girl credentials.
Lets take a moment to weigh up these facts:
My City Boy Credentials - I lived in the city, I enjoyed being in a city, I enjoyed that I lived in a city.
Her City Girl Credentials - She lived in a city, she enjoyed being in a city, she enjoyed that she lived in a city, she oozed grime like a city, she did her hair like a city, she was named like a fucking awesome city which would have awesome city sport teams, her vagina streamed steam like a city, and she practically WAS city hall, as in the mayor did his best work inside of her, and she even lived in a city.
It was clear, she was a City Girl but I was no City Boy. There was only one thing for it, I would have to leave the city, as my City Boy credentials were far too shitty for me to be pure City Boy, and as shitty as it was to leave the city, I knew I would return one day. I just had to. I mean apart from anything, I really wanted to taste that City Girl steam for myself, so if I want to be a City Boy the way I want to be, I guess it's clear – it's time I run for Mayor.
CHAPTER 2
Please don't do it
As your future Mayor (do they even have Mayors where you are?) I know exactly what you're thinking, and I am really sorry, but I don't think you should adopt a camel.
Yes, I know, there have been so many stories about the Middle-East on the news in the past decade or so, and you sit and watch and think 'terrorists suck, but those camels sure look cool' and you're right, they do look cool, but cool does not make an awesome pet I am afraid.
I agree with you, camels make a unique pet and being unique is good, but I promise you, many, many people are thinking of making the move for the camel ownership life right now, and if you also jump in and buy a camel, soon you'll find yourself whack bang in the middle of an ill-thought-out trend. Do you want your camel to turn into the equivalent of recent other well known ill-thought-out trends like a butterfly tattoo on your lower back, or a florescent microscope collection, or a replacement artificial hand where every finger is now a different sized Phillips head screw driver? No you don't. You can have your tattoo removed, throw out a florescent microscope, or cut off your hand yet again and get a cool hook instead, but with a camel you're stuck.
I am right with you, is a camel cute? Hell Yes, but cuteness fades, and you'll find yourself looking at baby camels in the pet store window thinking 'I wish my camel was still cute like that, my camel sucks'. No no, it will happen, and I know that doesn't mean you won't still love your camel, but it should be considered.
The other thing is, and this may shock you, but camels, as it turns out, make really, really awful pets. Trust me. And I know what you're thinking, you don't trust me, and you prefer facts, so ok: here are some facts you may not yet have thought about showing why camels make bad pets:
- They're kind of big. If you live in a studio apartment where the hell are you going to put it? Even if you have a courtyard or roof top garden, camels like to move around, and a restless camel is a horny camel, hey don't blame me, it's a fact, and if you thought horses were hung like horses, well camels are REALLY hung like horses (even female ones, camel clitoris is enormous!)
- They're not good eating, which means fifty years from now when it sadly passes away you're going to have to drag a big heavy body to the trash can rather than farming its body for meals, that's annoying AND wasteful.
- They have weird lumps on their backs, and if you have a pet with weird lumps people may think YOU'RE weird.
- In the desert the smell of a camel's ass can be a delightful distraction from the smell of sweaty unwashed Middle-Eastern people (by which I mean of course people who live in the Middle East of all races so I'm not racist), but in your apartment it just smells like camel ass (which is bad, if that wasn't clear). On the other hand camel breath may now become a delightful distraction from camel ass, but please trust me, this is NOT a good reason to adopt a camel for a pet.
- They only come in brown – BOOOOORING.
You know what? I feel like you are not yet convinced, so let me throw a curve ball at you. No, not one of those stupid metaphoric ones which just end up confusing people who are not big fans of sport (if you don't know sports - curve balls are a devious move designed to trick you and are popular in a myriad of sports, including baseball, tennis, ice-hocky, rock climbing and competitive sandal washing). But I mean a literal curve ball, because this unrelenting desire of yours to have a pet camel, even now, after I have PROVEN that camels are in fact an awful choice for a pet, has really started to get under my nerves, and as it happens, just as you were forming this camel desire I was working out how to position my wrist in just the right way so that I can now make a baseball curve when thrown from my hand towards something, and this is a very difficult thing to do, especially by someone with no access to high level baseball coaches (although it is relatively simple in rock climbing).
So can I throw a curve ball at you please? No? Fuck you. Enjoy your camel asshole.
Fun Camel Facts:
- There are a bunch of feral ones in the middle of Australia.
- They make awful pets.
- They can't throw curve balls.
- If you replace their hooves with artificial hands where every finger is now a different sized Phillips head screw driver they look super cool, and become a very practical pet, you cruel bastards.
CHAPTER 3
Notes from a guy with sex goals
Hello everyone, my name is Warren Clinder, and this is the story of my sexual life:
I was twenty-nine when I lost my virginity, which for a bachelor in the 1930s was quite young. The beautiful young lady's name was Angela, and rumor had it she'd already slept with three people, and she was only forty-two! Oh boy, it sure was neat to get the chance to meet such a slut to help me become a man.
Barbra came into my life three years later and we made love after only dating for seven months. I was starting to think I was quite the stud (which back then was a term reserved for horses, but I was very well endowed in the nose department, like freakishly big, so I certainly felt I had satisfactorily complimented myself).
After Barbra dumped me for being 'shit in bed' (how can one be excrement in bed? That never made sense to me) I found comfort in the arms of Cindy, all 400lbs of them (I only weighed the arms, I couldn't get her whole body on the scales, and besides I didn't want to do anything to make her feel uncomfortable about her weight). Keep in mind in those days men clamoured all over themselves for curvier women, and when those women turned us down the epically morbidly obese were the 116th next best thing, right between rabbits (hard to catch) and trees (splinters, ouch).
Sadly Cindy died during the act (sadly for her private cheese dealer). And I found myself at the ripe old age of thirty-seven (life expectancy was fifty two then, and I never was an confident fellow) and I was in a speakeasy one night when I optimistically started chatting to a fine beauty named Deidra and I found myself asking her out. She of course laughed in my face and then instructed a random man in the vicinity to beat me to near death, which he did with the glee of a school girl, and as I lay in hospital for the next two years (there was not yet a cure for thirty eight broken bones), I had plenty of good ol' thinking time and it occurred to me that had sweet Deidra responded positively to my attempts to woo her, my first four ladies I had made love to would have had first names beginning with A, then B, C & D!
It was a mighty fine thought, as I am sure you can imagine (apologies if you cannot, I understand that not every man has had such success with the ladies as me). It was such a nice thought in fact that it inspired a pact (Little known pact fact: all pacts are factual). I pacted that I would sleep with exactly twenty six ladies in my life, I know, a scandalous sum, that I am sure no other man would dare dream of, but it seemed fated (pacts are also fated, unless you make a pact to do something like start every day with sit-ups, that's not fated, it's stupid) and these twenty six women would have names starting with the letters A through Z, in order. It would be my greatest triumph (and only triumph, triumphs were difficult in those days).
That's how I found myself making love to the beautiful Diana, the one armed quadriplegic nurse who had recently had a bomb land on her in World War II (Although we called it 'that European shooty thing' at the time) (Oh and for your information the burns only made her more beautiful so shame on you).
We met in the rehabilitation ward of the hospital and when I asked if she would like to make love she replied 'I guess, I mean it's not like I have any feeling in my body, so I wont feel it,' ha ha, she sure did have a great sense of humor for a war victim.
Ethel came a few months later when by chance I was visiting my grandmother in the old folks home and Ethel was in there visiting her daughter, but after that things got lean for a while, I mean 'F' names were hard to come by in those days. Not like today with your fancy 'Felicitys', 'Fays', 'Felicias' and the like, in those days people respected their children enough not to give them crazy crap names! (Sorry for my language, but it makes me mad).
Thankfully things turned around thirty odd years later (life expectancy had improved greatly since the discovery of penicillin, and the cure for thirty eight broken bones). I was drafted into Vietnam after the army refused to believe that I was seventy-four and that there had been a clerical error, and so they sent me over where I had the pleasure of fornicating with a prostitute named Fung.
Now you would think that making love for the first time in thirty years would make me happy, but it turned out that these 'prostitutes' didn't only exist in Vietnam, and were in fact back in America also, and so I could have easily worked my way through the remaining letters with a crazy week in Vegas and spent my life seeking normal relationships or even a wife. But you know what? In old age you realize there is no point holding on to regrets, you're already putting so much effort into holding on to your bowels, so I gave up on the pact there and then. I realized I had bigger things to worry about now, important things, like the terrible music the damn kids now listened to, and the fact that my severely enlarged prostate made it very difficult to pee in the jungle while the Viet Cong shot at me, or the fact that my sergeant apparently needed to cross the letter 'W' off his old man gay sex A-Z sex goal.
