What is a guy to do, but....

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
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this. (Forgive me, but it’s mundane, it’s pointless, it’s Tuesday night, there’s a pile going on right now and my brain needs to write for a while.)

A cup of tea. Man, this is good stuff. My room mate in Grade 12 wrote a story called “My life in a cup of coffee” for English class, i’m pretty sure he got at least an 80% on it. I dunno though, tea’s better somehow. Earl Grey.

We used to keep our boat in this older lady’s back yard, she was really religious. I remember one time she told us about a relitive of hers who had died and his last words had been “a cup of tea, a cup of tea”.

What the hell does that mean? It’s almost “rosebud” but maybe the guy just wanted a cup of tea… everyone was so buisy fawning over him and remembering his last words he never got it… poor bastard… Think about that, it’s your last couple seconds in this existance. You’ve no idea, really, what’s waiting for you on the “otherside” and all you want is a cup of tea to think it over with. And all these people are just standing there, not making you any tea what so ever, much less bringing you any. What do they want you to do? Get up and make it your self? I mean, jesus people, who dying here?

We’re pretty damn cocky, when you think about it, “ohhh poor me, they’re dead”. Where’s that getting anyone? It’s certenly not getting the tea made any faster.

Which makes me think of Ribena (black current stuff, it’s good hot or cold, the Queen drinks it).

And that makes me think of Paul, my best friend. He got me addicted to the stuff in grade 11. He’s also English.

We used to call him “The British Dingo” cause… well if you knew him, it fit. He had this weird habit of grabbing a hockey stick and beating the living sweat glands out of the big steel trunk in the middle of his room when he got mad. I can still remember the sound

“HEY! DINGO! WHERE ARE YA? EATIN SOMEONE’S BABY?!”
(loud clagy sort of thud)
“YOU COMIN TO SUPPER LIMES? WERE HAVING YORKSHIRE PUDDIN”
(Englishmen look funny when they’re beating the jesus out of stuff with hockey sticks…)

I really gotta call that guy. I used to love introducing him, cause i’d get to say things like “and this is Paul - it’s not his fault, he’s English” or “Hey, have you met Paul? The English guy? Yeah, he’s English. Haha, yeah, well he IS English”

It’s not that i have anything against the English, it’s just so damn fun with him 'cause he’s been a Landed Immigrant now for 10 years. The poor bastard can’t even vote! When my friends get in arguements and he tries to say something we get to say stuff like “Look, when are you gonna learn your opinion means NOTHING here” or “GO BACK TO AFRICA”. Ahhhh, poor Dingo…

But what can you say? He’s a good guy. English, but nice enough.

Anyway, that’s about it.

Upham

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I recommend something stronger for this case of verbal diarrhea. Perhaps a laxative and a sleeping aid?

:wink:

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As I believe Hegel proclaimed in his hit Broadway play Phenomenology of the Spirt, “Work: It’s straight from the devil, yo.” In fact, in a recent survey of a random cross-section of seal-fur traders, an astonishing 123% cited work as a major stressor in their lives (the other 19%, oddly, blamed “Eleanor Roosevelt and her huge friggin’ lips”). While alarming, this statistic is almost certainly false. Still, there’s no denying most people would rather be stuck on a desrted rural road with a stranger wearing a white mask and carrying an ice pick than drag themselves into the office Monday morning. Face it: you spend 40+ hours a week swallowing your pride until you choke on it, racking up one tiny humiliation after another that inexorably, almost invisibly, chips away small fragmnets of your soul. And if you’re like most of us, you’re probably not all that good at your job anyway. Still, bills must be paid, so you’re forced to exchange empty pleasantries every day with complete asshles whose ribcages you’re beating with a bat in your nightly revenge fantasies, unless you happen to be an asshle, in which case: congratulations! You should be promoted to management any day. But take comfort in this: there’s a chance that, if you keep playing the lottery or trying to get on Who Wants to be a Millionaire, you may get lucky and you can tell your boss off and never have to be a wage slave again. Yeah, right. You stupid bastard.

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Upham, I’d just like to say, you rock.

And I have to know. What is a pile and why is there one going on right now?

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Woodstock I nearly choked on my own lungs reading your post, i was laughing so hard. (incidently, what does it mean if i dream about E. Rosevelt’s head on Pam Anderson’s body beating a guy i’ve never seen in the ribcage?)

Rasa, Pile is another guy i went to highschool with (it was his last name). He’d go on and on and on and ON for ages about nothing at all, though some how it would seem quite important to him.

I think that’s where i learned to do stuff like this

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Glad you enjoyed it, Upham. I figured, given the stream-of-consciousness nature of the OP, it would be the perfect thread to do some creative writing. I thought others would be similarly inspired, but instead I think my post killed the thread off. Maybe everyone’s a little wary of things like this now, with all the pit threads going on on the subject. Oh well. Sorry I sank your thread.

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Upham, can I have your children, please?

Or, ummm, if not…well, you simply rule. :smiley:

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I hate tea bags. If I’m going to make tea, I’m gonna do it right, by God. A nice, ceramic tea pot with tea leaves floating pleasantly in the pot. Only Chinese resturants seem to understand the art of making tea any more. Most of them will bring you a pot without even having to order it. Go anywhere else, and if you order tea, it will consist of either a mug with hot water with a tea bag floating in it like a drowned mouse, or a metal container of hot water, and the tea bag lying apologetically on a saucer next to a sickly-looking slice of lemon. I swear, I can TASTE the tea bag, papery, with a musty undertone. I hope to Christ that I never get too busy to make tea properly . . . I have nothing else to blame this proliferation of tea bags on. It’s our fast-food, disposable, if-it-takes-more-than-two-minutes-forget-it culture rearing its ugly head once again. Tea bags . . . it’s like making a roast in a microwave.

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Woodstock Hell man, these things gotta go down someime. Who better to finish it off (i mean, somone’s gotta have the last post, right?)

Nocturne Hell, we’re married, i cant see why now

Lissa yeah, i’m not a bag man (something about that phrase seems so… strange)