He's unoriginal, man. Don't follow his lead, you'll become as boring as him.

Jimbob

Jimbob.
He thinks he's original; a true visionary.
But he only makes love to girls in the missionary.

Jimbob.
I expect to see The Dude, maybe Dante Hicks.
But his movie collection just consists of White Chicks.

Jimbob.
His shirts are all white, his socks are all black.
Poking is his form of a vicious attack.

Jimbob.
He only bets pennies, he won't push his luck.
Go back to bed, Jimbob, you unoriginal fuck.

It's currenly 00:50 on the 25th of December, 2008. So, yes, it's technically Christmas Day. I say technically, but there's nothing really technical about it. Although, in America, it's not Christmas yet. Does that mean we're in the future or something (compared to them, I mean, we can never technically be in the future)? I mean, it is pretty weird that we get a good six hours head-start in 2009. We're just about to pass out from the excessive drinking while they're counting down from ten to mark the dawn of a new year. Still, this being England, I imagine a lot of us pass out from the excessive drinking before our own fucking countdown.

Anyway, I was just washing dishes and I felt the need to write a poem. So I finished that washing up (I am a manly, manly, manly man, and no amount of dish-washing and poetry can take away from that, so fuck you), came on here and wrote what came into my head. It's pretty deep; pretty beautiful. I imagine by the time you've read this blog, I'll have been hired as a songwriter for Elton John and be a millionaire.

So, what is it like to write a blog at eighteen years old, Matthew? The big one-eight. Well, I'm not actually eighteen yet. Call it clinging on to my childhood, my innocence, whatever: the fact of the matter is, I was born at approximately 9:30am. So, it being 1am now, I have a good eight-and-a-half hours before I turn eighteen, growing an extra foot and sounding like Don LaFontaine whenever I speak. Because that's what happens when one becomes a man (by 'grow an extra foot' I mean 'grow in length by another foot', not literally 'grow another foot', as in the things you walk on. And by 'grow in length by another foot', I mean getting taller, you dirty-minded bastard).

PROTIP: If you're not in bed by the time Santa comes to your house, and you see him walking to your stocking, don't think he doesn't have an AK-47 that he's ready to fuck you up with. He doesn't like witnesses and his magic powers do not include memory-wiping. The way he sees it, a bullet to the brain is a pretty effective memory-wiping technique.


I was safe, because I was in the kitchen with my iPod blaring the sweet, sweet sounds of Queens of the Stone Age into my ears. I was going to listen to other stuff, throw a bit of variety in there, but I felt it to be too much effort at the time. That wheel takes a lot of precision, man.