Thought for the Day.

http://youtu.be/GxhaRgJUMl8

Amen.

Subconscious Stuttering Spasms. Night terrors? Not quite. I hope.

I'm not one to often indulge myself in that well-practiced verbal art form; "Talking About Your Dreams" (quickest way to get your friends and housemates to stop listening to you at breakfast) but I feel there's a couple I need to get off my chest before they kill me, or my bedpartner. No, seriously.

It's just two, and they've been particularly vicious and graphic.

Benedict Cumberbatch and the Vampire Stand-off

I'm in an underground club, though it feels like a warren, going deep underground. Neon green and yellow lights illuminate the walls and ceilings, and I'm running further underground, trying to avoid something, or someone. I realise at this point, I'm a vampire, and me and my fellow undead companions are fleeing from something, we're trying to get further underground in our labyrinthine warren to escape it.

"It" happens to be a bunch of armed and armoured soldiers breaking into the warren-club, the neon reflecting on their face masks, gas cannisters and automatic rifles. They open fire (I can see this front on now even though "I'm" still running the other way) and I can feel the drumming of gunfire rattling through the walls, and can feel the vibrations turning my bones to jelly.

I'm now outside the warren/club, in the entrance room, which looks like a bar, lit up for evening.  There's a bunch more soldiers in here, and also, their captain, who happens to be a distressed-looking Benedict Cumberbatch ('im off of BBC's Sherlock series and recently performed as Frankenstein in London). I'm suddenly one of the soldiers talking to him, only I'm a vampire in disguise. I realise HE also is, and there's a strange mexican stand-off feeling of impending doom for everyone involved.

A daddy long legs, presumably attracted by the lights in the vampire warren-club, brushes past my ear and I can feel it's gangly legs palpably stroking my face.

I wake up hollering and slapping myself comically and repeatedly, scaring the crap out of my previously sleeping girlfriend.

The Hitman Cake Carnival, starring Robert Dinero

There's a huge carnival in town, and its theme is definately cakes. Pink icing literally layers the streets, covers the buildings, and drenches most people's clothes. It's been going on for a long time, only now, hitmen with previously assigned tasks are coming to the fore.

Blood suddenly starts to mingle with the pinky residue on the streets as killings happen almost mechanically and at regular intervals. I can see two suited men, one very large and Irish, hacking at each other with kitchen knives (one of the knives I recognise as being one that I own in my kitchen draw), with varying success. The two pull off a few artful and desperate dodges, but not enough to save them completely, and wrist tendons are being severed through, along with chunks of skin being completely sliced off. The two, whilst in pain, look fairly chuffed about the fight nontheless.

Moving on, I realise there's been a chase going on for a long time. One man is being pursued, along with a hail of projectiles, down a pink icing-covered street, the cake-themed dancers long gone, the sugary-coated floats long since abadoned. He's wearing a suit also, only its barely noticeable under the caking of icing and blood. He's gleeful about it, turning back every now and then to fire off a shot from his pistol at his pursuers, throwing a knife back, something, until his feet slip on the layers of slick icing and he skids hilariously into an abandoned float.

Taking a harpoon to the chest, the steel bolt bursts through his front, and I'm now looking at Robert Deniro, having finally been caught, grinning down into a huge jelly trifle as blood bubbles up from his lips and the harpoon-head protruding from his chest drips his own life-juice.

He topples into the trifle, hilariously.

I wake up, shouting and looking down at my again-petrified girlfriend who was just getting up for work.


Hmmm.

Too many violent movies, or not enough excersise? Something deeper, mayhaps? OR JUST AN EXTREME AVERSION TO CAKE

SlutWalk=good, Fatalistic Feminist Furies=bad?

And not even all of them are actually female.

http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23957826-march-of-the-new-feminists.do

Check out the comments at the bottom, Pete from London's is hilarious.

I get SlutWalk. I think the people marching and trying to "reclaim" the word "slut" is a great piece of subversion, in the same way that the black community took an offensive term used against them and made it offensive for anyone BUT them to use it (I'm talking about the N-word, people).

What I don't get, is four of the five "activists" featured in this article. Angry at women being sexualised by the media? Really? You mean the same women who not only make shitloads of money off it, become the idol of thousands of men across the world, but they actually like it (I know a couple, trust me, they love it).

So what are you really angry at, feminists? The evil man-dominated media machine or the empowered women who CHOOSE (key word here, folks) to do what the fuck they want with their lives?

And about aforementioned man-dominated media machine. Those trashy magazines and TV shows that are about women, are aimed at women, created by women, purchased and bought into by women...

Hmm. Well, I guess I'm still to blame because I'm a hetrosexual male. Damn me and my biological instincts. I guess there's no hope for me, huh?

Quote the writer "I wanted full-on, fighting feminism". To what end, you nutcase?! To vent a load of steam at phantom men who supposedly have done you wrong? No, wait, you're middle class and successful, you've never actually suffered any injustice in your life, you're hijacking a dead horse and trying to ride it for your own personal gratification.

There is nothing in this article, indeed, nothing about "modern feminism" at all, that highlights what feminism or feminists are actually doing for people, what need they have to fulfill, or to what purpose they are protesting against the new Playboy club opening in London soon.

Let sad old men pay for the company of glamorously dressed girls. Watch those girls walk away after a nights shift with a fuckload of cash in their pockets and a big grin on their face.

I don't have a clue what feminism is actually doing for todays modern woman. It seems they're creating more problems than solving any.

Transnational Panda Heist

Aboard the Guatemalan Trans-national Express, Paula hunkered down behind crates stocked full of gin, bamboo and drainpipes as the huge, sleek, jet-black train hurtled towards its destination at a speed that made sound turn inside out.

Paula sighed and reminded herself that this was definitely the last time.

Lunging from behind her hiding place, her svelte leather-bodysuited frame cut like a rubber knife through the air towards her target, her limbs jack-knifing out and thumping with quiet yet disturbing thunks into the adam’s apple and unguarded temple of the well-armed but unsuspecting security guard. As the comatose man crumpled to the floor of the swaying carriage, Paula allowed herself a smirk.

Davos would be proud.

With the guard’s clearance chip in hand, Paula made short work breaking into the next carriage, and the next, and the next, moving so fast that the locks seemed to dissolve through her fingers and the shiny minimal interior of the cargo carriages blurred past her as quickly as the train’s shiny minimal exterior was doing through the South American countryside. All this was mere muscle memory. All this was basic training. All this was the easy part.

It was as she leapt her way past the umpteenth crate of bamboo that the irony of the situation caught up with her. Given the name of her on-train contact and all…

Said crate exploded open in a milleu of wood chips and green sticky splinters. Paula barely had time to twist her torso in mid-air to catch the first blow on her forearm. Landing badly, she reversed her momentum against the train’s forward charge, fighting gravity for a terrifying second as the next kick meant for her forehead sailed over her head. That second allowed her one glimpse at her opponent…

A flurry of blows landed all over her, disrupting her concentration and forcing her to react. Elbows, knees, shoulders, all were used to disperse the punches and chops as Paula scythed her slender muscled arms in response. Pirouetting deftly and flicking her knee upwards, she caught her attacker with a satisfying stomach- deflating kick, and at that moment, she realised she could smell the pungent oily scent of gin.

Standing over her enemy, panting, she placed one booted heel across his sweating neck before she recognised him. With the huge black smudges painted over his eyes, it had taken her a moment to see…

“…Davos?!”

Licking his lips and cracking his infamous half-grin, the head of her organisation smiled up at her through his ridiculous eye make-up and drawled; “You never got the bamboo jokes, doll? You were meeting a guy with the callsign ‘Panda’!”

Davos wheezed out a laugh from underneath Paula’s boot as she stared down at her boss, dumbfounded as the Trans-national Express droned and chuntered on its way, oblivious to its tenants.

Paula blinked.

“B-but…this can’t have been another training excersise…this is a heist!”

Davos grinned again, a tiny black cartridge topped with crackling electric blue energy appearing in his hand.

“No, sweetcheeks. THIS is a heist.”

He rammed the tazer into her shin.

IsraeLOL.

I find it amusing that there is a Theodor Herzl advert next to my blogs on this page. Earlier, it was a "visit Israel!" advert. I think maybe Google think I'm a Zionist nutbag, and my potential readers are as well.

...you aren't...are you?

I don't mind if you are. No, really.

As long as you didn't shoot any of the 13 Palestinian protestors on the Syrian border recently. I'm not racist, but I am prejudiced to mindless thugs who shoot unarmed teenagers.

Call me narrow-minded.

Loquacious Las Vegas lathering.

So this is half of a traveljournalism/alternative article I started but never finished on Las Vegas after my trip there when I was 18. It's never been finished, mainly because I don't know where to put it. Thought I'd whack it up here regardless.

Walking through the Strip was like walking through a cocktail you didn't order. Garish, sickly sweet, and afterwards you'd be covered in smells and tastes you never wanted, or ever dreamed of ever wanting. Lights from casinos, steakhouses, and bars that were far less classy than even you're thinking right now glared through eyelids and less whispered more shouted, nay, hollered promises of the full bellied and empty walleted kind.

I walked past an aspiring pop group, with their own stage and soundsystem, right there on the street. They were probably recently rejected by one of the record companies that have their offices on the fringes of the city, and were desperately trying to garner some other attention, hoping their public would carry their legend back into offices and to the ears of suited managers driving tinted windowed hummers (yes, they really do do that still.)

They were actually quite good, which made listening to them heartening and sort of pitiful at the same time. Their small,brightly lit island amidst the neon sea of the street was being swamped in by the very charisma tipsily tripping in from all directions.

This was the brightly lit warm and fuzzy center that could be seen if you squinted down to your right when you were at the top of the faux eiffel tower at Paris Paris. If you panned to your left, you could see the rest of the city, all the way out till where it ended abrubtly, like someone hadn't completed the level on a city builder simulation. The soup of Las Vegas was banded with a large swathe of sand, circled in turn by the Nevadan mountains where the rims of the desert basin ended. Las Vegas was really a thriving nucleus of an empty and barren cell, isolated for miles in all directions. If you were here, this was it. Really.

Staying at Caesar's Palace was a conundrum in itself. The impressively decadent facade of the outside smeared in ivy leaf and dotted with plastic statues of gods no one knew the name of hid no lies. Julius himself beckoned you in permanently, stood outside his Palace, a warped dream of his that is now part of an empire the Caesar line could only be envious of. What it promised in lewd and excessive detail on the outside, it delivered in spades on the inside. The lobby of the hotel (though it is more true to say hotel-casino, megaplex, eternal warren...) was carpeted in rich red, swirling miasmic patterns leading the eye to slot machines, more statues, cheerily enormous TV screens and gilded surfaces. Bellboys and reception girls with impossible smiles snapped to attention at your gaze with effortless grace

When will the wafer-thin female ideal die?

When will it be known that men-real men, with blood and sweat and veins and testosterone-want flesh to hold, and not bones?

Why do we have to see size minuses on televison, dieting on mineral water and painkillers to subdue hunger?

Why do we worship bulemics and not bodies?

I want handles and hips, volume and virility, boobs and bloody good times.

If a girl eats a three-course meal, she’s not greedy, it just means she’s got the energy to go three rounds between the sheets with you.

I want curvy buttocks pressed up against my hips! I want generous boobs squashed up against my hairy chest! I want to grab hold of plentiful thighs for better leverage! I want the healthy sound of flesh smacking against flesh, not awkward bruises from protruding hipbones!

I want Marilyn Munroe, not malnutrioned madness.