People who hang wet mackerel and seaweed among their wind chimes assure me that this might be the last hot day of the year. That promise is the only thing keeping me going. This sultry air puts me in fretful state of mind. Yesterday was a brutal day, depressingly quiet on the web, no emails from real people, no human contact, while visits to the blog continued to degrade my faith in humanity. ‘Animal Crossing porn’ might now be the single most depressing search term I think I’ve ever seen, though the day also saw rank upon file of people searching for news about Cheryl Cole’s bottom.
Here’s a depressing thought for you or, rather, for me... Nothing I will ever do in my life will mean as much to people as Cheryl Cole’s arse.
Think about that for a moment. Even one half of her behind means more to more people than my entire being as it exists over the entire course of my lifetime. Every single thing I write, draw, say, and do will be insignificant compared to just one of her unthinking buttocks. Anything my brain can create or has created is meaningless compared to this lump of skin, fat, and gluteal muscle now tattooed with something Microsoft normally include as a Windows background and which you immediately change to a picture of your dog.
I don’t know how I’m meant to function now that I’m aware of this depressing statistic. It’s like realising that you entertain fewer people than the Krankies with their freakish-old-woman-playing-a-schoolboy-who-sleeps-with-the-curly-haired-guy-in-the-celebrity-sweater act.
Hey! Hey! Hey! Snap out of it, you miserable hack! There are better things to write about this morning such as the new Samsung Note 10.1 inch tablet with Wacom stylus technology. Excuse me while I wipe the drool on my sleeve. I just need to figure out some new ingenious scheme which might help be buy one of these suckers. Samsung swinishly price their tablets reasonably for everybody except me. It’s clear victimisation. Ideally, I need to sell some cartoons but what’s the chance of that?
Of course, Cheryl Cole’s buttocks could afford to buy a Samsung Note 10.1 inch tablet, but how would it handle the stylus? That’s a question I bet you’ve failed to ask amid all this excitement. Mechanically it is possible, I suppose. You might argue that her bottom is perfectly adapted to handling a stylus, though I wouldn’t like to be the person using it next.
Speaking of the vulgar abuse of technology, I read last night that we can now apply for a one-way mission to Mars. I suspect it’s really one of those thin-out-the-species deals or some kind of Hugo Drax Moonraker scheme where all you super-bright types disappear behind the moon while the rest of us go toxic in the Apocalypse which is initially mistaken for a case of mass twerking or twerping. Either way, I’m up for it and I’ve filled in my application. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m tired of living in a world that wants to read Suzanne Moore. I don’t get anything anymore. I’m not on the left, the right, or even in the middle. I’m just lost. I also read in The Guardian today that there’s no end to David Walliam’s talent, in which case, a planet where culture comprises swirling dust storms and endless rocks seems infinitely preferable.
There’s a limited availability of these tickets but I guess the upside is that if you do win a place, you would be more significant to human culture than Cheryl Cole’s bottom, which, in this horribly bleak moment, feels like it’s the pinnacle of human ingenuity and accomplishment.
Okay, I have a cartoon strip to finish. Until tomorrow.