Until you hang upon such a cross, you won't know a thing about laughter or loss...and you don't believe me now, but you will...you will, you wil you will you will...you will, you will - Titus Andronicus

Hey All, Best Read This First:

reetings and a warm welcome to my blog.

First things first

This blog contains words and references offensive to those who never made it through the maturation process.

The intellectually and psychologically impaired will find nothing here to enjoy.

If this applies to you, dear reader, you're welcome, and strongly encouraged to leave now. No hard feelings on my part.

I'm trying to make this clear to the 'boo hoo brigade". If you CANNOT grasp this simple concept. This page is NOT FOR YOU


*PS: I'm pro Palestinian, pro animal rights in a way that pisses many people off. You should consider fucking off now if you object to this kind of thing.

Cheers Kiddies.


PS This blog is not really fit for human consumption, it's best read as it was written, drunk on vodka or otherwise high as a kite...Enjoy...


One Amnesiac, and it's a Wonderful World!

Oh gosh, what a piece of self indulgent shit that last post was.

Dear Reader, I beg your indulgence, it's hard to feel anything other than miserable when my head hurts, Cunta just fucked away my entire weekend and I had to spend time being fussed over by medical people, I just don't like them, or the charnel houses that employ them. People who creep around body parts...ugh, creeps me out.

My head still aches rather badly (yes yes, have taken pain medication), I could hit up but I would rather pace myself a little this time.

The best never fail mood enhancer that works for me when I'm extremely low is listening to Radiohead. I rarely ever feel low, in an emotional boo hoo sense, but when I do, I simply put on a RH cd and my head is again restored to order.

It's ironic because last week I read (how reliable this is, I don't know) that Radiohead were statistically the 2nd most likely band people would commit suicide while listening to. Works totally opposite with me.

Pieces of art like these remind us that the whole world isn't subordinated to the bland homogenizing meaninglessness of the commercial imperative. Yes, this kind of thing means that much to me. (Gosh us commies are a bore aren't we?!)

I'm now listening to Radiohead's "Amnesiac" CD, I feel fine. I'm even wondering if it wouldn't be better to flush the hit I'm saving for later down the plug hole.

Anyway, the point is, although I felt miserable when I posted the last post, I feel fine now.

Art is powerful, the revolting popular stuff dulls our senses and corrupts out taste. The stuff that takes risks, and unashamedly expresses the truth about ourselves may not be pretty, but it can set us free from the intellectually deadening and mind numbing safety of the ordinary.

I think originality is often oppressed by popular culture. What oppresses you, even if the burden seems barely noticeable at first, ultimately depresses and kills you spiritually and intellectually.

That's what I think anyway. Miles away from Cunta's fists, my mind infused with the challenging sanity of Amnesiac... my little world is restored to peace and safety.


I Survived Cunta's Grand Guignol

Two days ago, Mutti put me in hospital, it wasn't a concerted beating, those belong to the good old days. How I remember them. (Ich hau dich z'am bis die Blut ober rint - it's Viennese dialect for : 'I'll beat you to a heap till the blood pours off you". It was no empty threat)

The story begins with my being half an hour late in meeting Cunta, enraged, she back handed me so hard (at the airport)I fell, naturally, I was a little stunned, my eye is still almost swollen shut. It stings.

Anyway, that broke the ice and set the mood for the weekend, the rest of it was spent in wary and resentful silence (it's a well known fact here I take things far too seriously, so, well, you know, must have been all my fault. Naturally)

I finally told her quietly, without fuss or drama, that I was moving soon, I won't go into the consquent screaming and insults. Suffice it to say, it went down a treat.

Finally the inch by inch evisceration of my personality reached it's inevitable apotheosis and ultimately, it's denouement. It was time for Cunta to leave, I had a few more hours before check out, so I thought I would gather myself together with a warm bath and a hit planned for afterwards.
As I am running the water, watching the clear diaphanous stuff splash onto pure white, Cunta comes screeching back at my hotel door, she doesn't demand entry, but she does let those motherfucker jet engine lungs rape all eardrums in near vicinity. It was less embarrassing just to open the fucking door.

Before I did, I had enough presence of mind to conceal the paraphernalia necessary to my addiction. I know the score. Cunta pushes in and announces that if I leave, I'm out of the will, (it's substantial) and that she will cut off the money supply, I tell her (truthfully) that I don't fucking care, do whatever the fuck you want, I'm glad to be finally free of you... and so on. I'll always get by.

Cunta, enraged, lands her fist in my face again, right on the bruise, oh Christ it fucking hurt. Mercifully, that's all I remember, because I slipped in the bathroom and my head cracked against the sink and I lost consciousness.

I awoke in hospital, I told them I was addicted to heroin (I had the track marks to prove it) and was consequently clumsy, I was always falling down. Metaphorically, I suppose, this has some truth. I know they weren't quite convinced, but I stood my ground.

I have a shaved part of my head with 9 stitches and an eye that can barely open courtesy of Cunta. Do I feel resentful? Bitter? No. Finally I'm convinced of my abandonment by Cunta, (I'm thick as two planks, as I freely admit to anyone, it's taken me a lifetime to see that there's nothing to hang on to anymore there. Vati ist tod. So I move on to the one who truly loves me.

You know Battered Child's Syndrome? (I'm no longer a child of course, but I've had a lifelong of conditioning to that state of mind, Cunta knows her stuff) these children remain loyal to their abusers, and really, she's an old (albeit tough) woman. While I can, and will, walk away, she remains imprisoned within with the life she has made, and was landed with. The upshot of all this is, I'm trying to explain why I felt no passion for revenge, she's an old, sick woman, and a sick fuck. I may have "learned helplessness", but I never put anyone in hospital; and I can walk away. I don't feel so bad.

The Epilogue? I don't care anymore. My fear and suspicion of people is confirmed for once and for all. I want to quote some words from one of my favourite songs:

"The deeper you stick it in your vein, the deeper the thoughts: "There's no more pain"
I'm in Heaven, I'm a God,
I'm everywhere, I feel so hot
It's not a habit, it's cool,
I feel alive
If you don't have it, you're on the Other Side...
I'm not an addict
Maybe that's a lie?

It's over now,
I'm cold, alone
I'm just a person on my own
Nothing means a thing to me
Hell, nothing means a thing to me...

Who fucking cares anyway.

PS: please don't anyone come on my dms offering advice or concern. I write this blog to get this shit out of my system, not to relive it with others later. I write it to forget. I mean it, I don't want to fucking hear it.

PPS: Heroin in it's 'white' form (which is all I use) actually does very little damage to the body, the major drawback of it is, eventually your receptors become used to it and more and more of it is required to achieve the 'high' (It's not a 'high' in the sense most non addicts imagine it is) that the body seems to never stop craving. But that can take time. What I'm trying to convey here is that I'm not anticipating becoming ill and enfeebled through indulging my addiction. I'm not promiscuous, I don't share needles, so there's nothing but blue skies ahead ;)


Ich habe mein Ipod gefunden!

Danke Danke Danke mein Lieber Herr Gott. O danke fucking danke. Sieg ist mein!
Meine Welt ist jezt wieder in Ordnung. Amen.


Wo ist mein fucking ipod

Ohne zweifel, ohne ipod geht nichts. Wo ist das fucker? Lieber Herr Gott hilf mir.


The Cunta Cometh

Next week is to be a meeting of two great sick fuck minds, mine and Cunta's. I have to explain to this force of nature Juggernaut that I'm moving far far away. I'm praying the overall effect is out of sight out of mind. Forget me Cunta, so I can forget you.

The self consciously grand, overpriced hotel we are staying at is the perfect landscape for her inevitable raging insanity. All impersonal institutions unnerve me: hospitals, airports, schools, post offices, and yes, hotels. I just don't like them. The truth is, I live a rich internal existence, most external stimulus to me is just a chore and a bore. All of it: nightclubs, magazines, consumerism, false sentiment... all that puerile garbage is just landfill for empty minds. Like boob jobs and bleached hair, it's a sign that something necessary to emotional or intellectual functionalism is absent. They are also the signposts that one has arrived in a capitalist world that takes the commodification of body parts and low self esteem to callous extremes. Welcome to the Spectacle.

We only respect what we fear. Has anyone read Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra? One of my favourite lines from this play is: "A dog in office is obeyed". It's not the dog we fear, but the basis of his power, remove that, and he's just a cur we would toss a match to without batting an eyelid.

Well, my Cunta is a bit like that, I respect her because I fear her. Rationally, this makes no sense, she's just an old woman (she had me late in life) I don't know, explain it if you can, I certainly can't.

But I can tell you for sure, once you've met my Cunta, you met every psycho rolled into one.

She really is a sick sick fuck.

PS: Earlier this week, a friend persuaded me to inject speed. I've always regarded uppers with fear and loathing, I was right to. I've since devolved to even greater stupidity. I, not he is to blame, I'm a stupid retarded shit. I don't really care, nor do I want or expect others to.

Advice borne from bitter experience is the most valuable: don't inject speed. It's the white trash of drugs.

See you next time

Au revoir mes amis.

PPS: The above image is a still from FW Murnau's Nosferatu. This silent classic of German Expressionism is the greatest film of all time. I know absolutism is unfashionable in post modernist society, but great art transcends all strictures of zeitgeist. This movie is every observation of the angst ridden undercurrents of human society rolled into one.


Easy Come, Easy Go...

Hello, for some time now I've been reconsidering this blog, the reason for this is, I'm over the whole "Anipal" blog thing, I don't see myself, and never have, as part of the "Anipal" community. Whilst driving a few weeks ago I burst into fits of giggles about the fact I'd wasted so many words, so much spleen venting on pawcircles, morons and nosetaps, I'm going to leave those considerations to whom they belong: to those pedantic, scholastic motherfuckers from the Middle Ages mentality. I couldn't stop laughing. It's all so insane...puerile... hyperbizarre...

I have no explanation for how I allowed something so deeply stupid and pointless to get hold of me, just thinking about it now makes me both laugh and cringe.

Oh dear fucking God.

Anyway, my blog is now going to have more of a Social, Political, Personal and Cultural focus (within the capabilities of my drug fucked cerebral realm anyway). I don't care about pawcircles and nose taps for fuck's sake. Never did.

I suspect this is going to prove deeply boring to some, and that's ok, I've posted this post as a warning for those likely to be bored. I don't really have a target blog audience anyway, I just post away to get off on myself.

Frankly, I like drugs, music, counter culture, I like bitching about 1st world exploitation of the 3rd world, I like thinking about whether we live in an Absolutist or Relativist universe. I can't rake up enthusiasm anymore for moronic minority twitter bitch scum. They're not worth hard drive space in my binary brain.

So I shall see you or not, whichever the case is to be, next time.

You're so fuckin' special

Sir Fudge Esq x


Not My Best Week So Far and It's only Monday Morning...

Whine Whine Whine I keep running out of weed Moan Moan Moan I can't really face alcohol anymore sob sob sob Anna is so pissed off with my drugging and whoring she's barely speaking to me groan groan groan the thought of shooting up obsesses me scream scream scream I can't face my big move fuck fuck fuck Anna doesn't like my new best friend boo fucking hoo And Shits for Giggles, the Cunta Kinta is coming to see me soon it's going to be fuckkkking fireworks as I have big news for her. There's not enough smack on this planet to insulate me from her rage. God Help Me. Amen.


I'm nothing but a bag of complaints. I have nothing reasonable to contribute to this world or this blog. Nothing. Zero.

Oh hang on, has everyone seen the XXX Mookie Sex Doll? Here's the Link: Meerschwein Extraordinaire: My crocheted self... It's Extraordinary, anyone know where I can get one? XOXOX...


Things I would Bend Over For (Yes, I'm Very Stoned)

Hello, I was supposed to post something hours and hours ago, but what happened was, I began to get stoned (as is customary before I compose my ego centric drivel) but just as I was getting down to the business, a stoning friend popped up on DM. What began as a quiet joint/vodka/valium buzz turned into a massive fucking drug fest. A complete behemoth. Fuck it felt good.

Hours later, I'm still trashed. I'm rarely too trashed to post, but now I am. But it just occurred to me, that I was wondering, does anyone agree that Radiohead live are better than Radiohead studio?

I generally prefer live versions of songs anyway, I find them more raw and ballsier. Studio always sounds too emasculated and studied to me. But in the case of the Radiohead Gods, the difference is incredible. For example, My Iron Lung is almost like two different songs. Live it fucks my brain in wonderful ways, studio, is like, well, still a great song, but doesn't get me hot.

Things I would bend over for:


My stoner DM friends



Val Lewton Films

Franz Kafka

Roger Federer

Things that make my ass pucker up:

Schleimhaufen (you know who you are)




People who snicker, I think, like, have you got a fucking sinus problem? Get a fucking tissue for your issues honey. you gross pig


Honest Scrap Award... Ok, Just for Mookie...

My dear Guinea Swine friend Mookie is to blame for this drivel. I was given one of these before but I think I fell asleep half way through reading what it's meant to be about.

If I understand this shit correctly, I'm supposed to tell you 10 things about me. Who the fuck wants to know this ego driven puerile pap?

I've humiliated myself for Mookie once before, (remember that ridiculous Santa Hat at X'mas? I only put it on to shut him up for Christ's sake).

Well, as my anti hero Franz Kafka once said (I think): "He who says A must say B too", so let's get this shit over with:

1. I have a Simian line on my right palm.

2. I respect the PLO, Hamas, and other murderous bastards trying to fight other murderous bastards for their existence.

3. I enjoy laughing at American Conservatives. I don't know why, for some reason I find them hysterically funny.

4. I'm quite conservative in many ways, but I believe that whatever consenting adults get up to amongst themselves is none of my business.

5. I'm afflicted by Kierkegaard's "Sickness Unto Death", it's why I take drugs. I find it ludicrous to worry about being happy while others suffer.

6. In all things, I prefer to just get to the fucking point. I have binary code brain. If someone can't logically, elegantly and concisely make their point within 3 minutes, they're just holding a wankfest.

7. I accept everyone on their own terms, but I'm highly intolerant of people who have no respect for boundaries.

8. I don't care about material things, I laugh at people who buy big plasma screens. Fucking wankers.

9. I think I am extremely immature, hot headed, often thick as shit, and very shallow: I can't stand looking at physically unappealing things. I'm a cultural snob, but I'm nonetheless quite affable.

10. I love beauty, style and grace. Europe is the source of all the World's beauty. Thank God I'm European.

ok I'm passing the torch on to:

My cats (@RRCatty)

I don't have the links but go see

@Danepoes - he is one of my great loves on twitter

Juicy Dog Couture

GeorgeTheDuck.com - Fun & Adventures of a duck named George

Rosie & Cheeto's Blog

Francy Dickinson's recipes page. Check out the featured recipe Dansk Salmon with Aquavit - Gravlax

@FlaCatLady - dear friend

Boris Kitty - 4 Paws for a Cause

@FrugaDougal- Raises money for animals, nice polite guy.

@BrutustheDane - Sexy Dane

@MaxtheQuiltCat - Nice friendly cat

@ImAShit (good luck with that one)

I tried to think of blogs that were suitable for the whole "Anipal" thing. I don't think blogs I like would have been appropriate in any sense.

I'll get the links for you later but I'm a little tired and it's time I was in bed. Oh for those of you don't know, "Mookie" (!) is the wonderful Graf @Schnille von Meerschweinstein on twitter. He is strawberry blonde GP. Rather handsome, soccer mad, and his Mama draws wonderful pictures.

Mookie is a Guinea Pig who is always a little irate with me for some reason. Probably cos I don't kiss arse. I've started cyber fucking him (Hugz) cos I know he loves it so.

Gute Nacht.


The Art of Getting Followers

Hello everyone, I'm still not quite over the brain atrophying effects of my last little adventure in self medication. But I wouldn't expect to be. I was bad bad bad.

Ah well, I could have been a lot worse.

Anyhow, to the business of this post which is really just more crap from yours truly. I have to get back on with other things instead I'm wanking myself on this shit fest of a blog. Ah well.

Ok, have you ever noticed those poor sods who tweet: "EEEk! I'm 5 followers away from (whatever their pointless goal is), please help!"

I can't help thinking, look, really

1. It's embarrassing to go begging for more follows.

2. Who fucking cares how many follows you have? It means nothing.

3. Even an idiot knows how to get more follows.

Here's what you do:

1. Keep your account unlocked, let every bit of garbage fly in. Even porn bots.

2. Never say anything remotely intelligent, or express an intelligent opinion

3. You can be as bitchy as you want, just put a MOL! BOL! (or my favourite) *Nosetaps* at the end of your tweet, it's your Go Card to Cuntism.

4. Whore yourself out on every occasion possible. Find a band wagon and get on it: pawcircles, esp will get you the boo hoo vote

5. Do lots of RTs. It's a wonderful method of crawling up everyone's asses and it saves you from ever having to say anything that requires intelligence.

6. Be: Asexual, Unintelligent, Banal, Moronic Republican (now I've been stupid! that's a fucking tautology if ever there was one!)

If you follow these rules you should reach some meaningless number in no time at all. As for me? Naturally I do everything wrong.

In fact, I try my hardest at keeping my account free of crap. When I block/remove people I don't like, they become extremely irate. Who knows why? I've never understood why a tiny, shrill minority gets upset if they can no longer speak to me/bitch at me. And they are a tiny minority notwithstanding how many porn bots amongst their follows.

Just ignore the retards is my advice.