The Somewhat Fictional Character Of Wet Lindsay

Many of you may not be aware of the character of Wet Lindsay. For those that aren't edcuated in the ways of Georgia Nicolson, I'll give you a summary:

-Wet Lindsay is a drip
-Wet Lindsay has a huge forehead
-Wet Lindsay has a pathetic fringe
-Wet Lindsay wears thongs
-Wet Lindsay tries to go for full-frontal, but gets shunned and only receives a lip to corner-of-mouth
-Wet Lindsay resembles a huge, wet owl
-Wet Lindsay also resembles a stick insect with a shit fringe
-Wet Lindsay is, for sake of the summary, a lanky cunt

I am currently pondering upon the male equivalent of Wet Lindsay; let's call him Wet Brian. Here is a slightly less summarised summary of Wet Brian:

-Wet Brian is a drip. A fucking huge drip. He might draw you in a bit with broad shoulders or a buzz cut, but in actual reality, he's drippier than a rich tea held in a hot beverage for too long.
-Wet Brian lures you in with reassurances of manliness (nb; Wet Lindsay shares this similarity, with femninity. Will be discussed at a later date) such as non-commital grunts, unmoisturised skin, and a love for football or other organised sports
-Wet Brian will complain to all his mates about you being a bitch and not leaving it out, but in actual fact, he cries at you constantly for not caring enough about his secret dream of becoming a hairdresser
-Wet Brian is usually slightly overweight, leading you to believe before seeing his bare anatomy that he may be a hench bastard. This is not caused by drinking beer, as he would like you and t'lads to believe but actually from sitting on his arse and crying about his emotional issues
-Wet Brian wears clothes that you don't really like very much in colours that you don't care for
-Wet Brian resembles a huge, and usually blubbering oaf
-Wet Brian, in essence, is a massive cunt and should be avoided at all costs

Fear not. If you have a Wet Brian or a Wet Lindsay in your life, there may be some things you can do to get rid of them. These include:

-Killing them with a spade

Nah, only joking. Don't kill anyone. Erm

Subject II: Wet Lindsay's False Femininity

LADS! Don't be fooled by her seemingly saccharine love for fluffy animals and pink underwear. It's a little-known fact that females with the Wet Lindsay gene actually have predator teeth where their vaginas should be. For biting men's willies off.





This is veering off like the end of the Holy Grail so I'm just going to leave now. I'm going to be really sad if I read this tomorrow and it isn't very funny.

Full-time employment has ruined my creativity

PS. I was going to title this note 'Apparently my anger issues have subceded', but that isn't a word, is it? Jesus pissing Christ...

So yeah, I don't write these things very much any more. Mainly because I have shit all to say nowadays. I'm still an angry little man, but in the past few years it appears I've stopped caring about telling everyone about it. Not that I'm any less of an attention whore (please read my blog, add me on Bebo, look at my hat, I'm really alone and thirsty). I can just never think of funny crap to write about (hence; the only thing I can think of writing about is that fact I can't think of anything to write about. EMILY 1, CREATIVE DROUT ZERRRROOO). I used to spend hours detailing horrific accounts with fat men on the tube, spreading my tales of humourous woe around the internet like a particularly infectious strain of herpes (or syphilis, those are my two favourite venereal diseases. And incidentally veneral disease sounds much cooler than 'STI'. 'STI' is more like a shit nickname some twat called Stuart has given themselves to be different. Not dicking on any Stuarts who may be reading this. I'm 76% sure that I like all of you). But nowadays, my spare time is filled with sleeping, thinking about rubbish stuff, or watching other people do things with their life.

Marsha from Spaced once said, "Contentment is the enemy of invention,". However, I disagree. TITLE REFERENCE employment is the enemy of invention, you see. Having a job to do for 5 days out of a week makes you tired. And being tired stops you from doing things. And not doing things stops you from getting out and aboot the hoose/world and experiencing things that inspire you to write/rant/cry.

Although, actually thinking about that, when I was unemployed, I did fucking nothing because I spent my remaining money on a tattoo. Foolish.

Maybe I just got over my anger problems or got old and lost my youthful spark of creativity.

Erm, I'm reading a Viriginia Woolf book, it's well good. She knows loads of shit for a woman in the ol' times of women not knowing anything except whatever it was that women knew in those days