Officially More Popular Than Jesus

I was looking at the web and came across something that disturbed me.
My blog name had been stolen, altered and used for religious purposes:
What Would Jesus Do?

I also found they had very little posting/comment action going on which has led me to the obvious conclusion that I am officially more popular than Jesus.

I think a Bible 2.0 is in order. Starring Jeremy.
The cover will look like this:


And these are the changes to the script:

-My 12 disciples would be called Mega Soldiers Of The Ultimate Order (or MSOTUO's) and they'd all have an action figure likeness distributed by Mattel.
-I wouldn't get crucified, maybe chocolafied instead... Thus making easter eggs more relevant and restoring balance to the Universe.
- Moses would part his hair rather than the red sea... He was a pretty unkempt looking fella, so I'd be helping him with his PR.
- There'd be an action movie, maybe even something a little film noir commissioned, NOT starring Mel Gibson. And the Romans would be vampires... Or Freemasons. Or Vampire Freemasons.
- I'd have glow in the dark hands and the ability to procure food for myself at will. Screw the masses.

Miracles would be heaps cooler these days too... I'm thinking disappearing Humvees or filling 5 taxis with 5000 people. Or turning cask wine into a bottle of Moet & Chandon.
I dunno.. I'm just bored.
But please pardon my blashpemy.
I'll write something more interesting later.

Lesson One: Not Being an Asshole.

Every day I have messages on my work phone.
Some days I leave messages on other people's phones.

Generally, and pull me up if I'm wrong, but messages are left with the view to have the message recipient return your call. For some reason some people like to leave messages that aren't particularly conducive to a return call.

There seems to be a few different species of Messsage Leavers however they can be broken down into two categories.

1) Asshole
2) Not an Asshole.

A few examples of Category 1 individuals include:

Numero Rapidio: This is the man/woman who had their lips filled with amphetamines rather than botox. Often pompous, marketing or corporate types. Their distinguishing feature is their ability to recite their phone number faster than the receiver in their phone samples the sound. Often the entire message is garbled. These people seem to take pleasure in converting paragraphs to monosyllabic words.

Example: "JeremyBrianhereGimmeacallbackwhenyougetthismessage.ohfortoowonsixate..." My ears uaually melt around that stage.. so i never get a full pohone number.

Succinitus Deludi Importite: This is the individual who has delusions of granduer. The type of person who squashes ants and laughs. No... The type of person who puts their finger over an anthole, then gets surprised and annoyed once bitten then pours their drink down the hole. They are empty hollow people who fill their hollow souls with words like "exclusive" or "expensive" or "repressed sexuality". They feel everyone should bow subserviently before them. Or maybe sacrifice their first born in his/her name. They leave messages with no context. It drives me fucking insane.

Example: "Brian Jones. 0hfoursixeightninetwoeightoneonethree"

My question to you Brian is what do you want.
I have an urge, a job-killing urge to call up and say "Brian, you filthy prick. Bow before me and chew on my stiletto. You are a scumbag who deserves a whipping from this here ladyboy." Once this is received with bewilderment and dismay, I'll apologise, stating as I wasn't sure of the nature of his call, i thought it may be regarding one of his post curricula activities.

I hate rude people. No... strike that, I hate unfoundedly rude people.

As for people who fall into the "Not an Asshole" category. They're ok.

Yes, I'm ranting. It's Friday.

* No, I don't know scientific names or latin.
* Don't call the numbers I used in this post, my mum will be pissed if she gets any calls. Kidding.
Call and see who answers... That would be exciting. I don't endorse doing that though.

Happy (?) Birthday

Birthdays..
Gotta love em.
I received a belated birthday card from some relatives, whose relation to myself shall not be mentioned.
Let's just say they're elderly. And that they're religious. And they're from Queensland... Yeah.
Anyways, each year I receive a card from these relatives which is a very nice gesture that I appreciate very much.
Each year there is a small, inspirational or uplifting quote penned on this card. Something like 'god bless'

This year however, things changed-

" Words to live by: Don't rain on other people's parades."

I was in stitches!
Happy fucking birthday Mr Stormcloud. May you be a wet-blanket all year and may you drain all your friends and anyone you know of any energy they have.

Well I got one for you rellies-

"Words to live by: Clean your colostomy bag or you'll get septicaemia."

I can't wait for Christmas.

Dear Jeremy,
Merry Christmas .
Don't forget to eat quietly in the corner.
And clean up all that wrapping paper, it's messing up the sunroom.

Desk, Button, Elephant, Walk

He took aim and ran.
He ran hard, picking up more and more speed.
That Voice had set him off, that cigar soaked growl.
He knew who that Voice was and what that Voice, had done.
It had been years back, but it was still fresh in his memory.

'Over there!' The Voice had growled.
Then there had been loud noises.
Dust.
The sound of chainsaws.
The sound of a diesel engine fading into the distance.
Silence.

He'd done his best to hide, however his mother hadn't been so quick. Maybe this was intentionally, he'd thought later on. Maybe it was motherly instinct.
Eitherway, the result was the same.
He stepped from behind the tree he was huddled behind and began to walk towards her slowly.
She lay dust-covered, blood-stained.
Lifeless.
He knew she was gone. Knew what had been done. He was only a child but the realisation was instant. He lay by her body for days. Sobbing, not eating, not drinking. Grieving.
Not only had the Voice killed her, but they'd stolen part of her.
By now she was probably a button on a fancy blouse, or a paperweight on a desktop.
Ivory commanded high prices on the black market.

That was then.

Now, his eyes burnt with rage, fanned by years of brooding, of waiting, of hating.
The Voice saw him, with plenty of time and opened fire.
The shots struck him hard, but he kept running.
There was little distance now between him and the Voice.
As the Voice struggled to reload, the elephant began to fade.
His eyes drooped, his heart slowed, but his momentum remained, ploughing him though the Voice's huddled body.
From the ground he opened an eye and looked down his trunk at the sight before him.
Again, there was blood.
The Voice lay, gnarled and twisted, impaled on a tusk.
Again there was dust.
His eyes darkened more as the dust settled on them.
Again there was silence.