Sir Digby Chicken Caesar
17th September 2006
 
It would seem that perverts are now stumbling across my brilliant website by typing "handjobs" into search engines. I assume they all leave as soon as they realise "Planet Jerky" is not a handjob site, but I can see how they might make that mistake. I suspect these people have the adult filters switched on, though it's not a theory I'm planning to test on the family computer any time soon.
 
But back to now: A fight between Jon Wine and Scatman John was interrupted this afternoon when they were both pummelled to death by one of our fine, upstanding black citizens. They were later resurrected by a spirit healer at a cost of 25% armour damage. Both have agreed not to pursue legal action against their attacker on the grounds that he was only trying to make an honest living and it was not for them to judge his methods.
 
Mr Jerky
 
 
Tuesday 29th August 2006:
Got a plane back to England this afternoon for a hospital appointment that had been arranged since before I moved. It's regarding a persistent cough I've been trying to get sorted since last year. Medicine is a painfully slow process. I could get my medical records transferred to Ireland, but I don't see why I should have to fork-out hundreds of euro-bucks to fix something that might've already been fixed had the doctors not wasted months trying to treat me for "asthma" which I knew wasn't the problem all along.
 
An asthma specialist eventually declared me free of the condition, but to this day meddlers still violate my ears with officious preachings of "it's probably asthma". I'll then explain that it can't be asthma, but they don't fucking listen and give me the same shit again a month later, as if they've only just thought of it. And I still get "you should try cough medicine" for crying out loud, like that wasn't the first fucking thing I thought to do. A word of advice for anyone who wishes to give me a word of advice: If you managed to think of it, I already thought of it before you, or it's stupid. Please shove it up your arse.
 
Wednesday 30th August 2006:
Went to the hospital first thing this morning and here's the story: According to a CT scan, my nasal septum is crooked. The consultant believes this is causing an obstruction, and prompting my nose to secrete extra mucus which is then flowing backwards into my lungs. Wonderful! I'm not sure how it suddenly got like this, but I've been put on a three-month waiting list for surgery to get it straightened. It's either go through that or snort loads of cocaine until the whole thing just falls out and never bothers me again.
 
At the airport, I was made to remove my shoes for the scanner, just in case I was one of those plane-jacking terrorist types. Do I look like a man who wants to die for Allah? I understand that harassing all races equally is politically correct, but it's a waste of time that is never going to achieve anything realistically. Though I have actually heard people argue in favour of this system, fearing Christians will soon hijack planes in the name of Jesus. It wasn't a very well thought-out argument, but I rarely get to eavesdrop on any of those.
 
Along with the obligatory imbeciles holding up the check-in queue by what could only be them struggling with the security questions, this hold-up didn't matter in the end because the plane was delayed by an hour. It was nearly midnight by the time I arrived in Dublin. I got a cab to Gaff Agus, but had to give the driver directions because he didn't think to bring a map or anything. I kept myself going all evening by thinking of the icy cold beer I'd left in Agus's fridge - Only to find out that he'd already drank it under some "four day" fridge rule that I'm pretty sure he just made up to suit the occasion. Bah!
 
Friday 8th September 2006:
Went to Dublin with Captain Research on a reconnaissance mission to locate the college he'll be attending next week. We made the initial journey by bus and once we'd found it, we figured it'd be a good idea to get the "DART" (Dublin Area Rapid Transport) or "train" back to the city centre to meet up with Agus for a post-work drink. Finding the nearest DART wasn't helped by wacky directional signs pointing inexplicably down cul-de-sacs and into the sea. I didn't resort to asking strangers because I don't want the Irish to think I don't know what I'm doing, jeez.
 
After much wandering, we eventually found the station and I decided to celebrate by taking a slash. I pulled once on the toilet door handle, but it wouldn't open. Immediately afterwards, a cantankerous old geezer sitting on the stairs grunted "it's out of order". Oh gee, do you think? That would explain why the door was locked! I thanked him for his obvious hindsight observation by not acknowledging his presence and flicking V-signs at the back of his head on my way up the stairs.
 
We'd arranged to get a lift home at the end of the day, and even though neither of us actually know our way around Dublin city yet, I thought I could figure-out the way to our meeting point. It turned out I couldn't and we wandered a good distance in the wrong direction. "If only we had a map" I exclaimed, not thinking it would get us anywhere. And at that moment, the day was saved when Captain Research remembered the tourist map he'd picked up on a whim while at the bus station this morning. Huzzah!
 
Thursday 14th September 2006:
Not much is going into this so-called "internet journal" as of late. This is probably due to me not actually doing anything besides sleeping in, drinking cups of tea and watching repeats of old sitcoms on digital television. If I had access to broadband internet (which is still unavailable round these parts) life would be pretty good at the moment, or at least comparatively. Until the time comes for me to move out and get a new job, the bulk of my worldly problems at the moment would have to be rubbish TV adverts. I'll run through some of them whether you like it or not:
 
"Meteor" are an Irish phone company whose advertisements feature a troupe of piss-poor yet unaccountably smug actors in godawful "comedy" sketches. One of them features two young women offering to give their typical football-obsessed lout boyfriends "a lap dance", but then they come back wearing stupid costumes, dancing about and shrieking "THIS IS HOW THEY DANCE IN LAPLAND LOLOLOL BLUEBALLZ". I've been advised on good authority that they're an otherwise decent network and that I should use them for all my mobile needs, but I'm not sure if I want to on principle.
 
Next up is a message from the National Dairy Council which has been running in this country for AT LEAST ten years. It's a bizarre monologue delivered by some creepy bastard who I think they tried to depict as being "suave" because there is suave music in the background. He explains how a "drop dead gorgeous" female-type invited him back to her place to play some "virtual reality games", though a shag is implied by his smarmy face and tone. But he decided he was no longer interested when she served him a low-fat spread or "virtual butter" (hence the prerequisite euphemism) instead of REAL butter for breakfast. It's a lesson for women; Always buy real butter or that guy won't want to have cheap sex with you more than once. You know, like you wouldn't be able to pick-up some other loser off the street in about five minutes.
 
And it seems they've recently discovered a new market; Glossy magazines for morons who need a bite-size dose of pseudo-intellectual prattle and other people's dead-end opinions on current affairs to loudly regurgitate as their own thoughts and feelings within earshot of myself, regardless if they truely understand what the hell they're talking about or not. I think one of the adverts featured Jeffrey Archer and another showed some obnoxious geebag "hilariously" emasculating an unsuspecting male with her newfound sense of undeserved validity. "You go girl" and all that bollocks. Fuck this shit!
 
Go away!
 
© 2006 MR. JERKY