the_kilted_man
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Below are the 5 most recent journal entries recorded in the "the_kilted_man" journal:
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09:11 pm
[Link] | Such a good beginning it was...
Well, my computer's gone tits up, t'Internet is scuppered, and this is going to be the last post for a long while. Then again, so was the one before. With any luck, the next one will have something a bit more interesting than all of the other shitey posts put together.
Goodbye, my dark sisters and brothers. Till the next thought-stifling instalment...
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04:43 am
[Link] | Chest Kneeler!
That's a tooth extraction to you lot. I had one yesterday, Thursday 28th. If you take a glower at yonder figure, you'll abruptly discern a somewhat idealised design of the archway of human dentition, wherein the several voussoirs are in actuality the choppers wherewith our victuals are masticated.
'Tis upon the righthand pillar of the porch we set our tale, the lower mandible. A Class Three jaw - shin gabbit, colloquially - an underbite, typical of at least 10% of the population. In this case, the jaw hangs from the skull's hinges like the pranged tailgate of an old shooting-brake. Both premolars this side were extracted in childhood and never re-grew.
M2 is the culprit: long-capped in splendest crownage, lately brought low by internal dissolution, and the resultant pain like unto someone attempting to hack off the top of one's head with a sandwedge.
The tooth is gone, it is no more. It is an ex-tooth: it has ceased to be.
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03:13 pm
[Link] | To the tune of "Men of Harlech":-
What - a load - of fuc - king - bol - locks
What - a - load - of - fuc - king - bol - locks
What - a load - of fuc - king - bol - locks
What a - load - of balls
What - a load - of bollocks
What - a load - of bollocks
What a load
Oh what a load
Oh what a load a load of fucking bollocks
What a - load of - fucking - bollocks
Wha-at a-a - load of - fuc - king - bol - locks
What - a load - of fuc - king - bol - locks
What a load of balls
(Repeat to fade)
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09:07 pm
[Link] | My creative input for today: I have taken a pair of clip-on LED lights and fastened them to either leg of my spectacles, at the ear, with the beam pointing forward. Seated in pitch blackness like the embittered troglodyte weirdo I am, I can see to look at the keyboard; or, in another possible application, to read a book without turning on the light. Theoretically I might also be able to work as a DJ in a vampire nightclub, like that very popular club night Bloodbath attended by Wesley Snipes in Blade. I also have all my own 78s
Distant acquaintance success alert: Hal Duncan, whom I knew slightly from when I used to be in the Glasgow SF Writers' Circle, has, according to the new edition of Ansible, been shortlisted in the British Fantasy Awards for his novel Vellum. Morrissey song comes to mind yet again - although "friends" is putting it a bit strong. It was bad enough when Mike Cobley got Shadowkings published. If Gary Gibson gets his own magnum opus in print, I don't know what I'll do.
Jesus! I might have to start writing again!
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08:02 am
[Link] | Journal
(jurr-null)
[Latin "diurnalis", of the day]
noun
1. A diary.
2. An introspective account of one's thoughts and feelings.
3. A (political) account (as if) from lived experience (orig. fictionalised); whence journal/ist, -/ism
4. A newspaper (foreign).
There is a story (probably a joke, though history has a way of blurring the distinction) about someone who was reading a book called the Dictionary, which he said was very interesting even though he couldn't work out what the plot was, who the characters were or where the plot was going. But at least, he said, they defined each word for you as you went along. I have long suspected that story to have been invented for the sole purpose of entering a Reader's Digest competition. I then came to think, while that may have been its ultimate fate, it was actually written for the humorous portion (I use the expression in its most charitable sense) of a religious sermon. I further refined my theory to conclude that it was teleologically created to be sent endlessly careening around cyberspace inside chain emails of breathtakingly mawkish sentiment. Then came the fourth and terminal phase of my theory, continuous with the present, when I had and still have no conjectures concerning it whatever, and do not care if I never know the truth, wishing only that I had never laid eyes on the piece of vacuity to begin with, wishing in fact that it had never existed and even that its originator had never drawn breath.
This is my first and so far unique post to this journal, the pandect of my intimate reflections, and that selectively.
All replies, comments, &c., &c., gratefully accepted in the spirit of their original transmission.
Current Location: Glasgow, Scotland
Current Mood:  dorky
Current Music: Alastair Cooke, "Letter from America"
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the_kilted_man's journal