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It's been a while since I've been happy. Of course, happiness is a very relative term to describe the way you feel. As a matter of fact, I'm not quite sure what happiness means. I looked it up in the dictionary and all I got was vague descriptions obviously written by somebody who had no idea what the fuck they were talking about:

adj. hap·pi·er, hap·pi·est

1. Characterized by good luck; fortunate.
2. Enjoying, showing, or marked by pleasure, satisfaction, or joy.
3. Being especially well-adapted; felicitous: a happy turn of phrase.
4. Cheerful; willing: happy to help.

None of the above descriptions have any bearing on me and what exactly does felicitous mean? If you watch "felicity" you'll be happy? I always suspected that there is something sinister behind the popularity of that particular television show, but really now, attain happiness through watching some talentless ginger bimbo whine about being protein intolerant and now she can't suck dick like the whore she was spawned to be? I think not. Give me anguish and suicidal tendencies any day in lieu of having to sit through another minute of young adult orientated programming.

So after I established that I wasted a hundred bucks on a dictionary and that the entire english language is built on lies cobbled together by Freemasons and Steely Dan fans I had to somehow establish if I am truly happy and if so, why?

The answer came in a fit of boredom. See, I realised that happiness is not some term that can be described in a book or by words. If I change the name of happiness to crappiness or schlibabelnessness does it take away the feeling you have within you? No, it doesn't. So I delved into this feeling, investigating it. Extracting information and I realised that happiness is just that feeling you get when you have come to accept that your stinking life is going nowhere and all those ideals you harboured as a youngster have not even come close to blooming; you know, the "I'm going to make a difference" or "I will use my talents to create beauty" hogwash that most kids who took much acid adhere to. And you realise you're just as much a termite and failure as everyone else BUT you simply do not give a fat fuck. Happiness is indifference. Happiness is: "Hey, so I'm working for the clampdown but at least I get to buy beer, porno and some recreational substances every now and then to aneathetize me some more so all is good and besides I'm too old and too tired to actually REALLY do something about the state of the world so instead I'll start a website and maybe update it every now and then when some major event rocks the world and kills at least 5000 people otherwise it's not really newsworthy" That's happiness in a nutshell.

So why am I carrying on about happiness? Simple. See, I've been getting a lot of comments from people around me, about me, lately. Stuff like:" You're unassertive, you're a lousy friend, you're a bad drunk and immature or surely you must know what KIND of feta cheese you would like to purchase with that fine paycheque you deposited this morning". Well, no, feta cheese is feta cheese is feta cheese. Am I supposed to form an opinion on food? I eat, I shit, I live another day. The end. I believe there is way too much fucking choice available to people and that choice is directly proportionate to the amount of arseholes that sprout up everywhere in the world. You know the kind:"I can't believe you still use brand x feta! You must get Woolies feta, it's divine and ORGANIC and worth the slightly inflated purchase price!" Substitute the word feta with ANYTHING and if you have heard that phrase before you are dealing with bona fide arsehole with too much money and too little everything else. I'm pretty sure the local street dwelling urban cash crippled person's only experience with feta has been when he or she sifted through your dumpster, took one look at it and tossed it away in search of some REAL food. Feta, whatever.

And a lousy friend? Of course I'm a lousy friend. All friends are lousy people, it's just the degree of lousyness that differs. Lousy people stick together and the collective name for a herd of lousy people is "friends". Remember that lousy TV show called "Friends"? Christ. Another piece of civilization that should be stored away in the big warehouse in Texas with those alien bodies from Roswell and left to rot so the human heritage cannot be tainted by such shit. But the show did explain the idea of friendship. It's all about having enough dirt on somebody else so that you make them completely dependent on you in the hope that they do not open the closet and allow the skeletons to come tumbling down. I have many friends and that means I've done a shitload of stupid shit in my life. I have one BIG skeleton in my closet that nobody knows about though but I'm saving that for marriage. Lousy friend? Why thank you, you're pretty lousy yourself, let's go boozing.

But you know what, none of these comments even bother me. Because I'm happy! You're wasting your breath on me bubba because I'm right and you're wrong and I fucked your sister and she was a lousy lay but gave a fantastic rimjob.

But immature!? I'm not immature? What the hell is immature? Let's ask the ENGLISH language for guidance:

1. Not fully grown or developed.
2. Marked by or suggesting a lack of normal maturity: silly, immature behavior.

Well, I'm not fully grown. That's for sure, and if I am I got a raw deal but it won't bother me because I'm still basking in the sunshine of happiness. If I continue basking at this rate I'll be looking like a lobster soon but what the hell, over-indulgence is my middle name and excess is the path to enlightenment. But I think that when the word "immature" is used with "you are" and the "you" in question is in fact "me", the context of word usage changes and is descriptive of my personality and/or behavioural patterns. Now, I don't really find anything wrong with my behaviour because I'm the posterboy of perfection and according to prophecy I have a delightful and mischievous yet playful personality that most people can only dream of having. So why will people still INSIST on calling me immature. The answer my friend came blowin' in the wind. Sex. It seems that every dignified mature human being gets that title, MATURE, once they have written an opinion piece on THEIR sex life and shared it with everyone in a 5 million mile radius which is most likely why those Roswell aliens mentioned above came here too fry the human race to hemoglobulous jelly. They should have never stopped off at that cantina in Mexico though. Lousy little green drunks. Anyway... train of thought. Yes, so I've never actually written an opinion piece on my sex life. I've written about my lack of sex life, which I personally find much more entertaining but that is probably because I'm immature and a premature ejaculator. But no sex stories from own experience. I never really felt the need to and after seeing that godawful "Sex in the City" on late night TV I seriously considered becoming a monk in a desperate attempt to flee the emancipated female mind. Christ ladies. You're free! Now shut the fuck up! I really have absolutely NO interest in the size of your clitoris or the moans you make unless I am the humper and then I would STILL prefer NOT to read it in tomorrows edition of the weekly liberal newspaper. But I reckon I'm simply not vain enough to praise my own bedridden prowess and my sense of pride has definitely not been misplaced enough for me to actually find the courage to write about the second state of my penis. I dunno. I guess I just don't find myself sexy enough to write about ME fucking. As a matter of fact every time I imagine my "oh" face I get shivers down my spine and reach for a steak knife AND Lorena Bobbit's phone number. So it is doubtful that the word "mature" will ever be bestowed on me and it is certainly not because I'm a prude, hell no, it's mostly just because I have a mirror.

I guess all I actually wanted to say was, hey I'm an unassertive loser and I'm happy if happy meant having butter on your toast. No wait. If happy meant having a beefy meat and vegetable extract on your toast. In the words of the immortal Jim Goad: "Oh, and if anyone has a problem with the fact that I've been happy lately, I'm going to smash their fucking face in."


I am so fucking happy I can beat myself with a stick
Sticks: Is there anything they can't do?
Argh. I'm fucking hungry and I can't walk
All I have in life are tazos and a massive collection of disease inducing condoms.

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