Pocky

Pocky is disgusting. It is essentially – as far as I want to care – a little breadstick covered in stale chocolate and other stale things. Fools actually buy Pocky, and I assume that they have about as much taste as a block of tofu. Of course I’m just being a grumpy young man, and I expect to grow more fearsome with age. Give me another ten years and you’ll read about me in newspapers murdering people, and some less appealing mammals. Like a dolphin. Oh but I’m only joking. That’s because it hasn’t been ten years yet.

Anyway, I’m loosing focus.

I admit that I did once enjoy a Pretz – Pocky’s cousin snack – but it wasn’t covered in anything foul, and instead was branded ‘sweet corn flavour’. The mind boggled and my senses told me to get the fuck out of the shop, but I prevailed out of curiosity and purchased a box. It was actually quite delightful because it tasted of meat, far less of anything sweet or corny. Being a meat lover this invention of flavour was a delight to my taste palette, and perhaps there’s hope for me and Japanese snacks. Yet, who on earth – and in their right minds – would buy anything sweet corn flavoured? You all want that chocolate/fruit/nut covered shit, and it’s not cute at all. It’s disgusting.

You disgust me.

Merry Christmas

One good thing about Xmas, Maimi-mas

My friends and sworn enemies. We’re now in December and I might as well wish you all a Merry Christmas. I would give you my festive blessings on the twenty-fifth but I fear that I’ll be too drunk on the day to coherently wish anyone anything.

This year I will be buying no presents at all, and why is that you’re probably not asking, well because I’m a scrooge; That’s why. It also ties in with the fact that, after leaving my job for a temporary flight of fancy some months ago, I’m as rich as a man with no money. Pretty obvious, that one. Anyway I don’t remember buying any presents last year either so I doubt anyone expects anything from me. It’s probably a good time to surprise family and friends then, with my bringing lots of cheerfully wrapped gifts, but fuck no. They can do without.  Perhaps I can blame the recession or terrorism for my lack of Christmas spirit.

My mother has decided to have a hotpot/steamboat dinner on the twenty-fifth, stepping away from the more traditional meat, potatoes and vegetable ensemble. I don’t care of course; since my mother never liked turkey anyway  we usually went for chicken, and I’d often do my best to eat very little so I could go off to be a grumpy bastard with my booze. So really, there could be birthday cake dedicated to Jesus on the dinner table for all I care, and I still wouldn’t give a shit.

There are of course personal reasons that go beyond the typical excuses as to why I hate Christmas, but let’s just go with the pathetic and say that it’s because I’m not five years old anymore that I hate the season so much.  Also that the weather takes a turn for the worse – it’s seasonally bad in England anyway – and that my bones start aching.

I thought I might as well get this post out of the way now, as it saves me the trouble of spouting all this nonsense somewhere later down the line. I’m sure one of the more cheerful bastards at tin tee will put up something festive; that it will make me want to throw up.

Merry Christmas.

School Stories – The Art of Getting Out of Shit

I’m not ashamed to admit it now, but back then I was a crybaby. Elementary school was one long trial of trauma for me, imagined or not. There are several things that can possibly be the cause. One: Where I grew up, and currently live, is what one would call the ghetto.

(ghetto: 1. (n.) an impoverished, neglected, or otherwise disadvantaged residential area of a city, usually troubled by a disproportionately large amount of crime, 2. (adj.) urban; of or relating to (inner) city life.)

2: That I was an incredibly sensitive girl. … Otherwise known as a crybaby… and 3: That I did not, and do not, fit in with the standard character that develops in and around a ghetto. It’s strange. But fuck ‘em.

This story takes place in fifth grade? Yeah, I think. I had been with the same classmates since first grade and we had had the reputation of being the loudest class in the school. (Well, what do you expect when you put people who have known each other for five years in the same class?) Our teacher had been absent on the day that we had an assembly. And the procedure for assembly required us to stand in line outside the auditorium quietly, file in, stand in front of our seats, sing the school song, and then sit down. All of this while BEING QUIET. Kids are dumb. My class fucked up in the first part of that procedure.

I’m pretty sure that my class felt that without our teacher being there, we didn’t have to listen to our substitute teacher. I remember her clearly too. She was Muslim, and wore Muslim dress. I know this sounds bad now, especially with the air of hyper political correctness that exists in the United States at the moment, but most of my class had made fun of her that day. Thought that she was under them because she was different. … I hate(d) my classmates and the stereotypes they fully embodied…

So, anyway. My class was pulled out of the line. We were sent back up to our classroom, after being fully reprimanded by my principal. You can imagine how bad this must’ve been, since we were the honors class of the fifth grade. Once we arrived in our classroom, the lights were turned off, our advisor walked in and she also gave us a scolding. Oh. I may not have mentioned this, but I started crying when we were pulled out of the assembly line. My classmates mostly ignored me, since me crying happened on an almost biweekly basis. Our advisor had noticed this. After she gave the rest of my classmates an essay to write about why we should be quiet and respect our elders, she pulled me outside the classroom and talked with me. Long story short, I was excused from writing the essay (and all the other punishments that had been dealt out to the rest of them). b

Protip: Crybabies don’t always cry for no reason. We cry to get out of shit.

The Sky

Now I don’t know about you guys, but I LOVE looking up at the sky. It’s beautiful. By day, there are so many beautiful clouds and I honestly can say I could stare up at them all day creating shapes and creatures out of them with my eyes. At night, it’s the stars that captivate me. They’re beautiful.

One thing I have yet to see are Auroras/aurora borealis, or the northern lights. I’ve found them absolutely beautiful since I was a kid and I really want to see them in person.. I know I will! Just not today.

I’ll fly up to where Henkka lives, rape him brutally then hike up north and camp out in the snow with some hot chocolate in a log cabin. I WILL BE HAPPY, BELIEVE ME.

Oh Scandinavia, how I adore you.

YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL.. YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL.. YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL, IT’S TRUE

~

I also love sunsets. I’d say sunrise too but I love being in bed because it’s just so damn comfortable. Here’s two photos I took of the clouds above my head last year during sunset, I took them with my brother’s cell phone camera.okay for some reason wordpress made this small

~

Also taken last year, here’s two random cloud shots. Once again wordpress is spanking my ass by auto-resizing them to a smaller size than they should be..

~

Here’s a photo I took in 2004 of the sky, my brother pointed out that the cloud in the center resembles a horse’s head. I agreed. AREN’T CLOUDS AMAZING?okay seriously wordpress WHY DO YOU KEEP MAKING MY PHOTOS SMALLER D: now everybody has to click the previous 3 in order to see them better, fff.

..

Yes, clouds are amazing but if I ever saw these bulbous clouds I would cry and run inside a house and not look out the window until they’re gone. MAYBE IT’S JUST ME BUT THEY’RE SO SCARY, THEY REMIND ME OF THE OCEAN OR THE CREEPY AS SHIT YOU’D FIND DOWN THERE. AND THE OCEAN SCARES ME SO MUCH.

I HATE THE OCEAN IT SCARES ME AHHHHHHHH great now I’m having a tiny little freakout session. D:

step away from the cigarettes and pick up a.. lolly?

Since Wu just wrote a post about how he worries for SB’s safety, here I am pretty much copying that post but it’s directed at somebody else. Wu.

No no, Wu doesn’t go around speeding down a motorway on a motorbike. But he’s a smoker.

Now I have nothing against smokers or smoking, my dad is one and has been smoking for as long as I can remember so my young growing lungs from my childhood have breathed in the second-hand smoke. How lovely!

I’m writing this on impulse and my fingers are doing all the typing, I probably won’t make much sense but here we go: Wu, I worry about your health. I know you’ll probably be all, “Oh Jo, don’t worry about me! I’m fiiiine!” BUT HEY I’m not the one who rolls 50 cigarettes a day and smokes them religiously!

You’re still so young, and we’re still not sure which date your actual birthday is on, so I know I’m not alone when I’m asking you nicely to try and stop smoking. I don’t expect you to stop all of a sudden and be all clean and smoke-free, but just try to cut back on the amount you do every day..

Well I think that’s all I wanted/needed to say. I kept getting distracted throughout the writing of this post so.. I’ll leave it as it is.

I know one day you’ll be able to quit! I believe in you! -cheesey-

Also, do it for your kid.

Coming up next week: Henkka stop drinking so much! JOKING JOKING I KNOW THAT FINN WILL PUNCH ME DOWN IF I TELL HIM D:

-runs away now-

step away from the bike and pick up a spade

For awhile now – three whole days – I’ve been thinking about SB more than I’d usually want to. It’s nothing sexual, at least that’s what I’m telling my friends, or to phrase that last bit more accurately: what I’ve been telling my stuffed lion Kon. I don’t have many friends.

Anyway…

It’s a known fact that SB enjoys his motorcycling lark, but he’s crashed more times than I’ve had imaginary girlfriends, and to be honest you can only have so many crashes before you end up dead. And honestly, if I was pushed into a corner with a knife held to my genitals, I would admit that I kind of like the guy.

So by some divine intervention but more so out of boredom, I’ve come up with an alternative to this death sport that many like to call ‘’motorcycling’’.

Gardening

My mother enjoys this hobby, and as mundane as it is, you probably couldn’t crash into oncoming vehicles digging up soil. In my head this one is already a winner. You’re probably doing the earth a favour by planting more oxygen-emitting plants, so you’re doing everyone who breathes a favour as well.

Although you don’t get the open road with gardening, unless your lawn happens to be situated directly by a road, you do get plenty of fresh air. And spending the time to tend to your beloved plants will probably give you a warm sense of self-worth and an appreciation for most living things, perhaps awakening your maternal instincts – if men have them. Bar the snails and slugs who’ll be eating the shit out of the leaves, you‘ll come to love the butterflies that fly over to steal nectar and the dragonflies who hover over the pond looking for grubs.

Gardening is also a nice way to reflect on the rigors of daily life or to simply step away from them. SB is a student of gummy bear science and a worker at a fish and chips factory or something. I bet what he needs isn’t the speed of a bike, but the intimate pace of gardening. So sit back, SB, after you’ve spent a year turning your lawn into a forest; so majestic it will be, you can rock on your chair with a nice cup of tea and watch a swarm of locusts go nuts over your small plantations.

I heart Hetty

As I dwindle away my freedom – and bathe in poverty – in the solace of my bedroom, donned in pyjama bottoms and a choice of snug scarves, there’s very little to write about. I mean, there’s only so much I could tell you about my four walls, the lamp by my bed that blows a bulb every two months and the way my window creeks like a banshee when I hang it open. When I’m not out and about being a twat face, there really isn’t anything to mention. It’s little wonder I come to tin tee with a slate of blankness, at least in recent times.

It’s good then, that I’ve befriended a very special someone recently. Her name is Hetty, she’s pink and always smiling. She’s also a vacuum cleaner and no, I haven’t tried to have sex with her…yet. Billy, Adam and I made the trip to a nearby department store last week, and there she was, sitting on a shelf and looking pretty in pink with the cutest set of eyes I’m ever likely to see. I don’t know about the others, but Hetty was turning me on in ways that would make my girlfriend – I don’t have one – cheat on me with my best friend – I don’t think I have one of those either.

Still, Adam kindly purchased Hetty, we placed her in the back of the boot of the car – I had the pleasure of carrying the box – and I felt less alone than I did on the ride up. Sadly Hetty can’t speak, but she blows and sucks pretty damn well, and if I want to act mental and pathetically sad, I can pretend she’s conversing with me telepathically about carpet stains and fluff balls. Or whatever else a vacuum cleaner might consider worthwhile chatter.

Long live Hetty. Even though vacuuming is still as fun as having my dick cut off with a rock, at least there’s someone smiling at me when I clean up the stale pizza crumbs on my floor. At least I hope they’re crumbs.

tin tee check-up

Procrastination is a terrible thing, including my actually using the expression – which I absolutely loathe – and I seem to be doing a lot of nothing lately. This isn’t surprising, considering I am by no stretch of the imagination; a typical twenty-something male with about as much motivation as a shit-covered rock…lying under a seabed of more shit.

Alas, I created tin tee treehouse in February with the hopes of channelling the many itchy fingers and the many lovable yet demented brains of my friends and I. On most fronts it’s been a success; this little blog project. Without quality control and with an open think tank, there’s always been little focus or format. Of course this has always been my intention, and having somewhat restricted myself on past music blogs and an editing slot on a website countless moons ago, I wanted minds – my own included – to run their courses freely on tin tee. A mess emerged, but then this was the hook. We can say what we want and are encouraged to do so. The crew at tin tee are all well within their stations; that we have gone beyond – in some respects – the call of duty would be far too splendid. At least we aim to push ourselves sometimes, perhaps reveal a moment that we thought we could never share.

There are many things that I hate about tin tee, that there have been plenty of posts upped by myself that I’d sooner forget – if only I could – but then that’s just me. I only come good in little sparks and the rest is up for debate. This is something I will have to get used to. The same can be applied to my own life. Perhaps it’s okay that I am not going to achieve anything worthwhile before I‘ve breathed my last breath, and that the grandeur of my childhood memory is something I should lay to rest. Of course I could tie all this back to my obvious lack of motivation, but we’re all thinking it anyway. Swiftly moving on.

Everyone at tin tee is busy right now. A few examples: Morningberryz is busy falling in love, Second Blossoming is estranged from normality and is busy crashing all of his motorbikes, studying sheep science coupled with rocket pharmacy – or something similar – and Henkka is probably drinking himself into a frenzy, with his top off, showing all of his upper body qualities.

So what will become of tin tee and of its writers. Of course it doesn’t really matter.

Tin Tee Island Survival! #8

previous chapters found here

Wu – paragraphs ending in [w]

Jo – paragraphs ending in [j]

CHAPTER EIGHT: GOOD GROPING! THE BIRTH OF THE ISLAND SPIDERMAN

”well Jo, my dear. Ever since Alf came into my life, I’ve been three hookers short of an orgy. But you know, your panties fit so well around my package” Billy winked, his face a quick turn of crazy. Jo looked to Wu for a solution, that of which he couldn’t give. And so, with the thought of Jo’s ass still dancing around in his head, Wu wandered off in the direction of the whiskey scent. [w]

‘Why must all the men on this island be either deranged or perverted idiots…’ Jo thought to herself.
“HEY WU, GET BACK HERE!!” She pulled off his shirt and put it on, leaving Wu cold and topless.
“What was that for??” “I got cold.”
Wu scowled and covered his tiny little nipples with his index fingers, “I feel so vulnerable and exposed right now..”

Just then, SB’s ears perked up and he came running up to the two. “Why, hello there Wu–” “No! Don’t, ..please! NOOOOOO” [j]

SB went in for a feel; that his fingers cracked into excitement the moment they touched Wu’s flesh. ”Get…seriously SB, get the fuck off my body” ”Don’t be so shy. You should be proud of the way god put you together” SB winked. ”…I suppose you have a point there. I am, by any sensible definition, a fucking sexy bastard”. Jo rolled her eyes at the pathetic sight of Wu’s male bravado and SB’s perverseness. [w]

Henkka swaggered up and wiped some drool off his chin. He ran a finger down Wu’s chest which sent shivers down his spine. The Finn leaned in and began to lick the Asian man’s nipple, he pinched the other with his fingers. SB stood behind Wu and buried his face into his hair, inhaling his odour and groaning. All three men had huge erections. Jo didn’t know whether to be repulsed, turned on or.. well, even more repulsed. If only she had a camera for this Kodak moment. [j]

Wu soon came to his senses – although most of them were often found lacking – and he decided to leave Henkka and SB to carry on with whatever was happening. It soon became apparent that the boys would not let him go, and so Wu gently let out a silent fart, that of which stunk worse than a camel’s rectum after a Vindaloo curry. Soon the two horny bastards fled the scene howling in disgust. [w]

He looked down at his left nipple which was wet with Henkka’s saliva, curious Wu rubbed his fingertip over it and licked the liquid. It tasted like vodka and sunshine! Oh, to think of what it’d be like to kiss those Finnish lips.

“Umm you’re sure enjoying yourself.” Wu opened his eyes and realized he was still rubbing his nipples, circling his fingers over and over in a trance-like state. All the girls were standing together like a pack of fluffy, cute kittens and looked disgusted at the man. [j]

”Oh come on!’’ Shouted Wu ‘’Don’t give me those wretched looks. I know you all enjoyed it as much as I did. Look” he pointed and then walked over to MB ”This girl can’t get enough. feel how hard her nipples have gotten” and so Wu continued to rub up MB. [w]

“You asshole! Look at how scared she is, leave her alone!” Murr picked up a stick and began beating Wu off MB. He fell onto his bum and his glasses dropped onto the sand. “No.. no!! I can’t see without my glasses!” and like a poor, blind man he crawled around feeling the sand for his precious glasses.

But nobody told him that Jo had picked them up and pocketed them in his shirt that she was wearing. The girls all giggled and walked off, leaving Wu helpless and half naked. [j]

Wu – who could see as well as his dead grandmother at the best of times – crawled across the sand in search of his glasses, cursing every single girl on the island. Jo, who was now walking away with the others leaned into MB. ”Sorry about Wu. He’s got as much charm as a dog shit covered in more dog shit”. MB tilted her head down into a cute little scrunch. ”Actually, his hands on my boobs felt nice”. ”you can’t be serious” said Jo. ”well, he’s still an idiot, but he knows his way around a boob” [w]

MB looked up at Jo in surprise. “Y-You really think so?” Jo laughed, “No way! Wu is disgusting and there is no way I would ever want him to touch my body. Ever.” Murr still held the stick and was tapping it up and down against the palm of her hand, “Hmm why did you take his glasses then?” The girls all stopped walking and stared at Jo. “I- uhh.. black magic?”

Billy skipped over to his dear friend Wu. “I made you something!” “Billy, look, I’m kinda busy–” “Take it!!!” Wu squinted up at the Englishman and took what was in his hand. A bunch of leaves that were messily tied together in some sort of shape. “..what is this?” “A new pair of glasses, silly!” Wu smiled. At least someone was looking out for him here. [j]

Billy skipped off on another one of his adventures, and no one quite knew what to make of them. An hour ago Murr caught Billy rubbing a bees nest into the deposits of his eyelids. Clearly the man had gone insane. ”You know, even with two bottles of whiskey deep within my viens, Billy’s still one mental son of a goat fucker”. Said Henkka to Rocky, both boys watching the events of the morning from a distance. [w]

Rocky scratched his head and turned to Henkka, “What was up with you and Wu earlier? And SB..” Henkka felt his melt melt when he heard Wu’s name mentioned. His pale cheeks blushed a soft shade of pink and he looked down at his feet. “N-Nothing Rocky, I guess I was just a bit too drunk eh?” Rocky rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Henkka got up and walked off, “I’ll be back later.” he told the younger boy and he went to find Wu. “Mmmm…” he could still taste the Asian’s nipple off the tip of his tongue. It was sweet. [j]

Rocky pondered to himself for awhile; his own voice a better friend than anyone else on the island he thought. His peers had all gone crazy. At least it seemed that way. ”If Henkka isn’t gay” Rocky began ”Then I’m not a short Vietnamese boy and a spider didn’t just lay her eggs inside my ear”. Rocky began to hear the sound of lots of little legs crawling around his brain. [w]

He decided to be brave and not alarm anyone, of course he’s a grown man now and needed to sort out his problems on his own. He took a deep breath and held in a scream of sheer horror. What to do, oh what to do? Wait! Of course! If there’s anything that his country, the United States of America, has taught him.. it’s when such freak of nature incidents happen, surely he’ll take on the abilities of the creature that has bit him and will become a superhero! “But.. this isn’t how Spiderman became Spiderman..” Oh well. A hundred baby arachnids in his head, he could take on all their power and become the ultimate spiderman! Rocky rushed off to plan his new superhero costume. [j]

MB noticed Juju in the far reaches of her sight, near the curb of rocks across the way, and she decided to see what juju was up to. ‘’What do you call this’’ MB enquired. ‘’I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I think people call this wood’’ Juju waved,  twigs and cuttings resting in the palms of her hands’’ ‘’w…wood?’’ ‘’Yeah. I think they come from something called a tree. Don’t quote me on that. I’m making a shelter’’. MB thought about this for awhile, and then the information escaped her. All that was left was the rising sun, and the way it made everything sparkle. [w]

School Stories – Santa playing football

Santa playing football

College. 1st year. Recess.

It must have been winter, for I remember the early mornings being covered in slants of frosted grass on the fields, and the girls wore duffle coats and scarves and the boys donned bomber jackets or regal overcoats – depending on their trends. The path to College glistened from the chilly night dew and the scene, as I recall it in my head, was cloudy and sodden where footsteps had created slush from the iced puddles.

I made my way to registration with anxiety. That day I was to play in a charity football match, and Bruce – a cheerful yet whimsically dense friend of mine – thought it would be a good idea to play in Santa costumes. I feared for my reputation, and at the time I was harbouring one or two crushes; my fancies for them delicate and wielding. I did not want them to see me prance about as a fat bearded man.

But for the sake of charity and my leaving it too late to back out, I dutifully went along with it all, determined to play the best damned game of football one could hope for. I met with Bruce in the hall, he handed me a Santa suit and gave me a specific time to meet up with the rest of the crew. I nodded a few times, cursed behind his back and walked over to the rest of my friends, their faces gloomy like the grey sky outside, their shivers as cold as the condensation on the windows. What a wonderful morning.

It soon occurred to me as I sat on a sofa waiting for the clock to hit nine in the morning, that Bruce hadn’t thought this charity lark through. I never remembered any of the concerned lot – myself included – going around collecting dimes and scrunched notes. Surely one raises money before hand, before the show is put on. I enquired with Shaun about this – a brilliant footballer by any right – and he didn’t seem to have the foggiest idea what I was talking about. Clearly for Shaun, it was all about kicking a ball and that someone else would worry over the details. And this is the problem, you see, having a bunch of daft ’male’ youths trying to organize something. Nothing gets done.

After a few boring lectures and a light recess I confronted Bruce with my worries. He was always a positive bastard though, sometimes frustratingly so, and dangling in front of my face he showed off his sandcastle bucket. Apparently Bruce was going to ask for money an hour before the match kick-off, a new concept of charity to my knowledge, and a terrible one at that. I simply walked off and took Shaun’s approach. I decided not to give a shit.

The dinner bell rang its clunky frame an hour later, its drone loud and wasteful, and why did it always stop and start at five second intervals? You see, college always made one pick out the little details for scrutiny between the rush of lessons and the stints of free periods. Once I watched intently at a girl wiping her snot onto the cushion of a chair, and so keen was I to see how many times she would pick her nose in supposed secrecy that I felt a rush of blood, as if I was a highly-strung spy on an important mission to count the number of times this girl rubbed bogey juice onto cloth.

Bruce – to his credit – managed to collect a few coins and some generous sod even gave up a note, and there was a band of confused students ready to watch the game. The lads and I grabbed our costumes and made haste for the restroom. Ten minutes later some unfortunate bastard walked in hoping for the solitude of a quiet piss, only to be met by a group of Santa Claus’ fastening each others belts. Glares were shared by all and an eerie silence hung in the air. The boy quickly took his leave and probably wondered what bank we were going to rob. Either that or Santa liked to solicit sex in men’s restrooms.

The pitch was frozen solid and it began to snow gently. Our opposition was made up of friends who had the clarity of mind not to prance about in pantomime attire. The match soon got underway and it only took a few minutes to realise that I was wearing the most pathetic set of rags in the history of clothing. My belt soon ripped and the cloth of the jacket tore with every keen lunge or dive. The trousers were too big and the string fastening them tight actually failed to have a purpose. There were Santa Claus’ everywhere holding up their trousers and trying to keep their beards from falling off, and it looked like we were all frothing at the mouth after having shit in our pants when we attempted to run.

The modest crowd were entertained however, and for the life of me I don’t know where the charity money went. Perhaps it was used to buy our dignity back. And of course it wasn’t. It probably went on beer and sorrow to try and block out our memories.