24 non stop, I don't stop, can't stop, won't stop

You know when the coffee runs out and you start drinking tea and you think 'I like this tea' but really you're like ' I want coffee' and you could go to the shop and get some more but that would involve doing something and you've already walked the dog and that basically counts as doing something constructive and besides you've got to beat this Brazilian kid who calls himself Tuj Burrow and keeps pipping you by a fraction of a point on an online surfing game?

Me neither. I've been getting things done. Logged some serious time researching things. For instance I looked up 'fingering' on Yahoo!Answers. Man, time well spent. Results:

roma12 asks:
Fingering ?
i became close to a girl a couple months to a year ago and I ended up fingering her, I washed my hands after wards but why do i seem like I "can't use" those fingers anymore because i think there is stuff there. can this be a form of ocd? Cause I feel like I cant touch food or anything else without thinking something bad will happen? What are some ways I can overcome these thoughts? Serious answers please!

please don't smoke answers:
Sounds to me like a case of "coyote ugly". She may have not been someone you really found attractive. While in the act did you feel a bit squeamish as though something wasn't right?
Typically if shes healthy and attractive and your on fire over her, you would not want to wash your hands after wards. There seems to be an issue with her not being very clean.
Take some alcohol and pour it over that hand, it kills everything and this will correct your mindset and you'll be able to move on. Good Luck.

So pretty much didn't waste any time.

I also spent time putting awesome combinations of swear words into a Japanese translation to hilarious effect:

Hakuso must eat my fuck. Then I listen to the Misfits

So yeah, things are non-stop here. I'm getting stressed out.

De Niro T-Wrect

Coarse haired colleagues, chronic masturbators, cream huffers, and greasy fringed girls,

I'm lucky to be alive. I kiss the earth and sniff the breeze. On friday night my brother and I caught a taxi with a mad man, a man of at least 50 years with an obvious back catalogue of paranoia and speeding tickets.

As soon as our rumps touched the weave of the seats the taxi driver stomped his foot on the accelerator and swerved out in front of a bus. As he did this he lowered his window and yelled "Oooogaaaaa Boooggaaaaa!" at another taxi as he hurtled down the street.

"I'm getting out of the industry" he told us. Perhaps he was going to jail?

"I'm going to Holland" he said. "Getting out of this country" as he clipped a roundabout.

"To Amsterdam?" my brother asked.

"Holland!" he said. "Look at this" (he flicked a photo of a blurry guitar on his phone). "That's a hemp guitar. Made out of hemp. They've got a hemp museum in Holland. I went there. Showed 'em this picture of my guitar. They said "that's a work or art that" and they want it in their museum."

"Wow! How do you make them?" my brother said.

"With hemp!" he said.

"But how? Like resin and fibre?"

"Hemp fibres! I use hemp fibres! I'm not going to go how I make 'em though because it's a secret. Not going to go into mate!"

The whole time the fuel light was flashing on the dashboard and he was pushing 90 in a 60 zone. We were speeding up a hill towards a red light. I questioned the man's sanity and the light went green.

"How many have you made?"

"I've made one. But I'm the only one who knows how to do it. Its all up here. Going to make a thousand in my first year in Holland!"

"A thousand?" we asked. "That's a lot of work"

"Well I'm not going to make them. I'm going to have a hundred people working for me and I'm going to walk around with a cup of coffee and say "yes/yes/no do more" to the workers. You can put pictures in the guitar. Put coins and hair in the resin. People from around the world can email you and say "I want some artwork in it" and I'll write back to them that it'll cost more and that's how I can get me money. With all the art work".

"And you use sheets of resin and fibre?"

"Look, I'm not going into it! People are trying to steal my ides. I'm not saying you guys are going to steal them but I'm not going into it!"

"What kind of head stocks do you use?" my brother asks.

"I use just normal ones."

"How do they sound?"

"They sound like guitars mate!"

"So what's the advantage of using hemp?"

"Well it's the strongest natural fibre known to man. Besides cobwebs. Cobwebs is the first, hemp is the second, and human hair is the third."

"Silk's the strongest natural fibre?"

"Cobwebs! And hemp and hairs from a man's head!I'm also going to make violins. I had an Internet site showing the guitar I made. I got over a million orders from all around the world. Had to close the site down. It was just there to test the waters. People wanted them. They all wanted them. Germans would want the violin. Love violins."

We got to my house in the fastest time ever. I was relieved to get out of the car. The guy had breathed all our oxygen and was probably planning on taking us to a deserted car park and killing us with a non-interrupted onslaught of bullshit.

"What a fuckwit!" my brother said.

*I just searched the net and hemp guitars do exist, are in production, and they don't seem to be made by a taxi driver from Fremantle . Looks like the Holland trip is off.

Whale World Glue Sniffing

One time in primary school my class went to a shoe factory. It was in a county town where they used to kill whales.The factory made ugg boots. While we were there my nose started bleeding. I didn't have any tissues so I started to sniff to try and retrieve the flow. Plan backfired. They used so much solvent glue in the factory that my nervous and continued huffing made me feel all tall and stretched. I got so high that I had to go outside before I fainted.

Later on at another location, while at the urinal, a class mate asked me if I wanted to 'sword fight'.

Tie me up (the bowl cut kid)

Oliver from across the road asked my brother and I to tie him up once. He came over and said "Can you tie me up?".

We obliged.

We took him to the back shed and wrapped his arms to his sides with masking tape. We went round and round until he was mummified - a large tape worm if you will. The whole time we did this he had a contented smile on his face. Like getting tied up was the most relaxing thing that could happen to you.

There was a house getting built directly across the road from our's. We lifted Oliver like a wounded Vietnam vet and placed him on his side on a freshly dried concrete slab. He was laughing to himself.

We then went inside and played Sega and ate cheese.

He said that some older brothers from down the road who had long hair and wore black t-shirts and rode BMXs had came past and poked him with a stick a couple of times. After this he managed to get up and hop back to his house.

I can't work out if my brother and I did the wrong thing in taping the kid up. He was a strange guy.

"I'm going to butter him up see, tell him that Rogerson's Bicycle Tyres are made from the smoothest Panama rubber and that if he complies with our little request we'd be more than happy to sponsor him in the upcoming tournament. He just has to eat the mustard. Has to get a good coal miner's handful and smash it up into his gums. Hoo Mabel, I need to see him eat that mustard with those big muscular hands! I want to see him cough and gurgle on the vinegary heat, yes, to see those athletic cheeks rosy up in playful agony. I want him to say "was that enough?" and then to tell him to keep shoveling the brown, keep ingesting that filth you filthy, filthy man! Mustard man, mustard man! That's what I'll holler! And he'll say "is this how you usually conduct business?" and I'll tell him it's the only way. Nothing says speed and determination like a man that can suck back repeated gobfulls of Keens English. It builds character. Makes a man a man. Beasts don't eat mustard - you can bet your bottom dollar on that sir! And once he finishes that mustard I'm going to kiss him on his big blistered lips and ask him to marry me! Ha!"

Also

Oliver also told me that the best way to masturbate was with "a piece of string tied in a loop and some soap".

Holy shit!

Boring town boring

I saw the best graffiti the other day. In a young defiant hand 'Girls suck. Tagging Rulz" was written on the bin of a neighbour.
That's probably the greatest way ever to get back at the girl you talked to once who now has a boyfriend. If she ever walks down the street on bin night she's going to regret not being your girlfriend but she'll be too late because tagging is the only mistress you'll ever worship! Ha. Girls! Tagging rulzzzzzz.

One time when I was 16 my friends and I fashioned a three hosed bong out of a four litre plastic bottle and some irigation tubing. We sat cross legged in a circle with my dog on the floor of my parents shed and made our way through a dinner plate of leafy weed. About halfway through we decided it was time to take it to the next level, to get into some harder stuff, something South American. I went inside and returned with a jar of Nescafe instant coffee. It didn't really burn too well and tasted like bitter bitter plastic. It was almost as bad as the time we smoked panadol. Or the time we peed in a bottle and then poured it in a letterbox. Why didn't we just pee in the letter box? It seems so much more perverse decanting from a bottle.

I didn't actually do that though (the bottle pee crime). A kid called "Oliver" did. He was a weird weird kid. He had a permanent bowl cut and always wore a 'parker' and played nothing but early Mac shareware games. He used to go continental delis and buy logs of marzipan and eat it like a chocolate bar. He was a year older than me but hung out with my little brother. They played Magic the Gathering and talked about orks. As he got older he became more perverse in his behaviour. My friend Chris 'Lizard' Howe and I wrote him a fake love letter from the girl down the road and hoped he'd go and see her and get punched by her brother.

The letter probably went like this:

"Dear Oliver,

I can't stop thinking about you. I really love you but haven't been able to tell you to your face. I really, really want to kiss you. And probably do sex to you.

Please eat the chocolate.
Love,
Colleen xoxox"

I attached a chocolate and sprayed the letter with my dad's deodrant so it smelt like a beautiful lady. The chocolate was a super hot warhead that I had covered in chocolate that we melted in the microwave and then wrapped in alfoil so it looked like a real chocolate that wasn't a warhead covered in gooey half seperated chocolate. Hoo boy when he ate that chocolate he was going to get a hot surprise! The problem was that no-one in the whole world, not even marzipan and Dad's nicorette chewing gum chomping Oliver, would eat it. It's dodgy alfoil packaging signaled 'danger' in the same way a number plate that says 'w8n . 4u' shouts 'bog lapping paedophile'.

Oliver didn't eat the chocolate. He didn't go to the girls house either. It was quite a letdown. He had my measure.

He peed into a Sunkist bottle. The pee was orange. Orange!

Green Room

I'm raw, roughage raw.

Le' Baromater

Hot chillies that are supposed to be hot but are not hot are not hot. How come the chillies one buys from supermarkets never seem to be hot, they're more like stunted capsicums. It's like drinking mid-strength beer from a plastic cup or trying to give yourself a golden shower. You're left flat and damp wanting some full force abuse. I ate a Laksa a few months ago that made my eyes sweat and almost gave me an anaphylactic reaction. I was constricting and spacing. It was made more awesome by the fact that I was dining with company could tell them that the laksa was extremely hot but not too hot for me, but would probably kill normal people, but you know I could actually have it hotter. Oh yeah I eat zimbabwean bird's eyes for breakfast like I just need things hot you know like I could probably drink two litres of tom yum and like ten tablespoons of chili paste and still be like 'that wasn't hot at all' and then get on my motorbike and actually jump a bus and you'd be amazed and i would be like "what? Haven't you seen me do that before? I do it all the time" and then I would smoke a cigarette in one draw and put the butt out on my tongue.

I have heard so many wankers talk of their chili prowess. A guy asked the girl behind the counter at the noodle bar down the road to "make sure it's really hot. Like make it as hot as you think is hot and then make it hotter." He had those fucked euro/slip thongs on.

When I was in primary school, my best friend and I found an old microwave that someone had dumped on the schools compost mountain. As soon as we saw it we picked up big sticks and ran to it. We started beating that microwave with a wizzfizz of pre-teen violent enthusiasm. A teacher with a big grey beard and short-shorts heard our howls and ran to douse the flames before a full scale white-good bash riot broke out across the oval.

He said that he didn't have a microwave at his house but he was pretty sure that "the nuclear material inside made people infertile". We stopped immediately. For at least a year after I was pretty sure I would either get ball cancer or AIDS from the drink fountain.

Prune Walker

I was thinking last night that it would be unfortunate to be someone who really liked eating prunes. Nobody would believe you. If I come over to your house and open the fridge to get a beer (check me out - drinking beer!) and saw a jar or bag of prunes I would say "Not getting enough fibre eh?" and raise my eyebrows like the self assured tosser I can be.

"That's not why I have them. I love the taste. I eat them with natural yoghurt for desert" You would say. And it would be true. You really liked prunes and find them to be delicious. The thing is I wouldn't believe you. I'd think that you were probably one of those people that ate nothing but meat and cheese and couldn't crap. That's what I'd think and all your "prunes are tasty!" wouldn't change my mind. Next time I saw you I would puff out my cheeks until my face went red and go "Uhhhhhhhhh!" You would call me a dickface and would be well within your rights but it wouldn't bother me as I "know" you're constipated and will continually refer to it everytime I see you eating.

Also, most days I walk my dog in the time period between 9 in the morning and 3 in the afternoon. There are two schools in walking distance but I constantly avoid walking by them as I feel like I would look dodgy. Because everyone that walks a dog past a primary school must be a kiddy fiddler right?

Observations in the central north of central Perth. Key of P sharp. All rights reserved.

The other day I saw a well fed man with a pure white well-brushed ponytail. His head was round and kind of looked like a rolled roast that has been soaked for several hours in cheap wine. His pudgy fingers were strangled by a couple of rings. A couple of times I saw him remove the hair tie from his mane, shake the pony tail out and then retie tighter. I'm not sure if he felt that by cranking up a few levels of tightness he'd get some sort of facelift effect. He really paid that ponytail a lot of attention. He was stroking it and tossing it side to side. He was really proud of it.

His girlfriend didn't seem to have the same affection for it. She didn't seem to have any interest in him either. She was quiet and seemed to look off into the distance perhaps embarrassed by "Tony's" constant tail tugging. It was almost as if he was a 15 year old boy at home alone with a K-Mart underwear catalogue. He felt no shame and continued to pleasure himself quite eagerly.

Remember in the early 90's a ponytail was seen to be the marker of a successful yuppie? Like a SAAB convertible and a ponytail were the pinnacle of wankerness. The ponytail has somehow shifted its position in the world and is now really only the property of fuzzy teenage metalheads and a few perverse individuals. It's completely understandable. This guy looked like the kind of man who would happily drink the juice from a jar of pickled onions and proudly tell potential girlfriends it was his famous French soup. The kind of man that softens butter in the hairy folds of his favourite undies. The kind of man that borrows a toothbrush and calls dogs "sexy". The kind of man that would lick the soles of his shoes clean and sell them as "new with tags" on ebay and then tell his brother that business is booming. The kind of man that would shake John Howard's hand.

Ponytails. Actually, maybe just this specific ponytail. I'm not sure.

Jazz Master Mellon: Mustard Mountain

I've been untouchable for the last four days. Nothing phases me. I'm in an inpenetrable bubble full of ego gas and love buzz. For on thursday night my friends, I tasted the syrupy amber of success. I, along with four other degenerates, managed to win a quiz night at a local cocktail serving establishment. I know you're thinking that the other teams must have been composed of equal parts seat sniffer and remedial english participants but they weren't. I saw at least two using knives and forks and one guy even had a suit on - if that's not worthy opposition I don't know what is.

There was one guy with a pretentious hat and a laptop who spent the whole night video-chatting with some tool in America. "Haha! Oh yes. There's a question about movies. I love movies. I've got a leather jacket and a pretentious hat. Tell me your sniffing a lot of good seat in Wisconsin." Beating him boosted my already unnaturally large and unwarranted smugness to a level somewhere between spa farter and engineering student.

We won $100 worth of Little Creatures dollars. Each team member got a $20 voucher. I'm never cashing mine. I'm going to keep it in my wallet. I'm sure if I turn up at the airport tomorrow and try and board the next flight to Paris sans ticket and le passporto they'll wave me through to first class on first glance of my winning checque. I'm not going to stop at red lights or zebra crossings either- no bloody way. I'm putting the pedal to the metal and will fly through at 50kms an hour. Cops don't hassle bad mofos with paper qualifications. I'm basically a doctor. A doctor of quizzes.

Man, I am a tosser.


But a wealthy one. That's 20 Australian dollars by the way. Yeah the old green backs, the old Francs. I got them. 20 bucks. What a day, what a day.

Ethnography. Crow Magnum Man

For the last two weeks there's been painters at my house. They've started work a couple of times and left because of bad weather or to start another job. Only two rooms are getting painted. Today I came home to find them out the back painting away listening to the shittest FM radio ever cranked impossibly loud. The painter tried to talk to me about cricket over the strains of Nickleback singing about date rape and living like there's no tomorrow (which I guess they use for an excuse for the former).

I know nothing about cricket so I said "oh/yeah/ha" at regular intervals each time the painter said "They said Australia dominated/ top batting order/should have played more fasts on that pitch". He's from England and plans on giving every person that talks about cricket a hard time. I heard him fart quite loudly. I think this is his way of letting the neighbourhood know that his boys won the most boring sport in the world. A few chords on the colon trumpet is the best way to celebrate victory. He said if England won the world cup he would 'shit his pants'. I assume this is a one upping of the celebratory fart. English people have some weird customs.

He's gone now and I can't really tell if the house is finished or not. I think if I ring him up he'll say "Of course it is mate. Wot was you finking it wasn't then? Well it is. Don't make me come over there and give you a kicking wiv me trainers". He has a shaved head and is English. That makes him a soccer hooligan. It's the rules.

Super Emo Lonesome Friday Night

Fizzzz I wish. I wish for fizzzz.

"I've come to plead for you to throw down you hair. Drop down your curls. I need to get up there. I want to squish grapes on your neck and trace out ghosts on your belly in watermellon. I want to suck your eyelids and tongue your nostrils. I killed a lizard. A beautiful lizard. My heart is full of guilt. It's sinking deep within me. That's got to be worth something. Got to be worth a soft strand. I need your hair. I need to be drinking champagne in my underwear. I need your silk."

More of Me, Less TV part Deux

More of me.

TEEN JIZZ WIZARD JAZZ MASTER 12

Look at my cool new sunglasses. I'm the Henri Matisse of bifocals except I'm not wheel chair bound and can't speak Franch. These are shit for driving. Millions of dead cops.

"Wristcutters" and "Good Dick" also worth a squiz

Someone wrote that in the comments when I discussed the filum Beautiful Kate which you should see.

I like it. '"Good Dick".

"Hello DVD rental attendant. I have driven here in my car. Hooo the price of petrol has gone up I have noticed as I work at a job and pay for the petrol which my car uses. I don't suppose you have Good Dick. I need to see it. Give me Good Dick. I really want it. Oh don't be coy. Give it to me NOW!"

Also, who ratted me to the Vegan Death Cult? It's eating me up like golden staph eats the pale inner thighs of drunk reef walking tourists in French Polynesia.

God I love you.

The Bull Twang and the Pea

Recently I've been getting my haircut at a barber. Like an old school barber with a proper chair, weightlifting magazines and pictures of Elvis. The guy touches your haircut up with a hot cut-throat razor. After I get my hair cut I feel like going out and busting a cop in the keester and then speeding off on my motorbike (which I will probably do a sweet wheelie on and a wicked skid).

The best part though is talking to the barber. He's not that old - probably mid thirties, and he likes to talk filth. This really appeals to my interests. There is nothing I enjoy more than talking bull twang. The barber told me that his mate, who is littler than him I may add (he showed me where he came up to him - only the chest), drank 4 beers an hour on Grand Final day from 10 in the morning until 12 that night and wasn't even drunk. Yep, he said he was sober. I enjoyed this snippet of bull twang.

The barber went on to tell me that the guy was really fit and had a weight room in his back shed with a 40inch television that supposedly plays music videos while he works out. The barber said this was untrue. He said that he knows that he watches porn on it. The weightlifting friend said that he doesn't and that he had never masturbated. The barber thought this was a preposterous notion. "He locks that door so his daughters don't walk in on him stroking it. It's bullshit, especially when you're younger you're like 'what does this thing do?' my sons three and he's always pulling it out. I said 'you're going to be a flasher when you grow up!' he's always pointing it at the girls. There's a lot things you do when you're three that would get you locked up if you did them as an adult." I agreed. If you crapped your pants in the freezer section of Woolworths as a 25 year old Colin Barnett would probably have you thrown in jail without a trial.

He said that he'd discussed his friends outlandish claims of self chastity at the casino with a group of friends. His wife said she had never done it either and "my cousin who talks about it all the time, he doesn't care who's is around, was like 'What? You don't ever flick your pea?".

So I got a new dirty phrase 'flick your pea' (I'm not sure if I'll be able to say this ever though. It sounds pretty wrong. I guess the wronger they are - the better). I also got a haircut and had a chat about colostomy bags or "a bag for an arse" as the barber said. Win win situation.

Charles Barkley

Charles Barkley would be a good name for a pug.

I think I know where Elvis lives.

In the desert. Or actually in a hotel in Manjimup. One of those.

Waste

It's recently been curbside waste collection in my suburb. All along the streets were piles of crap that people were throwing out. I was amazed at how many mattresses were lying dead and gutted on front lawns. Some of them were so old and abused It seemed humanly impossible that someone would ever have slept on them. The large number outside a couple of houses obviously advertised that they were backyard brothels. In fact I'm sure there would have to be at least seven within walking distance. These mattresses looked like they'd had numerous tax free sins performed around the clock upon their sheetless plains. I will have to move. I don't know if I can sleep easy knowing that my neighbours are running handjob parlours.

The best thing about waste collection is watching tarago vans full of pony tailed youths cruise the street looking for outdated computers and walking machines. Oh and the chubby professionals with trailers full of heaters with their chords cut off and assorted seat less bicycles.

Do you know you can get a KFC loyalty card? You can! I just saw it on TV. Who the hell would want that?
"Hey baby I got me one of them KFC credit cards. I'm gonna buy us some of them zinger cakes! Then we're going to have sex. That's my plan. I got plastic monies".

Beautiful Song

Song really sums up how I'm feeling right now. Buy shares in Lori Music. She'll be big.

Beautiful Kate

I can't stop thinking about this movie. I was a little buzzed but it seemed to leave an indelible mark. I suggest you view it. It's deep.

One more thing

All real estate agents are snakes. Stomp them out.

The Things a Man Learns in 25 Years of Life. JAZZ MASTER 7

I spent the first 4 hours of today vomiting sporadically. Drink water. Sit on couch for 15 minutes. Run to toilet. Sppeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwww!! I learnt that I'm quite vocal. On that last wretch when all you are is battery acid and burnt tyres I go "ahhhhhhhhhhhhh" and then probably 'aww jezusssss". I went outside to pat the dog and yacked while wearing sunglasses. I'm pretty sure Bill Clinton did that once. Then he played the sax and boned his secretary. Allegedly.

When you're on your knees in the bathroom or lying on the floorboards looking at the ceiling you wonder what a man learns in 25 years of life.

Not a lot.
Not a lot.

Also, that Vegan Death Cult letter is for real. I didn't forge that shit. I know who did though. And you're going to taste dance floor justice. 100 Demons style.


(Whatever that means)

Also, MAY NOT, actually know who sent that letter but I do know it has to be someone which probably could be you if I thought about it, which, my friends, I have.

Too many commas? They're cheap. I like to sprinkle, them, liberally,. Like, Colin, Barnett, sprinkles Rohypnol, on, his own, breakfast, of goat yoghurt, and , sea, gull, eggs.

Kewpie Mayonnaise Love Buzz

For the bed bug bite fans, another banger, three days in. I'm more rugged and raw than Wu-Tang. I'm the welt king, crown me Prince Pustule, rub me down with ointment and pump me so full of antihistamine that I day sleep through a whole week and my cheeks glow warm. The bites are still hanging round although I don't look so leperish- more like a 5 year old with a belly full of chicken pox.

You know somedays I listen to Nirvana Bleach over and over again. Sometimes I walk to the fridge over and over again and there's still no food so I squeeze a length of Kewpie mayonnaise on my fingers and eat it. And I get all momentarily buzzed on the amazing complexity of this fabulous Japanese mayonnaise. Then I feel sick. Fucking sick.

I'm so itchy. Bloody hell.

Vegan Death Cult Retribution : Cult Strikes Back

Friends,
The Vegan Death Cult is on to me. They've found out about my spotlight of justice. I can smell their soy based mock meat breath around each corner.

I arrived home the other day to find this (click the picture to enlarge and read)




Apparently I've made a donation to their evil cause. They also sent me a DVD to enjoy with my friends and family. Even if I smoked angel dust and drank a backyard hose length of Captain Morgan's Carribean Vomit Rum, I'd never find myself willingly parting with my scarce funds to support Grand Master Ching Hai's bid to enslave mankind in some sort of snuggy wearing chickpea flatulence feudal utopia.

I've been set up, ratted out, turned upon. The Vegan Death Cult obviously has many eyes, more eyes than a spider (which as many twelve year olds will tell you - has more than seven eyes). Some brainwashed Ching Hai sex slave has impersonated me and donated on my behalf. This is character assassination, defamation, pickle-fixing, libel and slander salamander.

So now VDC knows where I rest my head at night. They're probably driving by my house in a white tarago as a type this. I can see it now, four cult members dressed in tracksuit pants and sandals, and matching Supreme Master TV T-shirts. Each shirt marked with a different shade of glutenous muck.

Oh they want to shut me up, they want to scare me into silence, but not this time, oh not this time. I'm going to turn the spotlight up to extrabright (flick the switch from the one dot setting to the two dot setting!). VDC; you're days are numbered.

Also, I'm probably not going to watch you're DVD, well I probably will but It's not going to work. My torch has many batteries and my pen publishes the truth.

ALSO, ALSO, who signs a letter off with a photo of themselves talking on a mobile phone?