Turning pro in less than 362 days!

Hopefully turning pro in less than six thousand three hundred and eighty nine days!

Friday, 27 May 2011

Stop Writing Scripts and Start Making Movies

Have you recently read a scriptwriting book, only to go to the cinema and be unbelievably confused by what you’ve seen? Then you’re probably Greek and going to the cinema to learn English.

That was a joke –I’ve still just finished writing a sitcom, so I’m probably on some kind of come down. I certainly snapped at the Jevovah Witnesses this morning. But you can’t choose your housemates. Well you can, but I can’t. Anyway, back to the paradigm stuff.

Are you getting the impression that all these courses, and books, and workshops, and events, and websites, and seminars and all things written by these fucking script readers and ‘ gurus’ are specifically designed to stop you succeeding?

In much the same way that the government laces tap water with fluoride, and uranium 234, to reduce our natural thought process, so the so called experts are lacing their advice with red herrings, dead ends and bullshit. I should know, I’ve just wasted 60 quid on a script review by someone very well respected in the Leamington Spa area. And for what? To find out that he understands fuck all, except, like some felching owl, how to regurgitate some waffly bumjuice he’s got from somewhere.

It’s Darwinism, my friend. Actually, I can say friends, I’ve got five followers now - that sounds so much better. It’s an inside job. It works in a similar way to this hypothetical and, in some ways unfortunately misogynistic, set up. Please appreciate that the following does not reflect my views, or the way I consider men or women, it’s just the first thing that came to me, with a view to proving my point.

Imagine that you are a man and that you are heterosexual. You may well have quite liked the look of the odd man, and sometimes, when you’re watching smut or something, you may get a bit confused about how you feel, but for the purposes of this exercise you are not gay. Not that those things make you gay. And not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. I myself love gays. In a platonic sense. Especially the height of their shorts. I must admit though, I do shudder when I imagine the Valhalla type rectum that must accompany the face of a promiscuous homosexual pensioner, as he penetrates the post office for pranks and parcels.  If I was gay I would curse the rectum for having none of the continual elasticity of the vagina. Which is odd, don’t you think, considering how much more often you poo than give birth?

Anyway, imagine you are a man. Then imagine that across the entire world there are only a few thousand pretty women, hidden away in ostentatious castles, each of which will only bed one man once in a year, in order to produce a baby. Most of these women are in America - in the U.K. there’s only one hundred of them. Every other woman on Earth is a total minger (think of a baboon’s backside with a cold, grey eye embedded in each butt-cheek). So, there’s going to be a lot of, literally, stiff competition to book a slot with some hot stuff.

As a result, the world has become infested with haughty pricks giving advice on how best to win one of these hallowed bed notches. They have become bloated from the extortionate fees they are charging for their advice, and from the shit, bile and gas they are backing up. Most, if not all of these tiresome bell-ends have fucked mingers, in the hope that this will give them the air of confidence, when talking about the ways of women. The world is littered with chinless, glazed eyed children, spawned by these ill-considered copulations.

Mind you, some of their advice is sound – you have to apply for first class coitus by taking a picture of your nob and sending it to one of the secret strongholds. And it has to be a polaroid. Any other type of photo will automatically be put straight into the bin. But then they get ahead of themselves -your nob has to be a specific size, if its too big or too small it will be laughed at, all love making must happen in three stages, if you don’t make her cum in the first ten minutes, forget it, you’re out the door, don’t bring a vibrator in at the end that you haven’t previously utilized to make her climax or the orgasm will be dissatisfying, and if your cum doesn’t contain key ingredients it’s unlikely to lead to fertilization. So the poor men in this world are frantically busying themselves with exercises and counter-intuitive diets. And the children that are born are homogenized, because it’s only a certain type of bloke that passes the tests and gets in to the castle. The gene pool is stagnating, and it’s all the fault of these bloody idiots!

Except that now the beautiful women are smuggling different , interesting men that aren’t scared to use their hands and tongues at the same time, up into their cloistered cloisters and riding them ‘til they’re issuing nothing but dust and rhetoric, yet the bloated tools are still scampering around, feeding themselves with forked tongues.

So, my advice is to find a minger with a good heart, and an outlook similar to yours and fuck! Fuck in every way you can possibly imagine, with every protrusion and orifice you can muster, and then some. Ok, maybe the first couple of kids might be mingers, but they will be mingers born with love in their hearts, and every so often mingers fuck and out pops a princess. And all princesses belong in castles.

No comments:

Post a Comment