Travel Log: Part 3

Well hello, hello, hello and welcome to another episode of
“A bit of Travel with Johnny”.
In tonight’s cryptic and indecipherable episode of
“A bit of Travel with Johnny”
We explore London through the insufferably pompous verse of the author.

Enjoy.

Scene 1
The party arrives in England

Enter Traveler and companions

Traveler
So it is come, soonest we shall make to the cross,
Where passing shelter lie. As the flight of swifts
We fly, we have time not. Lo! Helios doth mark
His journey’s middle and the sights do not lend
Themselves eyes.

Companion1
Yea and legs do not lend themselves step.
Waste not thy movement on thy tongue
But to put one afront another, it is prudent.

Traveler
Mine movements are wasted not, once ours start.
Haste, the gates are not stayed for our comfort.

Scene 2
The party checks into the hotel

Traveler
‘SBlood t’were one to find a bestowment more
Accommodating a closet, one could not.
Marry you doth find a closet to be of fine comfit,
Or t’is custom to live as hobbits?

Companion2
T’is most unfortunate, but it is not my contrivement
To have landed us in this situation.

Traveler
That is well, but it nary make well this
Tiny toilet which takes two steps from shower
To porcelain chair. Or that the door could not
Keep its privacy. Or the still air to be moved
Only by exposing opening for which any
Stranger may take as access?

Companion2
O your mouth is want for a lid.
Equip thee for this tour so we can leave
Most presently, the sight of thy open mouth-cave
Makes not the room any less sufferable.

Scene 3
The party is at the London bridge (or is it?)



Traveler
Drink thine eyes in this, perhaps
The most distinguishing of sites in England.
Now we can say, aye I have seen the London Bridge
A most impressive sight it makes.

Companion1
Indeed if it were the London bridge
We could say thus and be right.

Traveler
What have you to say now?

Companion1
This, the colour in thine eyes are painted
In falsehoods and ignorant platitudes that
Blind have you become to even the most
Catching markings. Look here! T’is not the
London bridge you give thine eyes but the Tower Bridge.



Traveler
You see with clearer eyes, my friend.
I will hold to heart thy precepts, to
Thicken the bark of my conscience
To the gossip’s axe.

Companion1
It will serve thee well.
Let us fly to the palace with winged feet.

Scene 4
The party arrives at Buckingham palace

Traveler
We have come with more haste than warrant’d.
We can make the postponement
Less burdensome if we place our backs
Against the walls of the font.
What for the art of comedy,
Fortune or circumstance are left
Wanting of a just explanation
To the returning event of
Meeting one’s fellow countryman
In a foreign land.
Cast thy eyes over yonder,
And find thee the sight to complement
The hearings of the ear.

Companion1
So it is. But to list his speech
One would find more comedy.

Embarressingly Stereotypical Singaporean
Do you know Chi comes from the ground.
I teach you lah. You put your legs like that,
Then you focus the Chi from the ground
Into the different parts of your body.
Your hands, your legs. Can you feel or not?

Assumed Son of ESS
A little bit. Liddat arh?

Traveler
Methinks we shall hold vigil elsewheres.

The traveler and companions move to the gates of the palace.



Companion1
Ah, the pipers make their joyous entrance.
T’is strange. A pomp ceremony of equal
craft is many times more artful when removed
from native soil.

Traveler
It must be something in the air to
Hold it so. It clouds the brain and colours
The sky an even deeper blue.
To which doctors have no herb.
But if it were, to be of little virtue
For it is not for remedies to make less well.

Scene 5
The party visits Madamn Tussaud’s wax museum

Traveler
These shadows of man made solid
Worries mine bones, too lifelike they look
Yet lack any quality of it, t’is as a man bereft
Of all soul is left transfixed in his gaze of
Unseen things.

Companion1
T’is the deceit of fame and a trick of the mind
Endears it to men, what is to an elephant grace.
More comfort is to be found in lies than honesty
Such is it in life, this is but an addition.

Traveler
Marry, as if the horror of the soulless
Was not proof enough, a darkened set
Of hell is put aside for our perusal.
O damn this useless pride, for which
We are bound, it directs us there.

Companion1
Come now, dalliance defaults not our doom.

Traveler
In less harrowing, a darkened room
With the accompaniment of shieking
Tender blossoms of women would be
A pleasure, but fright is a dumb bride.
Oh Good Lord
Methinks a zombie doth approach.

AHHHhhhhhhHHHHhhh!


Weeeeeeeellll. That’s all the time we have tonight.
So Ladies and Gentlemen, Its goodnight from me.

We’ll leave you with tonight’s cocktail recipe
“Milky white thighs of a sweaty trucker with an Australian accent”

For this you’ll need.

A finger of whiskey
A spattering of vodka
A dash of lime
A raw egg
Some full cream milk
And Hugh Jackman

Please Mr. Music will you play?



Soupy Twist.

Travel Log: Part Deux

There is a great tendency for things to not live up to their reputations. Words in the hands of the linguistically capable can conjure up magnificent images in the minds of its audience. It is the nature of the mind to put everything into soft focus, under a haze of romanticism if you will. These things combined form an expectation that is hardly ever reconciled with reality. The haze of romance has no equivalent in the physical realm. However it is difficult not to form expectations especially when one is talking about Paris.

So hopefully I might dispel a few unrealistic expectations here. Paris has been called the City of Lights and the most romantic city in the world. It should be noted that the former is largely obsolete as it refers to Paris’ early adoption of street lighting, and as for the latter, romance is a product of the mind and is not intrinsic to a place or thing.

Don’t get me wrong though, it is a beautiful place to visit. But just don’t expect to see people in striped shirts and berets with a red bandana around the neck, eating baguettes, walking on cobblestoned alleys that are lighted with street lamps that shine the light of romance, illuminating the city with cinematic clichéd soft glow all while a phantom orchestra plays a whimsical little ditty.

Another thing to consider when visiting Paris is the language, the French have a reputation for being haughtily contemptuous of English. While I cannot objectively comment on the citizen’s general character due to my short time there, I can say that an English speaking Frenchman is a rarity. If I may so humbly offer my careless opinion, I think that its less of an issue with pride than trying not to look like a total arse. When both parties cannot understand each other, miming their conversation, communication regressed to gestures as if thousands of years of advancement in language didn’t happen, all just to agree on whether the object of a sale is a quiche with ham or just tomato, the ego is quick to obscure one’s embarrassment with blame.

The quiche with ham was delicious though.

As we only had a couple of days in Paris, my family and I were eager to strike the usual tourist attractions off the list and at the top of the list of all tourists visiting Paris is of course the Eiffel Tower.

One thing that really bothered me about the great throbbing steel erection is its colour. I mean why brown? Of all the different colours, why choose the one that makes it look as if it just emerged from a giant metal anus?



We chose to only go as high as the second level of the tower, a separate elevator is available to take visitors up to the corona of the steel penis, which naturally constitutes another fee.


The Tower has its Monroe moment.


From that picture you can see how densely packed with buildings the city is, you can also see the river Seine.

The constructors and architects of the buildings have a fastidious obsession for ornateness. It is almost as if they have some aversion to leaving a wall unadorned, so much so that when they run out of ideas to fill blank spaces they just randomly run their jackhammers on them.



Their obsessive nature also spills over to their statues. It is somehow important that depictions of horses have accurately detailed scrotums.


It’s really hard to take pictures of a statue’s balls while trying not to look like a sick pervert and my camera’s flash wasn’t strong enough, but if you squint and get really close to your screen you can definitely make out the two egg sacs.

Many of the male readers of the heterosexual persuasion would have one burning question that is right now undoubtedly weighing heavily on their minds. Well fear not! I have gone and observed and I can tell you that, yes European chicks are hot. I would show you some pictures but the police was forcibly insistent that I delete them from my camera.

But the facial hair, oh the facial hair. If there’s one thing I curse above all else about being of Asian heritage is the inability to grow an attractive beard. But this isn’t Asia, this is facial hair Shangri-la, stubble heaven Europe.

Full beards, mutton chops, goatees, soul patches, sideburns, moustaches, soup combs, those things that look like hairy vaginas, hobo beards, handlebars, after five stubble, any kind of facial hair you can think of, it’s probably on display.




But that’s not all, Paris is not all large phalluses and facial hair, it is also the site of the Virgin Mary’s tomb… I think, I wasn’t paying much attention to the movie. I am of course talking about the Louvre, possibly the most famous of museums around the world.

Shame then most people who visit seem only to be interested in taking pictures of Mona Lisa. Conceited bitch, look at that smug arse half smile she wears on her face, which just begs for a souvenir museum cup to be thrown at it. My god, she’s ugly too, she looks like George Bush Jr. with the skin on his face stretched, wearing an unconvincing Weird Al Yankovic wig.
Also she has Man Hands.
Also definitely stuffs her bra.



And you can’t even get in close, she is displayed under bulletproof glass barricaded from the crowds by a wooden banister and two vigilant guards that look like they know several methods of causing grievous hurt to anyone that decides that a waist high barrier isn’t enough to stop them from confirming whether there really is a flying saucer in the background of the painting.

This all makes viewing the work very tedious and it is not helped by its relatively small size, meanwhile ‘The Wedding at Cana’ that hangs directly opposite ML is only afforded a few sidelong glances, and it is MASSIVE. Its size is just staggering. It could not get any work if it was a porn star because no broad would dare risk such enormity, and these are people who have more spacious ‘accommodations’ due to overuse.

Of all my time spent in Paris, the happiest would most likely be at the Louvre, not only did I check off an item on my smartarse list of pretentious things to do, I also came across a stunning revelation that obliterates an old lingering doubt gnawing at my soul ever since puberty.

The revelation is this: Modestly sized penises are the Artistic Ideal.


This guy looks like he is having a little too much fun.
Note the penis is not huge.

Yes, sculptors and artisans for centuries created works of art that depict naked male forms with small genitalia as it is thought that is the most attractive of sizes, so much that even depictions of Gods and Mythical Heroes are presented this way.

Fuck yea, now I can say with confidence that I have a penis worthy of the Gods.

Must remember not to piss the Gods off though, that’s what did the Titans in you know, they thought that with their huge dicks they were better than the Gods and foolishly challenged them.

Its great fun watching parents bringing their kids to the museum, you can see the embarrassment on their faces when the little ones ask why Hermaphroditus has mummy and daddy parts.

So ends my summary on my stay in Paris.
Next I travel to the place where ‘Pussy’ may not mean vagina or wuss and ‘Fag’ may not mean raging homosexual.

Travel Log: Part Un

As many of you, my dear readers, may not have noticed, I was away for a week around the middle of last month on holiday. As I find myself questioning the benefit of coming up with funny updates to this weblog, especially when considering the lack of an appreciable increase in the amount of pussy I receive. (Consistently updating a blog is hard work, you know)
I have decided to write an update about my vacation. This is probably the ‘bloggist’ update I’ve ever put up, just don’t expect more of this.

So anyway.

I was experiencing my usual pre-travel jitters I always get before overseas trips especially ones in which I’m going someplace I’ve never been before or is far away. (places other than South-east Asia or Australia) This time it was both.
It’s a kind of strange nervousness I think is associated to not wanting to move out of one’s comfort zone.

At this point I am within the departure hall and if you have never been, it is a magical place. It is that wondrous place that is separated from the plain, old ordinary airport with glass and is guarded at its entrances by two policepersons. The glass is there to provide those not fortunate enough, a glimpse at what they are missing out on, (seriously there is free internet and free screenings of EPL matches) this might explain the regular occurrences of people sobbing uncontrollably after being refused entry by the elite crack squad of police that have been trained to recognize people who are actually on a flight just from a cursory glance at your boarding ticket.
There is everything here, liquor, perfume, cigarettes, jewelry, handbags, suits, jackets, books, videogames, sweets, basically anything you forgot to pack or a last minute souvenir for someone that slipped your mind could be bought here.

What really baffled me, however, was a store selling travel luggage.
The thing I cannot wrap my mind around is why anyone would want to buy luggage at the departure hall. The only conceivable situations in which it would be reasonable to purchase a bag when you are already in the departure hall would be if you are planning to buy a lot of stuff at your destination or if you are a really lucky terrorist that forgot to bring his bag. It could be possible that the people working in the store are undercover counter-terrorist police but that would be a really inefficient way to catch them.


One of these bags has a bomb, another has $500,000!!!

Anybody who has travelled on a commercial airline would know about the safety instructional video that is typically shown before takeoff, you know the one which nobody really pays any attention to, that tells you everything you need to do in the event of a plane crash, which nobody will remember because they would be too busy being dead or trying to come to terms with how they arm is now two seats away.

Well, I caught myself watching the safety video on another person’s screen, I could say in my defense that my screen was about 10 cm away from my face, but I know that is an excuse. There is just something irresistible about watching somebody else’s screen, it’s the same kind of attraction of the newspaper a person sitting beside you is reading even though you might already be reading the same newspaper.

Can I also just raise a question about the little window that is behind the toilet? More specifically what the FUCK is it for?
You cannot take a shit while admiring the view because it’s facing the wrong way and you can’t look at it when you’re standing unless your eyes are located at your crotch.

I decided quite wisely not to ask any of the flight attendants about it. In my eagerness to satiate my curiosity, I might have given off an intenseness and nervous fervour that some would mistake for having something to hide. This is all understandable keeping in mind the incident recently where a person stuffed a soft plush animal down the toilet causing it to regurgitate its contents halfway through a 10 hour flight.

I digress.

I love flying. I like the quixotic notions of sailing through the air, there is a real sense of serenity and tranquility to flying that does not happen quite as often in other modes of transportation.


It looks a lot better when you see it in person

And the view, oh the view, when you get up above the clouds.
Its like you’ve ascended into the realm of the gods, a playground for the cherubim, soft, pillowy fields of cotton that stretch on endlessly.
At dawn or dusk, Apollo practices with his brush, in bold strokes of orange and if he’s in an artistic mood maybe even dip into the purples.


Some of them also look like bums. Hehe

Well, there are several irritants that detract from the joys of flying enough to stop me from dissolving into a puddle of happiness. Fact: one of my more obvious features is that I am tall, at about 187cm, I am no giant but no slouch (my mum would disagree but this is not her blog) either. For people who have never been tall before, it is quite common for tall people to have long legs, which presents a problem when trying to fit comfortably into an economy class seat without having them spill over into the aisle. And I haven’t even mentioned the horrors of sitting behind someone that is feeling sleepy and knows what the button at the armrest is for, I hope you are not claustrophobic.

Remember that magnificent view I told you about, well you can only see them if you are sitting at a window seat or bent over a toilet. And then there is the babies.

Babies are the single biggest obstacle to having an enjoyable flight and it is because of one thing, here it is presented in a mathematical formula:

BABIES + AIRPLANES = CRYING


It is an inescapable scientific fact.

They are really sneaky things too, those babies. At boarding gates, the babies are always well behaved or sleeping, so even though you might have your doubts you still hold on to the hope that they stay that way during the flight. Then when the airplane is taxiing and revving the engines and the babies don’t cry, you think that you may be lucky and that the babies are the breeds that don’t cry because they are hunting babies.
That is until the airplane lifts its nose up.

It always starts with one. One baby that decided that it could not let mummy and daddy get some peace and not be embarrassed by the inconsolable cries of their spawn. This is their sole source of entertainment, they feed off the guilt of their parents. Of course, the other babies soon join in and it becomes a sort of competition between the babies to see who can guilt-trip their parents to take them to the toilet first. This isn’t much of a comfort for the other passengers because the walls of the toilet are too thin to contain the unholy ululations that can even drown out the noise of four turbofan engines.

While trying to come up with the most creative(painful) ways to shut the demon children’s mouths, I think I may have stumbled upon an alternative explanation for the babies' laments.



Arrrggghhh… Square container not fit into round hole… make Hulk MAD.

This turned out longer than I thought it would, which is great because it means I can split it up into several posts, then I don’t have to slit my wrists coming up with new topics to write about.
In the next post, I get off the plane!

Man, I had such a hard time getting this up

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about pornography. (OK, more than usual anyway) And I have come to make the inescapable conclusion that it sucks. I mean let’s face it if the market wasn’t horny males the industry would have gone down faster than a cheap whore on a guy who has some change to spare.

To quote the great philosopher, Gregory House, “Don’t blame me, blame my gender”.



Also it appears that porn clogs up the arteries of the internet and by downloading porn we are actually preventing it from getting a heart attack. He’s a doctor you know? He knows these things.

Ever since that first magical moment when some guy who just happened be in possession of a camera told some naïve, credulous broad that ‘it would be fun’, ‘it’s only for his own use’ and the classic ‘everyone is doing it’, accidentally left the pictures on the table when his mates came over for whatever ancient people played - golf probably – and commented that they would pay to see more, the porno industry never looked back.

Wankers across the world rejoiced at finally having a substitute to jerking off to statues of naked women and nudie paintings hung in museums. No longer is wanking off to depictions of naked women exclusive to the wealthy or shameless. This new medium also had the advantage of being portable, which single-handedly solved the criminal wave of people moving sculptures and paintings into museum toilets.


Why do you think so many sculptures are white. Think about it.

Yet despite its burgeoning popularity and later advancements in technology such as video and the internet further improving its penetration in market share. Porn was always tied down with the issue of the quality of its content. Few other products this popular actually require the consumer to manually finish the task that porn is supposed to do.

It cannot be denied that pornography retained its stranglehold over the masturbating market, however it has hardly evolved. There isn’t an appreciable difference in the ability to arouse the customer in a porn film made 30 years ago and one made just yesterday. This is largely due to the generally unrefined tastes of the human weener.


Weeners are Sexy!

Perhaps it is precisely that reason that pornography struggles with quality. People are so easily gratified that there never was much impetus to improve or make any effort.
It seems all you need to qualify as a porn star is a dick, boobs or a vagina and a willingness to get naked. The acting in particular is horrible, stilted delivery of lines, a tendency to overact, worst of all actors frequently break the cardinal sin of film, YOU DON’T LOOK AT THE FUCKING CAMERA.
Although even the greatest of actors would not help your film if it was written by mentally impaired, 12 year olds that learnt to write from watching reality TV shows.

It seems pornography suffers from the lack of quality because it is being made by people who are as emotionally mature as its audience. In no situation would the referring to CPR as ‘Cute Pussy Revival’ be considered humourous and witty, except in the retarded fantasy land that only exists in the mind of a porn writer where a woman’s response to every sentence is to spread their legs.

In spite of this, pornography has been for so long a loyal and dependable companion to countless adolescent boys discovering their sexuality, and it can continue to guide generations yet unborn. But it is also sad to see that most that grow up abandon and disclaim any association with pornography, like a son sending his parents to an old folks home to live out the rest of its life lonely and unloved.

It is just despicable, outright deplorable and downright disgusting.

Nobody pay attention to the inevitable questions about the state of the author of this article’s mind that he cannot watch porn without stopping to make a comment about how ridiculous the plot is, how unconvincing the actress’ performance is and how the cameraman obviously dropped out of cameraman school.

Well that’s it, if you will excuse me, I have some porn to download, you know, civic duty and all that.

Get A Life, alternatively you can read this blog

Okay, I swear I had this idea for a blog post weeks before I read this, that pretty much sums it up in a neat little bow, except I would probably have slipped in a few mentions of dicks and breasts, ie. It would have been funnier.

Since I don’t want to seem like a complete rip-off and I don’t really want to let an idea for a blog post go to waste, I present to you…

Get A Life: A Very Short Choose Your Own Adventure… thing. (Where You Only Really Get to Make One Choice And It’s Not Really An Adventure)

I had walked into this room for some reason not made clear to me, it felt more like I had been compelled into that room, and it was not until I closed the door when I actually began to take in the whole look of the room. It was a very plainly furnished room, a dusty old closet stood against the wall in the middle of the room, at the center of the room were two single seat sofas facing each other and a small table on which someone placed a vase of flowers, I suppose because it would look rather stupid standing on the floor.

“Ah, this is dream” I thought, as I sat down on one of the sofas, I wasn’t at all startled to find that the other sofa was now occupied by a very very sexy woman. By sexy I mean she had only done up half the buttons on her blouse and let’s just say her chest enjoyed the view that provided. “Been pretty chilly lately hasn’t it?” I said while sipping a martini that had materialized in my hand. “Yep, definitely a dream, I’m not having an embarrassing hard on and I used ‘hasn’t’ in conversation”.

When the sexy woman had not undressed after I finished my 5th sip of the martini, I knew that either I was having a nightmare or worse, she actually wanted to talk to me. “So then now that you have finally come to that realization, I will get on with business” the mouth attached to the boobs said. “Business? What sort of business?” I replied to the entrancing cleavage.
“Well, let’s face it, Dick, you lead a miserable existence, I’m talking about getting a life.”
“I know, I know, my facebook wall is covered with requests to ‘get a life’ and to ‘go suck dick’. Thing is they don’t tell you how to go about doing it and I’m quite sure the latter is impossible.”
“That’s where I come in”
“That’s good to know but it doesn’t help me much”

“I mean this you dirty minded creep” she said as she produced two pills from within the cavernous valley of her marshmallow bosoms, one red and one blue.
“This isn’t very original, you know” I said smugly while debating whether to spill what’s left of my martini on her blouse.
“This is your dream you dimwitted git, and its good enough for an amateur blog post, thankyouverymuch.”

Perhaps the weight of her smoking rack was getting uncomfortable or because I like the look of two peaches pressed lightly against each other, the woman leaned forward distracting me when she said the following, “The blue pill represents a sedentary lifestyle while the red one represents a more active lifestyle”.



If you pick the Blue Pill go to [1]
If you pick the Red Pill go to [2]



[1]

After I woke up from that dream I went back to sleep again. When I woke up the second time I looked to the clock and it read 3:12pm, I was up early. Deciding against brushing my teeth, I powered up my two desktops, my laptop and my iphone in case there was a new time sucking application to download, nobody really calls me.

My first desktop I used to run Second Life, my avatar was an animal hybrid so I naturally got a job prostituting my wolf arse to furry fetishists. My second desktop is used to monitor my World of Warcraft accounts, overseeing the program I wrote to automatically farm gold. My laptop is used to post on internet forums, which usually involves calling anyone who does not agree with me a nazi and threatening to cut their balls off, sticking them into a blender then force feeding them their liquidated manhoods. This is also the platform I use to search for the latest hentai tentacle porn.

Suddenly I realised that my supplies of mountain dew and salted crisps have been exhausted. Steeling myself I gathered all the money I could find on my laundry covered floor and prepared to leave the safety of my parent’s basement. I did not take three steps outside before the hot fury of the fiery sun caused my skin to boil and my hair to melt. It was only a matter of seconds before I became a suppurating puddle being soaked up by clothes that smelled vaguely like chlorine.

Continue to [3]


[2]

As soon as I regained consciousness I jumped out of bed and hopped over to the bathroom to start my morning beauty routine, brushing, cleansing, vomiting, plucking, combing. After I am absolutely sure I’m gorgeous, I stare at myself in the mirror for 10 minutes.

Already I was late for the oyster buffet breakfast and I had to be at the mall for the big sale they were having for overly expensive sports cars, my collection was looking pretty meager compared to Devonson’s and I had only bought 6 new cars this year.

The test driving proved to be a bit of a workout what with all the smug faces I had to pull at the drivers beside me at every traffic stop and also having to smack some sense into my butler, I mean imagine having to actually wait two whole minutes before he arrived with my imported mineral water.

At least I could get some rest at my private booth at the most exclusive gentlemen’s club. It has the best peep shows, I’d pity the poor souls that are not privileged to have seen them, if only I wasn’t so lazy to.

Overall not a bad day, well except the whole being allergic to the leather the lapdancers were wearing and dying of a heart attack.

Continue to [3]

[3]


That was one weird ass party

As I wait in line to be judged by Minos, a familiar voice asked “So, how did you enjoy your life then? Must be pretty interesting, you even managed to check off on all the Seven.” I turned and found the voice belonged to the same well endowed woman that appeared to me in my dream, strange I never noticed that she had horns and a tail until now. Still really hot though.