Saturday, January 29, 2005

The Ninth gate

For eons, I had meticulously plotted my escape from this grey purgatory. The metallic holy cows that ruled these streets during daylight were quietly grazing at the roadsides. Eighteenth century buildings, marble tombstones mourning bankrupted family businesses and forgotten mercantile associates, had been separated from their soul mates by the concrete neon-lit temples of mass-commercialism. A man’s hand was manhandling a woman’s face in a darkened sideway. As I made my way through Babylon, I felt the presence of Evil around every corner. The urchins of this macabre demimonde gazed at me with their bloodshot eyes, averting their faces from the celestial light. Like Moses sliced through the Red Sea, I made my way through the wasteland, sacrificing the Unholy Lambs on Israel’s Altar. I arrived at the Point of no Return, The Voice ordering us to the ninth gate. One by one up the stairs and up into the womb of the giant Phoenix. Moments later the steely dan penetrated the crepuscule and the city was nothing more than a spot of oil blemishing a sea of emerald green. The eternal journey ended as we fell from the sky like an archangel from grace. The iron phallus ejaculated his spermatozoa onto the tarmac strip and the semen spread like a stain on a bed sheet. The foul creatures on the banks of the purple Styx hid in the shadows of the chimneys. Long, tall, concrete cypresses stretching to the heavens, rooted in the underworld, belching out Beelzebub’s foul fumes, obscuring paradise with clouds so that no hope could ever remain. The trip was over, a new adventure about to begin.

Dublin-Charleroi: not the most romantic trip you’ll ever make…

Posted by Bietje at Saturday, January 29, 2005 | | Comments

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

To be continued…

I need my weekly fix of Sci-Fi. I’m not particularly proud of it but I’m a Trekkie, Warrie, Gatie… As long as it has “Star” in the opening credits, I’m game.
So, a couple of months ago, Tuesday has been baptised Stargate-night at Casa Bietje. Especially since Major Samantha Carter has been cloned by the Replicators and leads the assault on the Goa’ulds no man will come between me and SkyOne on Tuesday’s eight to ten and live to see another day. I get two Amanda Tapping in one serie! Sweet! And of course MacGyver still rocks as General Jack O’Neill.
And then at nine it’s Stargate Atlantis. It’s pants but who cares. They have the gate thing too, so it beats any other program on Lucifer's Lightbox by about seven lightyears. Anyway, yesterday the Replicators were closing in on our Galaxy whilst disposing of the Goa’ulds as if they were a colony of annoying ants. The system-lord Baal, who is the new leader of the system-lords, since SG-1 nuked Ra and Apophis to kingdom-come, even transported to Earth and asked O’Neill for help. Jack told him to go and fuck himself as Major Carter –with a little help from Thor, the Asgard- was working out a way to defeat the Replicators. Jacob –Sam’s father and a Tokra or good Goa’uld- didn’t really approve of Jack’s tactics. Off course the old man was right as Sam and Thor couldn’t come up with a new weapon. Doctor Daniel Jackson -the nerd of SG-1- had been kidnapped by evil Sam, who was trying to recapture the memories of the Ancients from his subconsciouse. Meanwhile Teal’c –a Jaffa, host to the Goa’uld-larves- and Master Braitac, his old teacher, were leading the assault on Baal’s home planet, hoping to revive the revolution amongst the Jaffa, by exposing the Goa'ulds as false gods. Apparently, the temple they captured holds the weapon to stop the Replicators. Only downside: It would annihilate all live in all galaxies, apart from the evil Anubis (who's actually the real one in charge of the system-lords, though he doesn't seem to be a real Goa'uld, more a ghosty-type of thing. So, Baal went back to O’Neill to convince him to stop Anubis. I think everybody will agree: a plotline that would make Shakespeare jealous. And then:

TO BE CONTINUED…

What? Where? Who? Why? I hate that. Everybody is dying or fighting or doing interesting stuff and now I have to wait for another week? Can’t wait. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me!!!!!!

PS Please don’t so I can watch next week.

Posted by Bietje at Wednesday, January 26, 2005 | | Comments

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Don’t dream, it’s over…

What a glorious game. Me, right winger in the Belgian soccer team and kicking some serious arse (nearly got send off for that, actually). Anyway, the crowd is adulating me after my second hat-trick and just as I am making my way passed Henry again, I hear the buzzer… Jaysus, it’s that time again, hey? In the dark and without my glasses, I stumble out of bed and hit my toe on the night cabinet. Some X-rated words vanquish the silence as I tiptoe (on all nine of them) my way to the bathroom. After about five minutes I realise my toothbrush is still in the glass on the counter… Where’s the toilet brush gone though?...
I crawl into the bathtub, breaking another two toes, but then… HEAVEN. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, steaming hot water easing me into the day. Lavish shower gel nourishing my body with amino-nitrate-elements that make my skin glow. Hair repairing, hair-strengthening shampoo (obviously just a hoax…). Oooh, I could stay here for ever. PAF! Who just hit me? Apparently, those weren’t my balls I’d been playing with the last five minutes. That’s the trouble with housemates, they always use the bathroom at the most inconvenient time.
I try to fit both my legs into the same trouser leg several times and after half an hour I’m finally on my way. I open the front door and step in to the refrigerator that is the outside world. As I make my way to the train station on automatic pilot, my eyes start to open slightly. Stinking, roaring flashes pass me by at the speed of light and the little green man takes for ever to appear. The big illuminated snake crawls down the mountain and eventually devours the rat-racers. Four stops later the worm throws us up onto the platform and it’s off to the numbing inevitability of the work floor. The cute blonde from accounting enters my realm and elevator. “Hi, you luscious piece of meat. We’re still on for Chapter 12 of the Kamasutra tonight, are we?” she says. Unfortunately, I’m the only one who hears it. “Can’t talk, love, I have to stare at my computer screen for the next eight hours.” It’s good to have dreams, it’s hell to wake up…

Posted by Bietje at Tuesday, January 25, 2005 | | Comments

Sunday, January 23, 2005

Slippery people

Don't you hate them? Those yellow cones, with a guy breaking his balls, saying (the cone, not the guy): "Caution, wet floor". Or the road sign with the black car crashing spectacularly into the scenery, because it rains. See, I don't get that. We fly to Jupiter shooting pictures of the moon over there, but we cannot invent a surface that doesn't turn into a health-hazard each time two drops of rain got spilled onto it? We can kill with surgical precision from hundreds of miles away, but a given percentage of the worldpopulation sitll breakes all of their limbs every year, because of rain? The best solution we can come up with is a stupid yellow cone? I've busted my balls on three of those cones even when it wasn't raining! You see: we're being screwed. It's a cover-up. It's one and the same company: they make these useless floors and they get extra profit from making those stupid cones too. They even make the casts for your arms and legs! No more, you bastards! I invented a non-slippery-when-wet-floor in my garage yesterday and I'm putting you guys out of business. No hard feelings, OK? Homo homini lupus est and all.

Posted by Bietje at Sunday, January 23, 2005 | | Comments

Friday, January 21, 2005

Neo-con pro-life Christian-fundi's

Pro-lifers. Fundamental Christians. Neo-cons. Basically the same geezers, right? Not very good at making up catchy names and not very consistent in their beliefs either.

For starters they oppose abortion. Let the little shit come out -with one arm, eight fingers, three eyes and half a brain- even though his mother is a crack head, living in a trailer-park, unable to provide for herself, her no-good drunk truck-driving, overweight husband and Billy’s seven brothers and twelve sisters. Ah, well, we’ll always need canon flesh to ship to the Middle-East. And those Muslim-fundi’s have heaps of little mongrels too. Okay, they usually only last one bus-ride, but still…
Neo-cons also oppose euthanasia. Mostly because it is a difficult ancient-Greek word that is foreign to most of them. And anything foreign is automatically evil. Another reason to oppose it, is that George Bush would have been dead for years and Reagan would have died mid-nineties if they backed active euthanasia. They weren’t so reluctant to euthanise JFK though.
Neo-cons find porn repulsive. Well, they can’t really oppose porn, because since Adam and Eve, these guys have obviously had a lot of nookie. And technically Eve was Adam’s daughter as she was made out of his rib. He didn’t mate with anybody, though, he was the only wanker around at the time. Basically, the Almighty One cloned Eve. There you go, that’s the final solution, die Endlösung, if you want. Cloning. No more nasty hanky-panky, you just scrape out some ear-smear into a Petri-dish, send it to the lab and nine months later a perfect replica of your beautiful self will enter this world. You could have loads and sell them on eBay. Why don’t they back that? See, not very consistent.
And if they’re really pro-life, they should be anti-war. Aren’t they the ones who wanted to go to Afghanistan and Iraq? That’s why it’s taking them so long in Iraq: they don’t shoot to kill. It doesn’t go with their pro-life beliefs. They shoot some Iraqi wacko in the leg and they go out of their way to fix the dude up. The guy is back in the trenches in no time. No wonder the Iraqis are so confused.

The Iraqis aren’t the only ones, mind you…

Posted by Bietje at Friday, January 21, 2005 | | Comments

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Sticks and stones...

With this whole Doom-thing I've been putting something on hold for over a week. Bart Vandamme sent me a music-survey that I was supposed to log, so here go. I am going to do this my way, just telling you my four favourite songs of all time and discussing the last song I heard.

Last song I heard this morning was "I love you, goodbye" by Thomas Dolby. From his last album "Astronauts and Heretics" which featured guest-appearences by Eddy Van Halen and Ofrah Haza. It’s a Cajun-style song by the synth-wizzard deploring the loss of his big love… The thunderstorm at the end makes it really haunting, one of his best songs.

Four favourite songs:

-Enjoy the Silence-Depeche Mode
Arguably the best pop song ever recorded. Originally a ballad sung by the band’s songwriter Martin Gore (similar to the Harmonium-remix featured on the maxi-single) it was sped up by Alan Wilder and Martin added the catchy guitar-riff to that. The single reached the number 6 spot in the UK and was voted best single at the Brits in 1990. A remix by Linkin Park made it to number 7 last December. The video by Dutch photographer-cineast Anton Corbijn is also a beauty, featuring lead-singer Dave Gahan wandering around in the Alps, Portugal and Schotland as a king.
-Swan Song-Bruce Hornsby
From his amazing album “Spirit Trail”. Heartbreaking pianoballad. I saw Bruce last November live, and this was the last encore he played. The best piano-player/song writer in the world. And that’s just the way it is.
-Caroline-MC Solaar
Was voted to be one of the 50 best French love-songs ever just a couple of years ago, joining the likes of Jacques Brel, Charles Aznavour and Serge Gainsbourg. Best lyrics ever.
-One more time-Joe Jackson
This could have been any song by Joe, but I particularly remind this one from his concert in the Ancienne Belgique, April 2003. One of his first singles, bursting with energy. Not the best singing voice, but an amazing musician.

Posted by Bietje at Thursday, January 20, 2005 | | Comments

Legions of Doom VIII

And there you have it. I just lost all interest in this story. Bloody Britney portraying the root of all evil? Fuck, those aspirins I've been taking have really messed me up. I had a whole ranting ready, but who cares. I need to cheer up. I'll start popping happy pills tomorrow! And me not finishing the story means that a poor little student doesn't have to buy me a bottle of booze...

Posted by Bietje at Thursday, January 20, 2005 | | Comments

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Legions of Doom VII

Pestilence was living proof that we had powers over each other. He had succumb to his own plague and Death had had no option but to take his life. Once again the Obliviator had worked his evil in the utmost discretion and had promised on Pestilence dying bed: “No, no, no, I will not let you go.”
He ensured that Pestilence’s ghost remained on Earth and that his plague swarmed the Globe. Pestilence had been the Greatest Pretender of us all.
His Marcelleke, his Village People-moustache, his don’t-try-this-at-home-kids teeth. Gave the game away. I saw his little silhouette on the wall.
-“Frederic Bulsara!”
-“Who?”
-“Freddie Mercury, you tit.”
-“Yes my Brothers, I took it upon me to infect half the world including myself with AIDS. I didn’t discriminate in the sack, you know. And I had a jolly good ride too.”
And so the last of Mordor’s Mercenaries was revealed. There was only one Evil that remained concealed.
-“Come children and feel my power!” he roared.
I did feel him alright: smooth legs, tight ass, angelic face…
-”David Beckham!”
-“Euh no, try again, Roland.”
-“Don’t mind if I do.”
-“I can’t take it anymore. You drive me crazy! “shouted Wolfowitz.
-“Houston, we have a problem. The Evil One has a pair of huge knockers, guys. He’s a she!”
Off course, the all sickos suddenly wanted to get in touch with the source of all evil as well, but I felt that was my prerogative. And then all -and I do mean all- was revealed…

Posted by Bietje at Wednesday, January 19, 2005 | | Comments

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Legions of Doom VI

With the arrival of The Master, the storm had calmed down. We heard his footsteps making their way upstairs. We could feel his presence in the darkened sideways, as a ghost, lurking at his victims. He did not speak, which was more frightening than any words he could have uttered. I had the honour to reveal my true identity in His Presence. The open fire cast my long shadow into the room. In the glow, my distinctive features were revealed. My red curly hair, my painted-on smile, my oversized red shoes, my yellow outfit.
-“Mmmmm, I’m loving it,” the Immaculate One roared.
I, Ronald McDonald, showed my true colours to my Brethren for the first time.
-“But, but, … you’re supposed to starve them to death.” Wolfowitz objected.
-“Says who? In this time of plenty, it’s very difficult to starve people to death. It’s way easier to kill them through obesitas. It makes for a slow and agonising death, hitting the bloodstream, the heart and all the other vital organs.”
I could feel the Omnipotent One was pleased with the cunningness of my plan and I had a strange feeling he had a hand in my success. I caught a glimpse of his blond hair, but the rest remained hidden.
-“That only leaves you, Pestilence.” Heston said. “Reveal yourself.”
_”I already came out of the closet at the end of the eighties. I never thought the times could get any darker than that, “ he said. “I perished at the hands of my own plague and Death took me. I remained on Earth as the Invisible Man. The roots of my evil were planted by then.”
Off came the cape. Who could have known…

Posted by Bietje at Tuesday, January 18, 2005 | | Comments

Monday, January 17, 2005

Legions of Doom V

Charlton left his throne and took place right behind his dauphin. War was gazing into the distance through those piercing eyes of his. The foul stench coming out of his ravaged mouth was almost unbearable. His evil hairdo hid part of his Vulcan-like ears and topped of what was one of the freakiest faces you’d ever meet.

-“Paul Wolfowitz?” I stuttered.
-“Woehahaha. Off course. Neo-Conservatism. New World Order. Pax Americana. And those suckers are more than willing to fight for that…”
-“Sorry to burst your bubble there, Paul.” I objected. “But in four years your reign will be over.”
-“You think I will go, just because Dubbaya is out? The Austrian bunny in the hat again, my friends! We’ll change the American constitution and Bob’s our uncle. And everyone knows the Terminator will get three turns. We’ll be back, baby!”

This turn out to be a top-of-the-range Quartet of Doom indeed. I was the next in line to reveal my identity. I could see the disgust in my Brethren’s eyes. Charlton Heston got sick and threw up as if his life depended on it (and frankly it did). Wolfowitz was starting to feel a bit queasy himself. Pestilence hadn’t touched the land I’d prepared but was visibly shaken.

-“How could you? You’ve conquered the world.”
-“Mmmmm.”
-“You’re on every TV-station, on every billboard in every city!”
-“Mmmmm.”

A thunder crack broke the silence and we heard the gates slam shut. The Evil One had arrived.

Posted by Bietje at Monday, January 17, 2005 | | Comments

Saturday, January 15, 2005

Legions of Doom IV

The rain was gushing down, thunder was rolling in the distance. Lightning revealed his bloodshot eyes, laying deep in their sockets. His pale skin, his long grey hair accentuated his ghostly appearance. Death sat himself at the head of the table, poured himself another another cup of coffee and feasted on the lamb I had prepared. My brothers and me began to realise that we were nothing compared to this Evil.

-“Moses?” Pestilence said.
-“No, it’s that guy from Planet of the Apes.” War reacted.
-“Charlton? Charlton Heston. You are Death?” I was stupified.
-“Who else? I’m head of the biggest and most dangerous army in the world, the NRA. Lack of brains and an abundance of firepower. It has death written all over it.”
I tried to get a piece of the lamb, but Death’s voice decreed:
-“You can have that piece of lamb when you can pry it loose from my cold, dead hand.”
All of a sudden it hit me…
-“But, but,… WAR! You knew all along, didn’t you? HE got YOU into the White House. Take of your hood, George. It’s all too obvious!”
A demonic laughter filled the air.
-“That puppet? War? I’m afraid not, Famine.”
Me and my remaining Brother, Pestilence, were puzzled. It had to be George W. Bush. He was the one the NRA had lobbied into the White House. Could there be a more powerful warmonger walking the face of the Earth?
-“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!” “Is that yours, War?”
-“Yep, got a text: Oops, I did it again. Forgot I had an appointment with the hairdressers. Start without me, I’ll catch up.”
-“Who’s it from?” Heston inquired.
-“Check the number. Six times six: it is the number of the Beast. Since when is the Evil One so vain?…”
-“See, you ARE Bush,” I interfered. “Taking the public’s mind of what’s really important, hoping the truth will stay covered and…”
As the cape dropped so did my momentum. This wasn’t another puppet from the Bush-dynasty. This was the Ultimate Warrior…

Posted by Bietje at Saturday, January 15, 2005 | | Comments

Friday, January 14, 2005

Legions of Doom III

The Foul Riders left Dublin, confident they had planted the seeds for the city’s downfall. They spurred their fierce stallions through the Hibernian night, guided only by the light of the Killing Moon. As they crossed the Boyne-river and surged passed the Monasterboice cemetery, Slane Castle appeared on the horizon. This would be their new lair, the epic centre of their evil earthquake.
-“This is where we spend the night? Sweet! Do they have a full Irish breakfast there?” I shouted in anticipation.
-“Heed my words, Famine, there will be no dawn for mankind. The Darkness will rule over these lands and…”
-“Put a sock in it, Death,” Pestilence interrupted. ”The Evil One has sent me a text. He’ll be waiting for us.”
-“Beelzebub has a cell phone?” War questioned.
-“See, you little no-good. That why you need to come to our meetings more often. We haven’t been calling him like that for ages. When was the last time you came to a meeting? When you brought that Austrian to power in Germany, isn’t it? That was seventy years ago, get your act together man.”
The Castle proved to be deserted, no sign of the Unspeakable One.
“We should start without The Master. It’s time to drop the cloaks and reveal our true identity,” I uttered.
“Agreed,” said Death, “It’s time to come out of the closet.”
Along with his cloak fell a deep silence. We were gobsmacked. The wind was howling through the trees, lamenting the faith of human kind. Death had chosen a powerful apocalyptic Apostle indeed…

Posted by Bietje at Friday, January 14, 2005 | | Comments

Thursday, January 13, 2005

Legions of Doom II

The Riders of Doom set out from the West. We drove our horses to the limit, pacing on through Roscommon and Meath, only stopping to raise a couple of villages to the ground and infest Cavan with the plague. By dawn we could see the outskirts of Dublin from the top of the Wicklow Mountains (you know, near Johnny Fox’s). A pale sun was rising over Dublin bay, but still the chill of winter was filling the air. This fair city was the first major obstacle in our quest to world domination. If we could obliterate Dublin, the rest of the world would easily follow. Even during the nineteenth century, when I, Famine, wiped out most of the Irish, Dublin had always been quite resilient. War had a crack at them in 1916, but failed and eventually had to settle for the mundane Belfast in the north. This time we would not let Baile Atha Cliath stand between us and the Day of Reckoning.
-“Behold, the Final Judgement is upon thee,” Death oracled. “We are the Riders of the Apocalypse and we…”
-“Lets get a bite to eat first, Bro’, I’m starving,” I said.
-“You’re always hungry, Famine,” Death snapped.
-“Well, you’re just a pest,” I barked at him.
-“Euh, no, that would be me, guys.”
-“Shut up, Pestilence, or I’ll kill you,” the eldest replied.
-“Now, now, guys. Let’s calm down here. You know we don’t have powers over each other,” the youngest mediated.
-“Screw this,” I said. “I’m going to that pub over there. “The Morgue”. Has a nice ring to it. We can’t start the Final Reckoning on an empty stomach, right?”
-“He’s right, Death,” Pestilence supported me. “And there’s an Old Firm-game on. Celtic plays Rangers in the quarter-final of the Scottish cup. War will want to see that, Catholics playing Protestants. Should be a hoot.”
And in we went. The Morgue in Templeogue, famous for its gorgeous waitresses.
-“I wouldn’t mind going home with her, I think she’s Russian,” I said. “Excuse me miss, could we get some chicken wings over here?”
-“Shut up, the match is starting. Go Rangers,” Pestilence cried. “They’re sure to win with that new Belgian, Buffel.”
-“You think so?” Death mysteriously replied. “I foresee an unexplained cardiac arrest during half time.”
-“You always do that,” moaned Pestilence. “I put my hard earned money on someone and they end up dead. Remember that time I bet on Ayrton Senna?”
-“Yeah, or that time I voted for that guy, Kennedy.”
-“Lay of it, Famine, I did bring Dave Gahan back for you, didn’t I?
-“You’re the biggest scumbag of us all, Death.”
-“Thanks guys, now shut up and lets watch the game, am I right, Famine?”
-“ Mhhh…delici…these…..mhhhh…chick…..burp.”
-“You’re a pig!”
-“Hey, could I fill my stomach here before I return to Ethiopia?
All of a sudden a local Irishman came up to us. He was dressed up in green and white and wasn’t looking too happy.
-”You guys not from around here, are you? What’s with them black cloaks? You Celtic-fans? ”
-“Those wankers?”
Before we knew it a couple of dozen Irish were on top of us, beating us to pulp. For some strange reason, War found it all very amusing…
-“Nice stunt you pulled in there, little one, proving YOU do have powers over us.” I said, wiping the blood from my lips. “Now we’ll have to check CEEFAX to see how the game ended.”

Celtic won 2-1, Sutton and Hartson scored for the Bhoys…

Posted by Bietje at Thursday, January 13, 2005 | | Comments

Wednesday, January 12, 2005

Legions of Doom

The full moon was caressing the silvery rocks that are the Burren, their cold interaction only interrupted by the occasional veil of cloud. “Not enough water to drown a man, no tree to hang him and no soil to burry him in,” the great Oliver Cromwell once said. This bare expanse of limestone is one of the harshest regions on this planet. I love it. I had been riding the deserted planes of Yeats country, leaving the purple Maumturk Mountains to the east. I had left the boggy marshland of Connemara behind me and was now approaching the Cliffs of Moher, our meeting point. North-western winds swept in gales from over the Atlantic, frantically ripping at my black cloak. I held on to my hood, but the icy wind cut straight through my flesh, chilling my bones from the inside out. My trusted stallion puffed out mushrooms of hot air though his wide open nostrils. Me and my Brethren had chosen the raw Western coast of Ireland for sentimental reasons. How we had roamed these lands in the nineteenth century, killing millions and driving out at least as many. This time, we would not settle for less. The four of us had been reeking havoc all over the globe, but now the time had come to join forces and deliver the coup de grace to humankind.
Moments after I arrived at the rendezvous point, a shadow appeared on the horizon. The sound of approaching hooves played out a gloomy requiem with the waves, which were crashing into the rocks some 50 feet beneath me. Soon the shadow transformed into three distinct forms, tree horsemen pacing through the endless night. My eldest Brother, Death, had just returned from south-east Asia, where he had killed hundreds of thousands. A warming-up for what we had planned. Pestilence was right beside him, ready to finish of whoever Death failed to kill. Since the youngest, War, had taken over the White House, the toll had been rising steadily. I rampaged Darfour, but the world did not seem to notice my efforts. The three riders halted beside me. “Greetings, Brethren, tonight the four Horsemen ride again. There will be no dawn for mankind.”

I think I need a girlfriend.

Posted by Bietje at Wednesday, January 12, 2005 | | Comments

Monday, January 10, 2005

Myth becomes legend…
Legend becomes crap

Went to see "Alexander" yesterday. You know, Alexander the Great, only gay in the village, mmmh, right, isn’t it? The man who reigned over an empire where the sun never set and who makes Julius Caesar look like the village fool.
It turned out to be the longest, most agonizing three hours of my existence.
First of all, Alexander was played by Colin Farrell. Now, I like Colin. He used to live in Sandymount, just a few miles down the road. He was born and raised in the shadows of Dublin’s Twin Towers, the exhausts of Dublin’s incinerator, who belch char-grilled Irish waste into the sky with the clockwise precision I would like to see in Dublin’s public transport. Little Colin was lucky to be born with ten toes and ten fingers. Others in his neighbourhood might not have been that lucky. Only thing is that he has a more then healthy appetite for the female species. That should hardly be a cause for mockery, rather than for envy. Dublin’s bravest is rumoured to have mounted more women than horses on the set of the film…
Anyway, back to the movie. The perfect cure for insomnia. Less is more, monsieur Stone. If you can get your point across in two sentences, why use thirty-eight? I love Anthony Hopkins, but you turned him in to an old nagging bore (which he indubitably is). Angelina Jolie also played herself (the crazy bitch), but she could hide her overacting behind the wardrobe she got to wear –actually she couldn’t hide a whole lot behind that wardrobe, wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more.
There were two big battle-scenes which looked like a schoolyard fight compared to the battle for Minas Tirith. Only thing monsieur Stone achieved was to assure John Heinz Kerry a wealthy retirement: I’ve never seen so much ketchup being spilled. I was waiting for Colin to start eating French fries of the Barbarian carcasses.
And I feel very sorry for the gay community. This guy was the biggest queer in history. No fag ever had so many subjects bow down to him (not sure if protocol allowed them to turn their back to their emperor…). I thought gay people expressed their love physically, just like the rest of us. No way, Jose! Gay people only hug and look funny at each other. If, however, they try to conceive an heir, all of a sudden there’s tits all over the screen. Not that I mind, or that I wanted to see a frontal of Alex’s purple wand and his furry bag of magic, but still… If you’re making a biographical movie, be historically correct rather than politically, monsieur Stone. Just because you wouldn’t make any money in the Southern states if we saw some Greek loving. He’s the reason it’s called like that!

Want to know about Alexander? He’s two years old, lives in Ghent and will turn out to be the best Belgian soccer player of all times, urged on by his fame-crazed father and his Nobel-prize winning sister Emma. End of story!

Posted by Bietje at Monday, January 10, 2005 | | Comments

Friday, January 07, 2005

Blowing for Columbine

Yesterday I was on the DART back home. I was reading “Love all people”, the book on Bill Hicks. It was rush hour, so there weren’t too many seats available. I ended up with two crack heads and their lovely spouses. These guys were passing around five doobies between the four of them, whilst gulping down large amounts of pills with J&B. High? Their pupils were so dilated I could see the back of their skulls. Nothing but thin air there. So your man, who’s been hooked on crack since he was in the womb, asks:
“What ya reading?”
“Bill Hicks.”
“He’s that writer, isn’t he? What’s he been up to?”
Oh boy, Bill would have had a field day with you, man. I mean, I can understand how the two working brain cells in that head of yours connect the dots and go: book…person…dingdingding: Writer!
Your claim to knowledge would have been that much more credible if I couldn’t see black holes in your eyes, buddy.
“Euh, no, he’s a comedian. And for the last eleven years, he’s primarily been dead.”
They continued expanding their minds with natural substances as I went to the toilet. I came back wearing my black trench coat and carrying my long rifle. As I blew the first one’s brain out, I felt a slight remorse. All this strawberry yoghurt-like mash on the walls and seats...
Nothing! I blew away everything above his eye-lids and he didn’t even blink.
“Pass me that Dutchie again, Phil, I feel a splitting headache coming on.”
“Like the new hairdo, Neil!”
Damn, I’m trying to better the world here, man, you could at least pretend to co-operate. But then again, you can’t kill the undead with a shotgun. I suppose I'd need to drive a silver spike through their heart or sever their heads from their bodies. A bit to messy for me, I don't like handy work. They weren’t even that more zombie-like than the rest of those comatose rat-racers on the train. It’s hard being a psycho-killer in a world of braindead.

Posted by Bietje at Friday, January 07, 2005 | | Comments

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Dublin Vice

I know Miami Vice sounds more exotic, but as long as I can go to jail because I answer “yes” to the –let’s face it quite stupid- question: “Did you come to assassinate our Supreme Leader, the Envoy of God, George II”, I’m not going to the merry old land of Bush. So Dublin Vice will have to do. No palm trees, no Ferrari’s, no hot chicks in mini skirts. Just bums, needles and dog shit on the pavement.
Anyway. Here’s my vice:
I’m a sucker for music. And even in the days of MP3’s, iPods and Kazaa I only want the real stuff. I spend huge amounts of money on CD’s. Yesterday I went mental at HMV and Tower-records, thanks to the Virtu-compilation I bought on Monday.
If I would have spent the same amount on coke, I would have been as high as a kite for weeks on end. Then again, I might have made great music myself. Seriously. Do you really think John and Paul were sober when they thought they were residing in a brightly coloured vessel that allows you to travel 80.000 leagues beneath the sea? Right then.
But you see, I don’t do drugs. I don’t smoke. I don’t really drink. Id est, I don’t buy alcohol to get pissed all by my self at home. But then again where would be the fun in that? Getting pissed is only fun when you can throw up in public and have half the city -who’s just as drunk as you on any given Sunday (2 am)- mocking you. Or when you can piss against a city landmark (and on your own shoes, off course). Or pick a fight with a perfectly lovable guy because he looked funny at your girlfriend, even though you haven’t had a girlfriend in ages (because you’re a moaning wino).
But I was making what is turning out to be a quite elaborate point on why it is okay for me to spend so much on music.
It’s okay because I want to! It’s my bloody money, isn’t it? If I want to blow it all on music, that’s my problem. And I only spend it on interesting and good music. No Britney for me. Oops, I did it again. What? Got married again, you drunken slut? Westlife? Well, allow ME to be Frank. You five combined have about the same amount off talent as Francis Alberts ingrowing toe-nail. Christina Aguilera? Genie ON the bottle! You’re Satans’ spawn, made great by the one true God in this world: commercialism! That’s the Uber-vice: selling people loads of crap they don’t need. Everything is image, no contents. And we buy it, literaly…

Posted by Bietje at Thursday, January 06, 2005 | | Comments

Requiem for a dream

Yesterday I brought my Spanish class Belgian chocolates. I’m not a very likeable person by nature, you see. I have to buy affection. I bribe people into liking me.
But you see ladies, I’m just like the Belgian chocolates I offer you: a very dark, almost bitter tasting fondant shell. But if you dare to take only the smallest of bites, your taste buds will discover the richest panoply of flavours. Both sour and sweet. The most exotic aromas will caress your tongue and lips and leave you ecstatic. Just one little lick and you’ll be hooked.
You’ll want to wallow yourself in the liquorish caramel that is my love and sprinkle your voluptuous curves with little chunks of my passion. I will cling to your sticky back as a wrapper to a toffee.
You’ll stuff your face, you’ll want the whole box and you won’t even want to share with your best friend. You’ll have to tell her about this amuse bouche off course. Tell, but never share. You’ll be longing for that last drip hanging from the corner of your mouth. And when you come home at night and find your little box of lusciousness missing, you’ll fall to your knees, raise your eyes to the heavens and cry: More! More! More!

And then my alarm went off. Shower. Brush teeth. Tram. Work…

Posted by Bietje at Thursday, January 06, 2005 | | Comments

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Booth(y) call

Ever used one of those photo booths you find in shopping malls? The ones that give you four mug shots for five euro? They’re horribly depressing, aren’t they? I always hope that someone comes out as Superman (or –woman, if you fancy a transsexual superhero), but that never happens. The pictures you get are always too bright and you’re never quite in the centre. And you feel so exposed in those cubicles, hiding behind your curtain as if you’re some pervert doing whatever perverts do in there.
Yesterday, I was in Dun Loaghaire shopping centre and there you had it. Some middle-aged woman came out of this booth (Well, she would have been middle aged if she lives to be 110). Anyway, she gave me the “Oh-my-God-you-saw-that?”-look, as if I caught her during the act. I replied with my “Did-I-ever!”-look, although there might have been a slight hint of “What-are-you-on-about” in my gaze.
Why would you want a picture of yourself, woman? And why do you want to have it taken in a booth? Look at yourself, you’re gigantic. You barely fit in there. Go to a proper photographer, in a building! This woman wasn’t chubby, she was huge. I mean, look-out-Sri-Lanka-she’s-coming-in-and-it’s-gonna-be-so-much-worse-when-this-hits-you-huge. How can people let themselves go like that? It’s just a photo booth, not an Extreme Makeover-booth. Oh, by the way, ten kilos of make-up don’t hide the fact you’re huge. It just stops you from getting into the US. “Excuse me madam, the amount of make up on your nose is considered to be a weapon of mass destruction in this country. I’m afraid it’s a one-way-ticket to Guantanamo Bay for you.”
She stumbled out of the booth, gave a Godzillaesque roar into her cell-phone and disappeared into the crepuscule. I went to Tesco and bought some bread and salmon from the omnipotent British imperialist mega-value bastards, went home, watched Stargate and called it a night. Life can be great at times.

Posted by Bietje at Wednesday, January 05, 2005 | | Comments

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Tu permeTS UN AMI...

de trouver que t'es degueulasse de te moquer des Asiatiques inondés. Cela s'appelle de l'amitié.
But let me reassure you, my friend. When I see a tidal wave hitting the coast of South-East Asia, I'm just as shocked as the next man. But off course, I have to have some sarcastic views on the whole disaster. That's just me, sorry about that. I was just thinking how immune we've become for all the horror in the world. If I see some crying Thai on the telly (Don't cry: if there's one thing you don't need, it's extra water, you stupid fuck) I flick. You're yesterdays news, mate, I'm ready for the next disaster.
This is just what mother Nature has in store for us. Want to help those people, yourself and a couple of future generations? Don't drive cars that do half a mile to the gallon. That would save you from waging wars in the Middle East for that black sticky stuff that is eventually going to be our downfall and for wich we have substitutes anyway. If your industrial plant closes down and sacks half your hillbilly-town, think of billions of tons of CFK's that won't make it to our ozone-layer. "The day after tomorrow" is coming, and it's not by buying fresh air from Siberia we're going to stop it. The whole world was outraged when the US refused to sign Kyoto. Well here's a newsflash: Kyoto is a joke that will not make any difference whatsoever. And what about China and India: once they start producing like the Western countries do (hurray: everybody to the stockmarket!) , it is inevitable that the Chinese and the Indians will want to buy the shit that says: "Made in China/India". Houston, we might have a problem... The shit will hit the fan as hard as a tidal wave hitting Phi Phi Island. Solution? I don't really see one: cross our fingers and pray to God. Not the smiteful God who killed about 200.000 people down there. That God only exists in the Old Testament and most of Americas Southern states. The God I'm talking about is the loving and caring father who gave us free will. Off course he conveniently forgot to give us enough braincells to handle such a powerful tool and so we just fuck everything up and call it progress, science and capitalism (or communism or liberalism).

Oh, and even if we redeem ourselves and miraculously save the environment: Yellowstone is still ticking.

Tick, tack, tick, tack, tick, tack,



BOOM!

Posted by Bietje at Tuesday, January 04, 2005 | | Comments

Resolution time again...

So today I'm back at work and everybody -I do mean everybody- seems to have started a diet. Fair enough, more Belgian chocolate for me. Everybody is running, counting Weight Watcher-points and not smoking. Would you please stop counting, stuff your face and get back to your daily fix of nicotine? It will make the world, my world, a much happier place. You need these things in order to be happy. You are (as am I) a fat, overnurtured, cranky, rich Western pig. So act like one: your ideal diet is about 35% more calories than you actually need. Look at me.
Do I have any New Yearsresolution I want to keep? As if... I don't smoke anyway (except cigars on New Years Eve, thanks Dafke). You think I'm chubby? Live with it, I do. I might do some sports, if I feel like it. And as to eating less: if tomorrow everything tastes like beans in tomato-sauce, I will consider it. But as long as there are oysters, chocolates, salmon, shoarma's at four am, Belgian fries, Guinness, lambfilets, Chateau Lafitte-Monteuil, seafood platters and 16-year old Black Bush to be inserted into my oral opening, it's just not going to happen. I'm a hedonist: I want loads of goodies and I want them now and I don't care if it will cost me about two years of life expectancy: I can afford it because I was born in the northwestern hemisphere! Some doctor will invent me a pill, so I will get those two years in the end anyway!
And now it's time for my 2 o'clock coffee-break and my Kinder Bueno.

Posted by Bietje at Tuesday, January 04, 2005 | | Comments

Monday, January 03, 2005

Torn between two lovers

So I've been to Belgium for about ten days. I came back to the Emerald Isle only yesterday and already I'm torn.

Countries are very much like beautiful women. Ireland for example: young and feisty. Very expensive to maintain, trendy and full of natural beauty and gorgeous features. Buzzing and attracting loads of foreigners. One to show of with.
Belgium on the contrary is mature and calm, loving and comfortable. No luscious curves, no exciting lines. Belgium is the love you leave behind in search of new excitement, but you miss for the rest of your life...

So, I'll stay with my new found love for the moment, but make sure to keep in touch with the old one. I'll visit her every couple of months, we'll get drunk together, I'll make sure to cover all her hotspots, abuse her and leave her like a thief in the night.

Posted by Bietje at Monday, January 03, 2005 | | Comments

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