Skip navigation

Category Archives: Helepolis

Helepolis’ shit.

(Dedicated to my closest insane person, Helepolis.)

I am the very model of a uncouth jackfuck lunatic.
I’ve studied arguments and so my style is quite pedantic.
I know the ilk of sharpened blades, and with my hoard I am fickle.
I could seperate, by rote, each of your atria from ventricle.

I’m very well acquainted, too, with misdirection and of shtick
And while I’m fairy beefy, I am anything but generic.
I’m very skilled in mining, and at skinning I am well prepared…
I know myriads of reasons why I’m still quite visually impaired.

He knows myriads of reasons why he’s still quite visually impaired.
He knows myriads of reasons why he’s still quite visually impaired.
He knows myriads of reasons why he’s still quite visually impaired.

Although I rarely can find time to plunge into this sarcastic well,
I’m quite adept at hardcore runs; Helepolis in K O L.
Good luck in following my great meandering linguistic string.
With Ebony and Ivory, I am the true Stoner Pimp King.
Good luck in following his great meandering linguistic string.
With Ebony and Ivory, he is the true Stoner Pimpin’ Pimpin’ King.

I’m unitimidated to play Pokemon with much chutzpah
Then assemble half a dozen that are twice as strong as Rayquaza
If you claim there is no such thing, I’ll hasten to your words impugn,
Go fuck your single-typing rules, I will be Badass-Flying soon.
I’ve read a vast compendium of RTS and RPG,
My reading rate is more than great, and you’ve no hope of catching me.
Then I’ll define a book of myths, you’re going to see I am the king…
I’ll teach you scores of Manticores, ‘cuz I know damn near everything.

He’ll teach you scores of Manticores, ‘cuz he knows damn near everything.
He’ll teach you scores of Manticores, ‘cuz he knows damn near everything.
He’ll teach you scores of Manticores, ‘cuz he knows damn near every-every-thing.

Then I can rhyme off lyrics like a veritable database,
Beam them straight into your skull like a satellite from outer-space.
In short, your boasts and counterpoints are nothing more than babbling,
With Ebony and Ivory, I am the true Stoner Pimp King.
In short, your boasts and counterpoints are nothing more than babbling,
With Ebony and Ivory, he is the true Stoner Pimpin’ Pimpin’ King.

In fact, when I know what is meant “insular” and “bellicose”
When I can tell at sight a pompous dickhead being quite verbose.
When such affairs as bloggings and speed runs aren’t such non-sense,
And when I know precisely what is meant by “full-time attendance”
When I possess the patience to deal with people who’re fucking nuts
And disregard retweeting about the multitude of the Caf-sluts.
In short when I have referenced the work Transmetropolitan…
Ah, I’ve got it!
I hate this goddamn city and I couldn’t stand to leave a-gain.

He hates this goddamn city and he couldn’t stand to leave again.
He hates this goddamn city and he couldn’t stand to leave again.
He hates this goddamn city and he couldn’t stand to leave again.

For my article-type writing, though I’m wordy and also boundless,
Hasn’t yet seen the quantity I want, but I digress.
I’ll sing this song until the time that I become more baffling.
With Ebony and Ivory, I am the true Stoner Pimp King.
He’ll sing this song until the time that he becomes more baffling.
With Ebony and Ivory, he is the true Stoner Pimpin’ Pimpin’ King.

And know that I’ve introduced myself, I’d like to have some idea of what’s going on…


As anyone who’s been speaking to me knows, these past 2 weeks have been a never ending avalanche of bullshit and chips. But they’re coming to an end, and I’m relieved. But at the same time, I find myself wondering…now what?

Easter weekend, my mother suffered a heart attack (her second, but 5ish years later). This sucked pretty bad, if I can be allowed to make a massive understatement. The stress it put me and my family under was ridiculous, and though she’s since recovered and been released, it’s yet another wonderful reminder my mortality, and that of those I love. I’m supposed to be leaving the country for 2 weeks at the end of the month, and I find myself not entirely sure I how feel about doing so. Because I can’t have nice things, apparently.

And then, following right quick on the heels of that whole shebang, was my exams. Now, exams are generally a stressful time for anyone who’s in school, but I dare say they might have had more riding on them for me than they do for Joe Blow in University.

I, due to a couple previous years where I went about things rather poorly, am hovering rather uncomfortably on the precipice that is a GPA under 1.7 whilst on academic probation. What this means, for those of you out of the loop, is that if I were to not perform well enough in my courses, I would face a definite, real risk of expulsion from this fine academic institution. So, where a number of people are worried about impressing, or perhaps maintaining scholarships, my head is literally on the chopping block regarding my continued attendance to this school.

Because I absolutely need more stress. thats what I need. Thanks guys. Really. Means a lot. Cocksuckers.

However, throughout all this load of bullshit, there’s been one saving grace. At the risk of sounding ludicrously soft, this year I have been graced with a  wonderful load of people putting up with my bullshit. And it is for this reason, more or less, that I, for once, actually studied for my exams this year. So, any SMU students who read this and were hoping I wouldn’t be coming back: blame them. They are what make this useless goddamn blemish on the cityscape worth my time, and they’re why I hang the hell around.

But, I started this article, if you can call it that, with mention of how I am unsure how to proceed next, and I have sufficient attention span to return to that point, surprisingly. I find myself in an odd situation. The main people I want to be around are all here, but I’m forced to leave. I can’t find gainful employment, because I intend to leave the country for 14 days at an as of yet undetermined time within the next month. I would love to spend the next however long doing little else but going to the gym and bumming around, but I won’t have a gym membership back home.

So, what the fuck do I do with myself? I’m hilariously in debt, on the cusp of a new level of physical fitness, but restrained from gainful advancement in any sense by circumstances largely beyond my control. How wonderful.

If it weren’t for the fact that my ankle is about as functional as a Ross rifle and a Ford Edsel put together, I would like very much to just spend a lot of a time this summer running and climbing and suchlike, getting into shape, and likely up to mischief. But thats not an option.

I, for once, hope to have done well on my exams, but I am still doomed to way more goddamn time spent on this degree then is morally correct.

And I can’t get a job yet because I’d probably be leaving the country around the time I was meant to start.

So, I’m in a sort of a “Where do I go from here?” Position. But…you know…for once, maybe I can look at the bright side. I realize anyone who reads this expects nothing but endless bile and anger, but sometimes, very very rarely, I’m just not pissed.

My mothers alive, and well. I have a wonderful group of friends, despite being a huge douchenozzle. Sometimes the event you didn’t think was possible, the most unlikely of all outcomes, is the one you get. And sometimes it’s good. And you know what? This time…things turned out better than expected.

You know, there’s something I’ve never understood. (And shut the fuck up before you say “morals and decency?”)

When people say “I don’t like who I am when I’m drunk”, it confuses the hell out of me. Something doesn’t follow. The way I see it…who you are when you’re drunk is the same damn person you are when you’re sober. Maybe you’re a little bit gigglier, maybe you fall down. But nothing in liquor changes the fundamentals of your personality.

What liquor DOES do, and what generally causes the problems, (besides making you puke fun colours, of course), is that it removes your inhibitions. And this is what some people have problems with. Inhibitions are a scary thing when all of a sudden they’re gone, and some people can’t cope with it.

But the thing is, I’ve never known someone who legitimately did something something drunk they’d never even consider doing sober. Sure, maybe they would have stopped themselves, maybe they would have friends talk themselves out of it. But, as is sometimes say, “Drunken words are sober thoughts”.

If you get piss-loaded, and punch some cocksucker at the bar out, you probably either already had a problem with them, or alternatively, if it was a stranger (cause that happens), its probably just that you already had your knickers in a knot about something or other, and he was just the guy who cut in front of you in line at the exact wrong moment.

And then, of course, you get those who get all sauced up and go fuck whoever happens to be the first one who smiles at them (or, to a lesser degree, they make out with someone, or what have you). This can cause a whole lot of trouble…but like I’ve said, I’ve never met a single person (and I know a lot of drinkers) who hadn’t expressed some sort of attraction to whatever individual, or action, they ended up doing, when they were sober.

So, it boils down to this…I can see how, perhaps, a friend, especially a slightly more morally upright friend, might not like who their friends are when they’re drunk. It happens quite a bit with the friends who don’t know me that well…I drink, and they feel like I’ve somehow changed.

But the thing is, I haven’t. No one changes that much, fundamentally. Perhaps you don’t like how the other person is…thats one thing. But if you personally dislike who you are when you’re drunk…well, then you have some issues to deal with. Alcohol isn’t a magic substance, it just makes you more wont to do what you might not otherwise have done.

But if the image of you that has been built up, by yourself, or by anyone else, is so damn dependent on a carefully structured skeleton of inhibitions and things that hold you back, that the moment you act on your impulses you can’t stand yourself…maybe your issues run deeper than just what the liquor unlocks.

When I meet someone new, I personally love seeing them drunk the first time…you can tell a lot, in my opinion, by how a person acts when all of a sudden the rules are relaxed. But you need to be careful…after all, Bacchus has drowned more men than Neptune.

Twice, in the last hour or so, someone told me I should just cheer up. “Be happy”, they tell me. “Cheer up, think happy thoughts”

I’d love to. Really I would. I don’t, as a rule, wake up in the goddamn morning, just itching to be miserable. That is not my goal. I’m usually trying to be happy, or, if nothing else, just coast along on a wave of mutil…er, indifference. Unfortunately, shit just doesn’t fly like that.

Long story short, I find it really goddamn hard to just take good stuff that happens at face value, and roll with it. I’m a bitter, jaded, angry individual, who just can’t easily find joy in the little things unless I’m already in a damn good mood.  I’ve seen a lot of crap go awry, both for myself and other people around me. It’s way easier than I’d really like for me to look at some wonderful event or happening, and within moments pick it apart, and imagine quite vividly, how, when, and/or why its going to fall apart and leave me just as miserable as I was beforehand.

I don’t particularly ENJOY being like this. But I’ve gotten used to it. Sometimes, I’ll go a fairly long period and be completely content the whole time, and it makes me antsy. Its terrible, really. But I’m so used to things going wrong that I just expect it. I treat every stretch of happiness for myself and those around me as if its the calm before some terrible storm, and that makes it a bit tricky to truly appreciate whatever it is that’s going right. And the worst part is the knowledge that doing this probably just hastens the speed with which shit goes full retard.

And so, I’m stuck with quite the conundrum. I can do whatever it is that would make me happy, pursue good events, whatever the fuck. But the whole time it is tainted by a niggling feeling that whatever I’m doing won’t really make me happy. That I’ll just be more goddamn miserable at the end of the whole shebang, and maybe I shouldn’t even try. And that’s a load of crap, cause if I never try, I’ll never be fucking happy at all. But it certainly doesn’t make it any easier.

I’ve got various friends who’ve dealt with huge tons of shit, and they’ve got their own way of dealing with them. I have friends who are religious, and have faith. They deal with the things in their lives backed by knowledge of a higher power, supporting them, who loves them, and helps them. I am somewhat envious of their ability to put that sort of faith in something, but I cannot do it.

I have other friends who have said they’ve seen how bad things can get, and so they just know things are getting better overall. They’ve seen close to the bottom, and because of it, they can appreciate not being there anymore. I can’t do that either. I know I’ve never even come close to the bottom, and I know it’s still there, waiting for me to have one particularly bad day.

So, I’m left to my own devices, trying with every good thing that happens to get my mind to shut the fuck up, and let me enjoy it. It doesn’t work that well. But maybe it will someday. Until then, all I can continue to do is just press on. I don’t stop and smell the roses, I’ve been pricked too many times, and seen too many wilting flowers. But I’ll admire them as I walk by. I’ll smile for a moment at the beauty of the bush, maybe at someone who is themselves stopping and smelling them. But then I’ll keep going. All I can do for now. But it could be worse. Could be better…but it could be worse.

It is a curious thing, looking at which words society has deemed inappropriate, and which it has not. When you really examine it, it’s a pretty funny sign of the evolution of language and society.

For instance, I swear…a lot. I use it both to shock, and to get my point across. And one day, one of my (female) friends, who generally takes my swearing in stride, was completely flabbergasted when I described a certain someone as an ‘insufferable cunt’. She asked if I could not have picked a different word, especially to describe who I was indeed describing.

Short answer: No, fuck you

Long answer: I am well aware certain words get a rise out of certain people, and occasionally you get people who are largely inured to the bulk of swearing, and you just need to go that extra mile. If I’m swearing to express my anger, hatred, or displeasure regarding a certain situation, I am not going to censor myself for the tender ears around me, with few exceptions. If possible, I will pick whatever words are guaranteed to get the biggest rise in the intended fashion. That’s what the words are for.

When you look at where most extant swear words derived from, it’s obvious the initial reason for their creation was to shock and offend. The most severe come from sexual terms, religion, or insulting ones family.

So yeah, that’s the long and the short of it. I’m sure there’s people out there who take offense to my swearing. Those people should realize I don’t give two tugs of a dead dogs cock about their opinion, because if I did, I would have curbed my swearing to begin with. I swear to get a point across. If you’ve read this far, chances are it worked.

Fucking deal with it.

I have 3 tattoos. And all the fuck time I get all sorts of ludicrous goddamn questions about them, as I’m sure anyone with any tattoo does. And sometimes it drives me nuts.

The one that gets the least questions is on the back of my shoulder, a piece of music staff with the thespian happy/sad masks over it. I was a bit of a drama kid, as anyone who knows me knows, so that shit shouldn’t surprise anyone. It makes perfect fucking sense.

Secondly, I’ve got a line from Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth‘ on my right upper arm. It says

‘Angels are bright still,

though the brightest fell’

There was more to that line, but unfortunately it wouldn’t fit. For those unfamiliar, the rest is ‘though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, yet grace must still look so. I’ve had a fair number of questions about that, frequently from vapid cunts who haven’t got the slightest goddamn idea what its trying to say. I am loathe to explain it in full here, but basically, it’s ‘shit may suck, but its not fucked completely. Some shit doesn’t suck’.

I may have just nominated myself for the ‘least graceful rephrasing of Shakespeare ever’ award, if such a thing exists.

My last tattoo, and the one that really confuses the unenlightened cocksuckers, is a dirty great fucking stylized spider, all in black, up on my shoulder. Some people think its from Spiderman, some are just totally fucking confused, especially given my total hatred of the fucking arachnids themselves. But I hope that one day I’ll meet someone who will see that, and my triclopic yellow smily face button(which gets just as many fucking questions), and recognise it as referencing Warren Ellis’ Transmetropolitan.

Yeah, its a fucking comic, grow up, I don’t care. It’s a great story, with a great character. Spider Jerusalem is a character who did apparently whatever the fuck he wanted, but at the same time, always had a purpose he was serving. Despite being a misanthropic drug riddled son of a bitch, with (eventually) a terminal illness, he pursued a noble cause with what you could call an unhealthy devotion, and he did what the fuck he had to do, to do what was right. He stayed true to himself and to his cause, and he came out on top in the end.

Its not exactly presented as the most enlightening story, but the message is there. Spider Jerusalem is not an icon I hope to someday emulate…it is not a personality which would function in the real goddamn world, and his habits would get you killed.

But I can look to my right and see that maybe shit ain’t that bad. I can look to my left and see that sometimes you have to do some fucked up shit to do what needs be done. I’ve got a pin on my shirt reminding me where I came from, and I’ve got something on my back so I’ll never be able to forget what I loved, or used to love.

So, for fucks sakes, I am never explaining my goddamn tattoos again. Seriously. I’m going to bed.

Warren Ellis' Spider Jerusalem

Fuck you all, I'm going to bed

*Normally I’d say fuck explanation, but this is just too goddamned nuts. No, I wasn’t on drugs, but I’d had nearly no sleep, and been very drunk, and then spent a day wired against reason. So yeah.*

This is total madness. If you had asked me what insanity was like before this moment, I wouldn’t have been sure. But now I know.

I have every reason to be having the worse day ever. I had golden, sky touching plans, that came crashing down. I had my age in liquid ounces of alcohol, and 3 hours sleep. And I have never felt so wonderfully energetic.

Total fucking madness.

I used to get a rush like this occasions, when I’d spent several days drunk, sleep deprived, and miserable. Didn’t make any goddamn sense then, either.

I just don’t even know what to say. This is madness. I’m in constant motion, just in case it fades. My leg is bouncing like I’m activating Gear Second. Nothing about this makes any sense.

I feel fucking wonderful.

I don’t care that my marks are mediocre, or that I’m so horny I could have sex for days. I feel like I should stay inside because my mere presence might cause women to orgasm. I just don’t know what to do with this. Its completely insane