The Phil’s Morning Commute Memorial Blogpost
This blog entry is dedicated to Phil, who claims he follows this blog via the DSS (or RSS), and asked me to write an entry for his Monday morning commute. Look at you Phil, with your fancy Iphone and commute and everything. I hope it’s going smoothly and you haven’t got a sweaty businessman’s armpit in your face right now.
Last night Phil was dressed as Jesus. It was his house’s Halloween Party, and I went along even though I’m scared of parties (but not spooky ghosts). I went as a mad hatter, and spent the evening looking a bit like Jimmy Saville playing Willy Wonka. I drank whiskey out of a teapot.
Parties are interesting experiences, because they’re full of people you have to be interested to talk to, because there’s no escape from them, because it’s a party. I’m not very good at parties, but I think I did ok last night. I didn’t get too drunk, I didn’t make a total embarrassment of myself, and I didn’t burn anything.
The party was very impressively set out. The theme was the asylum, and people came as blood-splattered doctors, nurses, and mental patients. The costumes, they were not half-arsed. In the main room were crayons and paper, to express one’s hidden raging fears and desires. I drew pacman eating a ghost and, later, Dr Screw, the pornographic companion piece to our favourite timelord adventurer. Shit, it’s the daleks! And they’ve got COCKS.
Jesus was a benign presence, if a bit preachy. I kept asking him for answers. You can always trust Jesus. He’s like a policeman in that sense. That said, it is best not to approach Jesus if he’s in riot gear. Then it’s probably time for holy war.
I remember having a very boring conversation about protest, and whether it does any good. I spoke to Harley Quinn out of Batman (she was a psychiatrist who went mad and fell in love with the Joker, in case you were wondering) about Kermit Roosevelt and Iran and managed not make a joke about puppet dictators.
Also I talked to a woman from Switzerland about Nazi gold. She offered me drugs, I think. I’m not really good at such things.
Finally, there was a guy who wrote a book about a terrible band, and I managed not to talk to him about how terrible said band are. This I count as progress, and consequently I was allowed out of the asylum at lunchtime today.
My wife was dressed as a member of the Viet Cong.