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~love yourself~

O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum...

Ladies and gentlemen,

Doctor Gill is back!
(with a vengeance)

REcent updates are :

1. www.redblacklabs.com - site is finally up-ish!
2. wisdom tooth needs to be removed! (Update: got the fucker out. Will post pictures.)
3. face hurts
4. Got free publicity at work!
5. One of my videos is being sent directly to Peter Gabriel. (Google him, bitch.)

And...

It's Christmas!

That's right, the time of year has come when we all get to spend an uncomfortable amount of time with our families. It's not really supposed to be this messed up. Things are said, things are thrown, fists fall hard, verbal slams and hard bangs topped off with an unnecessary amout of liquor.

(sounds like a trip to a bad dentist)

Anyway, there is always something about Christmas that stirs in most people. As much as we love the 'idea' of Christmas, which entails love, unity, giving, forgiving, sharing, caring and all the other ideals that we can pick and choose to follow, we also feel the other thing...

The other is that of resentment. That burning sadness. That tiny glimpse of what is to come is almost overwhelming.

Sifting through crowds all with the same goal as yours: to get that special lady that special gift that will shut her up at least until Valentine's Day.

Breaking up arguments between the older members of the family while keeping the younger ones at bay. Child worship, I don't mean Jesus. I mean little nephews and nieces dressed as angels and Santa Clause.

And, possible the worst thing:

When all the little children are playing with their new toys that you suffered to buy. When you bump in to your cousin Eckel at the bar. He says: 'Hey, buddy! How's it going? Merry Christmas!"

You start a conversation which leads back to the conversation you had the year before at Christmas. At the same butt-fucking bar of that asshole uncle who has the party in his house and complains about it all year and fucking hosts the party again at Christmas!

...

Yeah, so you end up discussing what you were discussing last year.

And you soon find out that all those ridiculous goals that Cousin Eckel had set last year, which you supported him for at the party and laughed about the rest of the year, have been achieved.

And all the goals that you set, you end up setting again. You sad, sad fucker.

And you look at Cousin Eckel. He and his trimmed hair, his pressed suit, his gold watch, his stumped leg, hairlip, degenerative hairline, neck brace and an on hand insulin pack and you think to yourself:

"that lucky sonovabitch. Got everything he needs. Probably never worked for it, either. Little bastard. He's using taxpayer's money that I don't pay."

And, you soon realize you are in self defense mode. And you hate accepting that even with all of his disabilities, his parent's spontaneously combusting at the wheel and the car spinning out of control and smashing into a bus for handicapped children, leaving his in debt to society for millions and then his wife leaving him for another WOMAN, his kids snorting coke from a giant biker's hairy ass and his pet dog, Dragonshit, dying mysteriously, he still has it all.

In the end, your a bum.

Feel bad, bitch, I demand it.

hehehe.

Nah, I'm just painting a bad image for you. Hopefully, you'll appreciate what you already have.

Merry Christmas, motherfuckers.

On Twat, on Panzy,
On Sinful and Faggy,
On Shithead, on Bozo,
On Crippled, the hobo.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all

~love yourself~

You're a fucking douche.

That's right.

Once again, I'm back, I'm tired and I'm not as lonely as I used to be. I have a lot of office work to do.

So, today's little experiment is to find out what it means to be a winner surrounded by losers?

Not a conceited thought, just a thought.

Imagine:

You are a wealthy business man, let's say you sell condoms to rapists or something, big money, you know? Anyway, you're that big important dude, you deal with big fat clients everyday, you make millions with a few hours of constructive work. You're important.

You pack up your briefcase, kiss your secretary goodnight and go home to your wife. (Yeah, the secretary, you're an important guy, that entails tail.)

So, you go home. Your friends are there.
Billy, Bob and Dick.

Billy has been complaining about how hard it is to get a job for the past eight years. But, his idea of trying to get a job is lazing around your house and eating your food.

Bob wants to be a successful rocket scientist. The closest he's ever been to research on that matter was when he painted his dick that way for Halloween.

Dick. Dick is well, a plain ol' dick. His only friends are you, Billy and Bob. Why? Because he is a dick. Not an asshole, a dick. Two different things entirely. And therefore can't get a job and refuses to admit he's a bum.

How does that make you feel?

Do you feel you have to look out for them, advise them, teach them?

or

Do you feel you should grab Billy by his hair, grab Bob by his foot and grab Dick by his ... penis and proceed to throw the fuckers out of your house. Followed shortly by the pet dog, Brewster, and your bitch of a wife?

hehe.

Well, how would you feel in that case? If that was your life everyday?

Comment now, let me know what you think and please do

~love yourself~

Unforseen Circumstances

Note : The title of this post doesn't reflect the 3rd chapter of the famed Half-Life video game. You fucking geek.

Instead, I am wondering about certain things in life that kind of seem to be completely out of your control yet sort of totally in your hands, but at the same time out of them.... wait...

Okay, it's like this:

There's an apple you need to eat. Not want, you NEED to eat the apple. You can get to it, and you can eat it. However, the apple is poisoned. And you only grow aware of the poison recently. However, you still NEED the apple.

Now, you can grab the apple and eat it, and in turn you will die.
But, there is nothing you can do to un-poison the apple.
The poison in this case is simply the unforeseen circumstance.

See? In your hands, and out of them at the same time.

My case is similar. If I go to that item that I 'need' then a lot of things will fall out of place around me, however, without it, I am going to be just as fucked anyway, and the only reason things will fall out of place is because of circumstance.

Fuck circumstance.
Seen or unseen.

So, what are your thoughts on this. Have you similar issues in your life? Does circumstance influence conclusions? Share your opinion here, motherfucker. SHARE IT! SHARRREEE!

Well, fuck, shit, asshole, cunt. What a puzzle life can be sometimes, don't you think so?

Peace out, and don't forget to

~love yourself~

Giving men wings.

Fear, in my opinion, is man's worst enemy and greatest motivation of action.

It is fear that gives men wings.

Hate, anger, frustration and emotional attachments have similar results. But, to me at least, the greatest motive generator and extreme result bringer is, indeed, FEAR.

Fear goes well with pride.

Let me explain.

You > Fear > Pride > Results.

You are driven by your fears, and your pride entices you to face adversity and in the end you will come out on top.

That's how procrastinators meet deadlines. Really.

My story with fear is this, I realized that fear gives man wings when I had to face mine.

It was 2005, I believe, around 7:30 in the morning. I was skipping school and heading home. There was a house with a rottweiler. Never bothered me, barked alot, but no issues. Except that now, the owner had put in a large dog house. The dog saw me walking by, jumped on to his dog house and over the damn fence.

Now, if you know me, I can't run. I don't like running, I hate running.

I ran.

For everything it was worth, I ran. The walk home was usually around 45 minutes, I cleared that in less than five minutes with a crazy fucking dog behind me. I didn't make it home. I got to the highway I had to cross, stopped, couldn't run anymore, couldn't breathe. Turned around to see the dog closing in.

I braced myself.

Breathe, I thought. Breathe!

The dog leaped towards me, and without the slightest bit of hesitation I swung my fist as hard and as fast as I could. I hit that fucker right in the face. The dog fell, scrambled, yelped and ran away.

I fell on the pavement, caught my breathe.

FEAR gave me wings. FEAR gave me strength. FEAR pushed me. FEAR consumed me.

Do not be afraid to be afraid. Face your fears, pussy.

Doctor Gill says

~love yourself~

I am everything, I am nothing

From the gate, you betta watch ya muthafucking mouf.
- The Wu

Hello,

Doctor Gill here with another pointless and addictive post. How was your weekend? Mine was good. I discovered the closest I can get with a girl at a house party is when she's running out the door. Serious. True story. It happened. It was sad and hilarious at the same time. Oh well. What can I say? I am a doctor in many things except a doctor of love. I leave that to Gene Simmons.

(KISS reference)

Anyway, I have an announcement. It's been bugging me.

I have a very very small fan base. People sometimes post a comment. Sometimes, despite me asking them to post a comment. Sometimes.

Well, usually the comments are not relevant to the post.

See, when I ask you guys to comment, I don't mean comment on me. I am quite aware I am a freakie-deakie fuck.

I. Do. Not. Need. You. To. Tell. Me.

So, when I write a post and I get a comment that says "You're a retard," it has no effect on anything. I want to read your point of view on the topic, or lack thereof, in the post. Not me.

So, go back and re-read some of my posts that you liked and write a real comment. Come on, people. This blog is to watch you watch me, not watch you judge me. Though that is welcome in moderation as well.

My next post will be on racism. Enjoy. bitches.

Oh and do

~love yourself~

The ever friendly poopsicle

Ladies and gentlemen, and ladies.

I am making it, people.

www.redblacklabs.com

And there you have it. After years of trying to save and scrounge and not having the time and all that, I finally, finally, finally have a registered website. My own dotcom website. Yes, yes y'all! to the beat y'all! Non-stop, y'all! Making it hot y'all!

Shout out to Prabz. He be one o'mah homeboys who hooked me up widda site, 'chall.

It's kinda empty now. But, once I have a free moment to myself when I'm not in the office or in transit, I will plot and plan an actual launch. But, still muhfucka, I done gots me a site!

In the mean time, you can see some of my work here

redblacklabs.wordpress.com

Oddly enough, the day after I made this wordpress site; I got my domain. Strange how things work out, huh?

Anyway, I'm off to ponder more nonsensical nonsense that emerges from notorious notions inhabilitating the noble nothings never to be networked under the near yet far noon sun, nearly drowning in the nearest possible nether region of null.

In short, you can call me N. N for Nutsak.

(For those of you who haven't figured it out, that was a spoof of V for Vendetta.)

The point is moot.

~love yourself~

bitches.

Softening the blow, or blowing harder?

Doctor Gill : And the results are in!
Patient : And?
Doctor Gill : Well, based on the blood test, cat scans, two dozen needle samples, 1400 hair samples from every hair cluster on your body, twenty-eight nail clippings, sixty-two -
Patient : Just fucking tell me!
Doctor Gill : I'm sorry to tell you this, but, you'll be dead in not more than two weeks.

Doctor Gill's eyebrows raise at the same time his patient's does.

Patient : Wha- what?
Doctor Gill : Yeah, sorry about that.
Patient : Well, what is it? What's gonna kill me?
Doctor Gill : We're not sure. We've never seen anything like it.
Patient : What's it related to? Blood? Skin? WHAT GODDAMMIT! WHAT?
Doctor Gill : Calm down, buddy, you'll be fine.
Patient : But, you just said -
Doctor Gill : Yeah, I was joking.
Patient (Shocked): What? You asshole!
Doctor Gill : What? Come on, it was funny. You should've seen your face, it was-
Patient : You son of a bitch!
Doctor Gill : It was a joke!
Patient : You'll hear from my lawyer!

The patient storms out. The door slams shut behind him.

Doctor Gill : Well, now he'll never know about the cancer.

.....

Greeting fellow fuck-wits.

I have been pondering a question while taking massive dumps for the past week. When is it okay to soften the blow of bad news?

In the instance above, it was not okay. But, still for personal amusement it was hilarious, unfortunately my patient didn't see it that way. Hehehe.

So, if say, there's a person you know. We'll call him Bob. Bob Titts.
And you, through some divine method, discover that Mr. Titts has an ulcer in his colon. Not just any ulcer, this ulcer is placed nicely on a fist-sized tumor.

You know this information, and somehow, fail to find the appropriate time or situation to tell Bob Titts. Bob's mental and physical condition is now suddenly tossed in to your hands. Why do you have to deal with it? What the fuck?

Now, to make things more difficult, Bob's fiance, let's say her name is Jane, Jane Vulva (though, she used to be known as Jeremy Shaft, but, you'll tell Bob about that later.) If Bob heard the news from Jerem - sorry, Jane, he may take it better. That makes sense, yes?

What would you do? You and Bob Titts go back fifteen years. Highschool, prom, first gang bang, first time getting gang banged, all the good stuff. Jane and you go back a to a few years before he/she and Bob met, you know, when she was still Jeremy. Who would you tell first? Well, to save you valuable thinking time, I went and thought out three possible out comes.

OUTCOME ONE

You tell Jane.

Jane tells Titts.

Jane : You have an ulcer in your butt, honey.
Bob : Butt honey?
Jane : Err... Yeah, and there's a big ass tumor attached to it.
Bob : Butt.... Honey...

(I may have forgotten to mention that Bob is slightly retarded.)

Jane : It could possibly kill you, baby.
Bob : I see. Thank you for telling me.
Jane : We'll get through this. I love you.
Bob : I love you too, honey.
Jane : Too ... Honey...

OUTCOME TWO

You tell Bob.

You : Hey, Bob.
Bob : What's up.
You : Remember your pet dog, Dragonshit?
Bob : Yeah, I loved that dog. He was and forever will be the coolest dog on the planet.
You : Remember when he died? We found him under the tire, his stomach squeezed out of his ass, fucking brains all over the place, his tongue unrolled next to what was left of his head.
Bob : ... Yeah... I -
You : His intestines spread out. At least forty something feet of it. That's how we found out it was a girl, because all the puppies she was gonna have were thrown around like RAG DOLLS! REMEMBER?!!
Bob : Yeah, I -
You : Dent in my fucking bumper.
Bob : What? Dent in your -
You : Never mind that, what I am about to tell you will be less painful than that.

Bob finds out the truth and decides he will live his life as best he can before he dies a horrible and slow and painful death. Forever pondering the mystery of Dragonshit's death.

OUTCOME THREE

You tell Jere-- fuck, JANE.
Jane can't stand it.

You : Yeah, he's probably going to die.
Jane : How can this be? How could he do this to me?!
You : Well, he's not doing anything to you, per se...
Jane : That sonuvabitch! I hope he dies.
You : He will in time.
Jane : I hate him! I can't stand it! This is so bizarre! How could he not tell me?
You : He doesn't know.
Jane : He kept it a secret! We're going to get married!
You : He doesn't know!
Jane : That rotten bastard!
You : You're not listening you dumb bitch!
Jane : I hate secrets!
You : You haven't told him you're a guy!
Jane : That part of me died years ago in 'Nam!
You : You've never been to 'Nam!
Jane : Besides that's not a secret! You know!
You : But, he doesn't!
Jane : I'm not listening! I'm not listening!
You : You have to-- ahh... fuck it.

So, now you have to tell Bob that he has a tumor with an ulcer and his fiance is leaving him because of it.

Bob : Hey.
You : Jane is a guy.
Bob : What?
You : I thought you should know before the wedding, remember my friend Jeremy? Well... yeah.
Bob : Are you fucking kidding me?
You : No. AND.... you have an ulcer in your butt on a giant tumor. You're going to die.
Bob : What?
You : You heard me.
Bob : This is too much man! Too much to handle all at once!
You : Well, at least you know that Jane really loved you.
Bob : I guess that's a little comforting.
You : Yeah, but don't get excited she's leaving you.
Bob : What??
You : She can't stand your ass tumor. Specifically the ulcer on it.
Bob : I'm freaking out! I'm fucking freaking out!
You : It's okay , buddy. I got something that'll cheer you up. It'll be less painful.
Bob : Yeah?
You : Remember your dog Dragonshit?

The conversation continues...

The next day you are at Bob Titts' funeral. He got frustrated trying to open a can of baked beans. Got out his gun, shot the can open. He thought: that was fun. He put the gun to his head... He held it there, thinking if it would hurt.

He thought long and hard. He realized it would hurt. He put the gun down and grabbed a bent piece of the can and slit his throat. He stumbled around your kitchen, that's right, he's your house-mate, spraying blood all over your new cupboards. In that time, he noticed that his bleeding throat hurt like hell. So, he grabbed the gun and shot himself twice in the foot to distract him from the pain. Then, he hopped and slipped on his own blood and slammed against the fridge and the loose cutlery fell off of it and stabbed him repeatedly. Eventually, after about forty minutes, he managed to get the gun up his head with three fingers missing. Before he could pull the trigger, he slipped again, fell thirteen stories to his 'untimely' death. Meanwhile, you and Jane were exchanging butt plugs via penis in your room.

Guilty yet?

.....

Well, those are my three outcomes, please, comment and write your own. I am curious to see how you would do it.

Oh and remember to

~love yourself~
the way Bob Titts loved Dragonshit, the dog, before you brutally murdered it.

Meine Blog?

Meine Blog - A riveting musical

Ohhhhhh.... the moon calls out,
to my shiny shiny butt.

END.

(Please, hold your applause.)

It has come to my attention, that even though I do not get many comments on this little blog of mine, there is still a 'possible' large number of people that actually come here. I was convinced it was just my buddies and the occasional person who shows up from a link on Face Book.

However, [name] told me that someone else had directed [name] to my blog quite a while back. Thing is, I had just met this person a recently. And, comparing dates, means that [name] had found my blog before I met [name]. I am shocked. Really. I know it's been a long time since I've posted anything, I was busy trying to get laid and meet deadlines. You know, the usual.

Deadlines met, dick unused. Ah... the world stay on it's predestined axis.

Anyway, I ask you to do me a favor. If you come to this blog, no matter who you are, just leave a comment on this post. I want an actual look at how many people actually come here. So, if you are reading this, leave a comment with your pseudonym name and whatever details you want, a link to your blog or site, whatever. Just comment, let me get a good clean look at all the beautiful people who I have the honor of teaching how to

~love yourself~

Ah, Doctor Gill has missed this place.

This morning

COX-2 - the enzyme for pain.

Okay, there's a little science for ya.

Today, I was in bed, curled up so comfy, it was freezing cold and I was just feeling so perfect. But, I thought I've got work today. Believe this: I got out of my comfort state and took a shower and got dressed.

I have to admit, that is something different for me. Had it been any other workplace, I would've said fuck it! and rolled over and knocked out again. What's even stranger is this: My alarm didn't go off today, yet I am up, I am awake and I am ready to kick ass and chew gum... but I'm all outta gum.

:)

On a side note, the wait for Duke Nukem Forever is really bugging me. It's been 13 years I think since they announced it. It took so long the company fucking went bankrupt. Damnit. Apparently, it went on so long that the CEO of 3D Realms was receiving death threats. Damn.

I will wait vigilantly, though, as I have for 13 years. Fuck me, 13 years is a big part of my life. Cocksuckers! Release the fucking game! At this point the fans don't even care whether it's good or not, we just want to play the fucking thing!

Since 3D Realms went the way that Windows will soon go, I believe Take Two Interactive is handling the game. I say, give the rights to Rockstar and Rockstar North. They'll pump out a high end, visually gorgeous, and interesting game in about a year. Maybe less. AND, their story will be dirtier, grimier and more interesting... I'm pretty sure of it. Because, aside from the fun free roaming in the GTA series, I actually enjoyed all of the stories, from the unnamed star of GTAIII ( actually his name is Claude Speed...kind of a shit name huh?) to Tommy Vercetti in Vice City, to Carl "CJ" Johnson in San Andreas and lastly Nico Bellic in GTA IV. Not to mention the Liberty City and Vice City stories games on the PSP. Played those though and through, no cheats!

Great gameplay, great story. Truly enjoyable.

Anyway, I'm off to my new work place. Catch ya'll bitches later.
Oh, and dont forget to

~love yourself~

And I'm back!

Okay, just in case you're wondering, the Louis Bentley journals will be updated in between my normal posts. More insentive for you guys to keep coming back.

Anyway, my first two days at (name) have been just great. The first project, the software, the organized system, the Wonder Woman thing.... ahhh....

Apart from all the women in the company thinking I'm a weirdo (because I like feet), everything's been going swell. Wish I could have taken some of my friends with me. Aside from the different type of work, I'm sure they would've enjoyed it here. But, I have no doubt that they'll find places much much much better than where they are now. I pray they find that place soon, too.

Now, on to the mandatory unnecessary cursing that's prominent in my blog, probably why you peckers come back anyway...

I present this weeks vulgar rant!
Those ass licking cunts at [name] and that bald fucking pecker faced rabid twit named [na-curse-me] fucked me and my entire posse back at [name]!

Accruals! Accruals, you fuckwits!

accrual (accruals plural )In finance, the accrual of something such as interest or investments is the adding together of interest or different investments over a period of time. (BUSINESS) n-count usu sing, oft N n (=accumulation)

That basically means that our cash should have been kept aside in advance, not passed on when Pecker-face makes a cum-riddled threat! What happened shouldn't have affected our income at all! Really!

I hate math. I am bad with money. But, even I have enough sense in me to understand more than THEIR FUCKING FINANCE DEPARTMENT DOES!

But, other than that everything's been pretty peachy.
[insert widened smile here]

On another note, Pope (my cousin) has been hanging out in my place. He just came back from Australia, he's on holiday now. Having him around has been great, I've missed his tall pudgy ass.

Well, I'm off to study something for the new project I'm on.

Take care, and remember

~love yourself~

Doctor Gill

Louis Bentley's Journal 01

The following is entirely fictional. Any similarity is entirely coincidental.

Louis Bentley - Case Files

Episode One

Louis Bentley’s Journal.


I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But, it wasn’t as lucrative as I thought. Besides, I didn’t have anything to write about. Over the past thirty years, however, I’ve come across a lot to write about. Too much actually.

I’ll start with one of my more recent cases.

June 3rd. The case of Emily Blonde. She was a thirteen year old girl. Kidnapped and held for ransom. Her family was rich. Father had some government connections. The police weren’t involved. They weren’t even informed.

Somehow along my thirty years as a private eye I had developed some sort of reputation catching cheating wives and husbands and interfering with police business on certain homicides. That’s why the mother came to me. She was beautiful. Mid thirties, long slender legs and her waist was thin. So thin, that her hips stuck out in a sexy way. I could balance my coffee mug on her ass. She came to me with the news that her daughter, Emily, had been kidnapped. She had explained how she knew it was a kidnapping. Quite simple really, a ransom note and her husband knocked out and tied up in the trunk of his own family van. Apparently he was picking her up from a soccer game when the kidnappers nabbed him and got the girl.

They had threatened the father with something political. She didn’t go in to details, but, from what I understood, a lot of big people would end up in small jail cells. He told his wife to remain calm because he’d find a way to get her back. He told her to be strong, and believe in him, and most important, to keep her mouth shut. He couldn’t pay the ransom; apparently he didn’t have that kind of money to throw away. Amateur fucking kidnapper’s asked for a ridiculous amount. Word had got to them that Mr. Blonde had recently been given a large amount of cash to hold for a political body. Problem was: he had to show statements of his bank balance. So, he couldn’t use that money. Kidnappers didn’t care. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Without my help, little Emily was guaranteed dead. There were possibly two or more people involved in the kidnapping. One, without a doubt, would be a pussy and start to worry too much making the other two consider what they’ve done. In the end, because it’s their first kidnapping, they’d kill her, against the one pussy’s wishes, simply to “cover all their tracks and leave no evidence.” I needed to act fast. If she was lucky, they’d get stupid and kill each other.

Mrs. Blonde lasted three days, no news from her husband and three calls to Emily’s teacher, lying that poor Emily hadn’t gotten over that bad flu, had finally taken a toll on her conscience. After that, she had lost faith in her husband’s capabilities and came to me in secrecy. She offered big money, but, that wasn’t why I was in to this case. Something about young girl and kidnapping with a side order of possible rape makes me sick to my stomach. I jumped at the opportunity to get involved before my friends at the station caught on to the disappearance. They’d be nothing but a nuisance. The reason I left the force: too many idiots playing Rambo, but, basically just getting in my way.

It took me a whole night of watching the house of Mr. and Mrs. Blonde before I figured out that no one was coming here to monitor the parents. Weird, usually they would send one person to watch the home from a distance. Just to make sure there was no police getting involved. Usually the worried pussy was the candidate to send. Just to get his whiny ass out of the way. I could imagine three masked kidnappers arguing on what to do next. Makes me laugh a little. Idiots.

No luck at the house, I ended up going to the school. I couldn’t go through the proper channels to get permission to view the security tapes. So, I broke in and stole them. I had standards when I started this business, but, I realized over the years that sometimes it’s easier to just break the rules in order to get a job done. After all, Emily’s life was in my hands now. I had to do what I do. The school would report a break in and security tapes being stolen would trigger a police response. They’d look at charts and find students absent from school and they’d find out about Emily. Mr. and Mrs. Blonde would receive a warning note from the kidnappers. Faggots wouldn’t have the balls to kill her yet, besides, they wanted the money. So, a warning would do fine for now. The newspaper would find out and it would leak in to the general public, the kidnappers will begin to freak out. I’ll find them and take them down and rescue the girl before the police do. To cover up the break in at the school, I will plant the stolen tapes in the kidnapper’s hideout. It’s wrong, I know, but it needs to be done. I will not go to jail for saving a life. So, I’ll lie to save my ass. All this from a small break in at a school. It’s good to know how these things play out.

I reviewed the tapes for around six hours. I got the EC-32 camera tape. EC-32 meant Exterior Camera number 32, for those of you wondering. This camera had it all. Mr. Blonde pulled up to the sidewalk in his van and waited for Emily to come out from the school. While waiting, a beautiful young woman with sunglasses and a baseball cap with long black hair running over her shoulders, probably a wig, tapped on his window. He rolled the window down and she sprayed him with knock-out gas, probably homemade, he fell limp in his seat. A second accomplice ran up on along the passenger side of the van and got in. The black haired woman pretended to be talking to the driver while her body conveniently covered the window from the view of the school doors. Emily emerged from the school and the black-haired woman glanced over her shoulder at her. Emily assumed it’s a friend of her father. She approached the woman. As soon as she’s close enough, the black-haired woman side stepped quickly, the accomplice, who had moved Mr. Blonde to the passenger seat already, sprayed some more knock out gas in to Emily’s face. Emily stumbled back, too shocked to scream. Suddenly, she begins to wobble as the drug kicked in. The woman held on to Emily and brought her around the back of the van where she shoved her in to the trunk. The woman got in to the backseat and the van sped off. It was quick and simple, but, still amateur. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds. As for the van, they obviously switched later, leaving Mr. Blonde tied up in the trunk. As soon as they sped off, another young girl stepped out of the school and watched them disappear around the corner. She ran out to the road shouting at them. No sound on my old hardware. From the look of it, this was one of Emily’s friends. It is possible that she was supposed to hitch a ride with Mr. Blonde.

I made a call to Mrs. Blonde who gave me Emily’s best friend’s name: Sarah Ashe. Mrs. Blonde left a photograph of Sarah under the doormat of the house. That way her husband wouldn’t find out she had gone to me. The next day, I had to find a way to talk to Sarah in school without looking like a pedophile.
I caught about an hour’s worth of sleep and headed to Mrs. Blonde’s house to get the picture. Then, I made my way to the school entrance and waited for Sarah to show. The girls started arriving at the school at about 8:15 a.m., Sarah showed up promptly around 8:45 a.m. She was the same girl from the photo, shorter hair now. Classes started at nine. Before I could get to her, she was in a group and already inside the school. I had to catch her alone at some point. I felt like I, Louis Bentley, was going to school for the first time again, difference was: it was an all girls’ school. It was going to be difficult, I knew that much.

To be continued…

When you least expect it...

When you least expect it, the world shovels another pound or two of shit on you.

You'd think you get used to it after 21 years, but, no. It still sucks like a bitch. Makes me wanna beat the hell out of a glove compartment. Why a glove compartment? Because, fuck you that's why!

[Pause]

For now, I will have to suffer the wrath of my financial adviser as he rips a new asshole in to the center of my face and proceeds to fuck it. Oh, what a cheerful image. What can I say? I am bad with numbers. I've tried on many occasions. It's not rocket science or quantum physics, it's simply in and out. Shit, I have problems with basic math.

In the meantime, I will pass my time by doing what I do best: writing fictional tales of people suffering through their own problems. No matter how severe; their lives always seem better than mine. Or, at least, their problems are more interesting.

I've shaved sugary silver droplets of crap before, looks like it's time to pull another rabbit out of my ass.

Good grief, Snoopy! You look like shit!
Fuck you, Charlie Brown! I sleep on top of my damn doghouse!
Why do you do that?
Because your mother won't get out!

Another chunk of brain droppings.

Sigh, I guess it all comes down to faith again. I believe. Without a doubt. I've just grown weary of the tests. Mother says it's the devil trying to hinder us. Well, he better stop before I go down there and fuck him. Mafia style: Bitch, where's mah munney? Don't make me ask you again, muhfucka! Where! Is! Mah! MUHFUCKIN' MUNNEY, muhfucka?

Until I find time to write again, I say goodbye to my faithful following of readers, and while you're here, please comment.

Doctor Gill says

~love yourself~

Fuck Snoopy.

PACHO : A Brief Look at Parkash Singh Gill, My Father.

Today, 9th July 2009, is my father's death anniversary.

I wanted to post a long story, but, I decided instead to keep it simple. I'll show you my father, and you'll see how much better looking he is than my bother and I. When we were growing up, he used to call my brother Beta, and he used to call me Juju-mujhe. He was hard on us growing up. More on my brother, I learned from my brother's mistakes. Example being : DO NOT PUT KITCHEN ON FIRE and you won't get your ass handed to you. But, before anything, he looked after us. And I think, most important, is that compared to alot of people my brother's age and alot of people my age, my father Parkash Singh Gill taught my brother and I how to be men and not boys. To carry our feet when we walk. To shake a hand with a firm grip. To raise our chins to any challenge. Fear nothing. To be humble. To show respect. To be respected. To pull out chairs. To open doors. To love. To help others in need. And most of all, to never give up. Never surrender. And know how to lose with dignity, no matter how painful, as long as you gave it your best.

This was my father's basic nature. I can only hope I can live up to it as he did.

He was a good man. He is greatly missed. And we love him. As always.

I present:
(all images can be clicked on for a higher resolution image.)

Pacho. My father.

13th July 1968, my father at age 16.

Left: My father, September 1973. 21 years old. He had more facial hair than I did at that age.

Right: I'm assuming my father was in between age 21 - 25 here. Probably in India.


My father and his friends, I am assuming this is in India as well. Or maybe somewhere in Malaysia.

Left: Dad is on the left, and this is one of his college friends I think.
Top: Dad at a beach party trying to get a fire started I think.




Left: 1965, my father's parents. Sohan Singh and his wife Puran Kaur. My grandparents.
Middle: My father at (I'm assuming) a party. He looks cool.
Right: My father holding on to my brother and my eldest cousin, Lisa. He loved kids.

My father holding on to me. He looks happy that he had another son. I look, well, like a blur little boy.






My elder brother. My father's firstborn.













Left: My beautiful mother, I think roughly around the time dad fell in love with her.
Middle: My father, at the stern as he teaches a class.
Right: Work hard, play hard. Dad, having a good time.

Last but not least, is my favorite picture of my father and I. I hope it makes you laugh as much as it makes me laugh.


That's a cigarette in my mouth by the way.

My father had a few things that he used to say often, here they are:

"The truth will always prevail."
"Shoot to kill."
"I am Sohan Singh's son!"

So, I say it proud, as my father said it proud:


I AM PACHO SINGH'S SON!

Don't you forget it.

Love you, Dad. Miss you like hell.

- Julian Gill.

8 Days and Counting

I'm bored.

It seems I've been doing the same thing for the past three days: trying to get Premiere CS4 to fucking work. Pain in the ass. Really. Can't wait to start the new job. Also, looking forward to the 15 day free spot. Catch up on some backdated personal projects.

Oddly, I thought my last few days here would be more epic than this. It's the same thing. I'm trying to finish the job before I leave. But, I don't know whether that's possible given the circumstances.

On a good point, I won't have to deal with that fucker [name], the sound guy. He's been giving problems these past few days. Infuriating. He behaves like a child. Sometimes, I wish he was a child so I can punish him by taking away his candy and watching him cry till he realizes where he went wrong.

Fucking punk.

Saw the legendary Raging Bull film last night. Superb. Scorcese's best film, they say. I might agree. To me, Scorcese's best film was and will always remain to be Goodfellas.

But, enough of that. I have much to do. I think? It is quite repetitive to sit here and wait ridiculous amounts of time for a project to load, even though when it's done loading, if ever, it crashes immediately.

The people at Adobe are following in the same footsteps of Microsoft. There's no customer support for these major issues. Forums suggest I am not the only guy facing these problems. Looking forward to using FCP on a Mac. The new job is giving me a Macbook. I am usually anti-mac, but, the idea of getting one for free makes me a little bit horny. Besides, if it can edit and play games and let me write with no problem, then maybe I'll make the total switch over to the white side.

But, I doubt it. As bad as Windows is, I just feel comfortable with it.

GENERIC HOST PROCESS for Win32 Services has crashed. Hmm, there goes audio till a reboot.

sigh.

Doctor Gill says:

Be a chimera and choose a 'self'. Hehehe.

~love yourself~

sideways.