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You, me, alone, my room, 24 hours equals...: |
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So this was a crappeh thing on emospace I mean myspace.
Caz mm'dear replied with this and me ******** loves it! xD
In hour the 1st: WE MAKE TOASTIES
In hour the 2nd: We clean the toasties off the ceiling, because your idea for a ham and pineapple toastie sucked like a b***h.
In the hour the 3rd: We stick some sort of crappy DVD on featuring Bruce Willis in a string vest.
In hour the 4th: I forcibly eject the Bruce Willis DVD from the drive, and staple it to your wall as a modern artistic statement.
In hour the 5th: We light up a couple of joints each and debate Descartes vs. Plato
In hour the 6th: We use a dinosaur and Mr. Stretch Armstrong model to represent Descartes and Plato respectively in order to further our debate.
In hour the 7th: I encourage you to open your curtains 'CAUSE THE DARK JUST DON'T CUT IT WITH ME NO MORE. In response, you put on Panic! At the Disco.
In hour the 8th: I bury the hatchet and we form our own response band '******** Off! the Radio'.
In hour the 9th: ******** Off! the Radio's first official photo-shoot. (I amusingly mis-spelt that as photo-shiit, but corrected it). Skinny ties, limp wrists, cigarette holders and Really Crap Facial Expressions are the new black.
In hour the 10th: ******** Off! the Radio chooses to disband after financing issues . We can't afford anything better than two Early Learning Centre kazoos and a comb with piece of tissue wrapped round it that neither of us can make a sound from, contrary to popular myth.
In hour the 11th: I light up another joint. Your parents are attracted to your room by the ever-present stench of weed, but due to the rules of your bulletin THEY ARE NOT ALLOWED IN.
In hour the 12th: You are driven clinically insane by me repeatedly making horse hoof noises with my tongue.
In hour the 13th: Your superstitious tendancies get the better of you and you are reduced to a quivering wreck as I repeatedly smash mirrors in the name of art and Making an Unholy Racket.
In hour the 14th: Since 14 is such a good number, you return to sanity enough to show me the striped caterpillars that you have been nuturing for the past six months. I am suitably impressed.
In hour the 15th: Each caterpiller begins to form a chrysalis. I distract you by showing you exactly how one can create one's own tattoo.
In hour the 16th: Not only has your death's head tattoo made you look like a hardcore Harry Potter fan, the butterflies are now fully formed (genetic modification really MEANING something these days). As you crush them using broken shards of mirror, I collect the coloured juice and weep. The harvest is a good one.
In hour the 17th: Various significant others begin to bash on the door, their testosterone levels having reached an all-time high. We fire our reheated tattoo needles through the keyhole at them using a rather ingenious system involving a wire coat-hanger, a banana, and a copy of tomorrow's newspaper.
In hour the 18th: I realise that I'm skipping school for this s**t and start to develop a new theory for matter-transference between black holes. You tell me to shut the ******** up.
In hour the 19th: We stick on another DVD, this time The Pianist. I weep like a b***h for Adrien Brody's plight (i.e. not being married to me). You, in turn, stare at various photos of your significant other for the entire duration of the film out of remorse for shooting needles at him. Heart of stone, you.
In hour the 20th: We have been reduced to eating carpet fluff. I rebel against my diet by eating jelly babies.
In hour the 21st: I zonk out and snooze. You take the opportunity to attempt to merge The Stranglers with Bullet for my Valentine in a hideous, Frankenstein-esque experiment.
In hour the 22nd: I wake up, but not in time to valiantly save my music. It's too late; the two forms have together merged inexplicably into disco.
In hour the 23rd: We have a fist-fight to the death (a lovely bit of derring-do), accompanied by bad disco music. Cue thunder, lightning an' all. Except this is England, so what we GET is a piss-down of rain outside your bedroom.
In hour the 24th: We part amicably, sporting bloody noses, toothbrush moustaches and pinstripe suits with matching briefcases.
FREEDOM.
 HoverCrab · Mon Jul 24, 2006 @ 08:03pm · 3 Comments |
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