Friday, October 07, 2005


Dear diary...

Jeez, but Dad can be such a prick sometimes. He's still stuck in this lazy Post-Dualism view of the world...Dad, sometimes thing's are just, y'know, either good or bad, and no amount of Y-front gazing will make it otherwise. (Memo to Pa: those Mr. Happy pants are sooooooo totally not post-ironic. The elastic's gone on them for starters.)

So, he spends half an hour ranting on at Mum about George Bush and this "God made me do it" keeee-rap, like anyone even cares or it matters or any of us'll even ever get to change things in any major way 'cos there'll always be some other asshole waiting in the wings to take over, and another after that and another, ad fucking nauseum. I couldn't even watch "Scooby-Doo", he was using up soooo much air-space and pushing up the decibels 'til Mum decided to put out the rubbish just to get a five-minute fix of silence. She thinks I don't know she smokes; I mean, C'monnnnnn, girl, that. is. so. totally. lame-ass!

I sooo wish he'd wash after he's been cycling. Take a shower, or something, dude. It is sooo gross. Dad, you stink.

And this Free-Folk thing is soooooo sad too. Dad, you're just revisiting your 18-year old bad karma hippy-ass previous-life and deluding yrself you're being "progressive". I really hate Old People who try to be 'with-it', yeah? It's like my friend Issie; she's from Tintinhull and is totally bitchin and she's into some colossal Pop-Crunk shit and she's only five, but her Dad is upstairs playing The Buzzcocks all the time; what's with these Old twats. Can they not take a hint?

It's like they wanna be louder than us all the time.

Hawkind. Fuck off. I mean...Jesus.

(Dad hates it when I swear.)

Grace, that's my sister, she's only, what, eighteen months old, and even she rolls her eyes when dad goes off on one. Leo Sayerblahblahblah....Amon Duulblahblhahfuckingblah...Jap Psych...Wooden fucking Wand: hippies, one and all, you sad bastards. It'll be Fleetwood mac next, or Deep fucking Purple....

And don't even get me started on those creepy blogger friends of his. They're, like, sooo totally old, but in a bad way. And those drinking-buddies of his, still going on about Punk Rock like it happened last week. Still talking about going to see The Fall. Round and round like a washing-machine. Get a life, losers!

Dad, you are such a retard.


Good grief, Charlie Brown. From today's Independent:

"God told me to do it." Well, yes, he would, wouldn't he?

Hmm...sounds familiar, though. Lemme think, where have I heard that expression before?

And I thought recovering alcoholics were taught to take responsibility for their own actions.