PREVIOUSLY ON SEAN RODRIEGUEZ: CHRIST SAVER….
When we left our brave and legendarily endowed hero, he was moving quickly through the dunes of Nazareth to save Jesus Christ who was trying to fight off a crowd of Ninja Romans who were intent on his capture. With his trusty troop of animals he had taught to dance to Barry White songs, Sean raced over the land with the sole mission of saving the son of our Lord. The following will soon be released in film form in “The Bible: The Funky Version”.
The sun glinted off the helmets of the Ninja Romans as they moved menacingly toward Jesus who, with sweat making his white robes almost see through was beginning to tire as the 50th warrior lay slain. Blood dripped from his cracked knuckles and the sand had turned a dark red from the gore strewn about as he fought on bravely. These warriors were not going to stand in Jesus’ way of attending a dance off with his arch nemesis Sean Rodrieguez, the stunning figure of a man who had captured his fathers imagination and approval with his slick moves, smooth way of talking and cool so effortless he’d often been known to start new trends, both social and fashion, each day he rose from the large leopard print bed decorated with semi nude models, each with personal problems more exploitable than the last.
On the horizon though there spawned a dot, a dot which if one didn’t look for it was barely recognizable and lo, it was Sean Rodrieguez storming toward the scene on the back of his loyal elephant Eddie. Behind him followed his feared cohorts in battle, the Lion named “Graham” and the Bear whom nobody knew the name of, as he wasn’t the talkative type. Sean had had no time to change his clothes and whilst he wasn’t usually known for attending battles dressed in a pristine suit, today it was so. Sean spat with scorn at the floor racing by as he realized his hairstyle was fast becoming undone by the wind racing through it. Though onlookers would describe it as flowing mane, Sean merely regarded it as a complete nuisance and one that could perhaps hinder his seductive abilities after the battle to the point of perhaps only 2 or 3 women and even those would not be simultaneous. “The things I do to save people” thought Sean bitterly as he reclined his legs and changed the iPod in the dock on the Elephants back (for Sean was around 2000 years in advance in electronics to his peers) from shuffle to select his favourite battle theme.
Jesus by now had grown weary from battle but so had the Ninja Romans, reduced to their last few they had decided to sit it out and wait for reinforcements. Jesus took this time to have a much needed Marlboro and sit on a pile of the fallen Ninja Romans, wiping the sweat from his brow with his bloody hands. He thought wistfully of all that had gone wrong before him. The apprenticeship in Carpentry he had never finished and the various job prospects that had cost him. At the time Jesus had no real interest in his career and had decided instead to go on a two-year bender, most of which he couldn’t readily recall at all. Thus it was that when Jesus returned to finding gainful employment he could find little more than cleaning jobs and minimum wage 44 hour positions in trades so simple he couldn’t ever imagining embarking into a lifelong career in them. Luckily he had landed his position as King Of The Jews, and despite the lack of any real pension it was a great position. He’d got lucky there he supposed, but everything from that point was such a downhill slope he could scarcely ignore the decline. Then there was Jo, why had he ever let it end in such a way. Two years of relationship, talk of engagements and love cast aside for her talking to Judas so much.
“Judas wasn’t even that bad of a guy really” Jesus thought “I bet if I gave him a chance we’d have got on like she said.”
But she was gone and many was the night Jesus had spent drinking Jack Daniels in a darkened mud hut listening to “their song” on repeat on his stereo, wondering if he’d meet another girl like her. Certainly there had been flings Jesus remembered them with a smile. It had never been a challenge for Jesus to score in the clubs; something about the long hair, goatee and ability to turn water into wine had always made him a hit with the ladies. But in each one-night stand he grew more and more disenchanted with the single life and it was all he could do to not focus on that one failed shot at happiness he’d had. But starting tomorrow it’d all change, he’d make moves and he’d move past her, be happy again, maybe even start that apprenticeship again and really make a go of doing what he wanted to do. But then he heard the rumbling sound on the distance and knew instantly all he had promised would be useless now. On all sides he was surrounded by legions of Ninja Romans, all staring at him in unison, the samurai swords glimmering in the blistering desert heat.
“Fuck me” Jesus thought, the Marlboro hanging loosely from the corner of his mouth. “Now I’m proper fucked.”
The wind was the only noise for what seemed an eternity as Jesus looked around at his certain death…
Elsewhere Sean Rodrieguez was still racing toward the scene, standing atop his galloping elephant and smoking as he looked toward the crowd now gathering around Jesus in the distance. He was gaining closer now, but even a man or god like Sean couldn’t be sure whether or not he’d make it there in time…unless he did something drastic. Clenching the filter of the cigarette tightly between his teeth Sean threw off his suit jacket into the air and stamped his heel once onto the elephants back, the Elephant stopped dead and slung Sean through the air at an incredible pace, still smoking toward Jesus and his assailants.
So it was that just as Jesus had become resigned to his fate, Sean flew through one side of the army like a missile and came to a sliding stop next to Jesus just as he finished his cigarette.
“Jesus Christ!” Said Sean “You’re lucky I showed up”
Then he knocked down his Ray Ban sunglasses and sighed as the Ninja Romans began to advance in perfect unison, spears and samurai swords sticking from the gaps in their shields. Sean would not stand for this.
“NOT TODAY MOTHERFUCKERS!” Sean bellowed and with that he and Jesus launched into battle.
It is often a section missed out from the bible, the day that Sean and Jesus alone battled and defeated 300 Ninja Romans barehanded but that needs attention, for few stories show the awesomeness of Sean Rodrieguez as well nor show just how much help Jesus needed to become the figurehead he is now.
Jesus went home from that day a new man, no longer scornful of Sean Rodrieguez because he had witnessed first hand the awesomeness of the man. He went back to his carpentry apprenticeship and later became a fully qualified carpenter (also the Son of God). He and Jo never spoke again but he moved on and found love again. As for Sean Rodrieguez? Seeing that his work was now done, he merely thanked God and Jesus for their hospitality and climbing onto the back of his Elephant travelled on throughout the land, looking for other people to help and adventures to embark on. The people who saw him leave say he disappeared into thin air, leaving not a trace or elephantine footstep. Rumours abounded in the tabloids the next day that he was capable of time travel, but they were soon forgotten and replaced the next week by the scandal of a woman showing her knees in public. But people often spoke idly of the legend that was Sean Rodrieguez and where he might be now. A question that this other knows the answer to all too well, but that is a whole other story…
Monday 7 September 2009
Friday 28 August 2009
The Hypothetical Funeral Of Sean Rodrieguez
The Outline for The Hypothetical Funeral of Sean Jose Jesus Rodrieguez
Time: Right Now.
-
Opening Sermon
The Artist Formerly Known as The Pope Himself:
Hello and welcome to the SuperAwesome Funeral of Sean Jose Jesus Rodrieguez presented by www.seanrodrieguez.blogspot.com. You may be seated.
Sean was taken from us all too soon. Taken the way he truly would have wanted to be taken, by offering Superman, Spiderman, Al Pacino, Zach and Slater from Saved By The Bell to a contest of “Let’s See Who’s More Awesome By Doing Stupid Things”. So sad it was that when Sean drunkenly tried to stop a speeding 18 wheeler truck using only his erection he perished.
*pause for weeping, sobbing, cries of “WHY?! WHY?!!” and “HE WAS SO
AWESOME!” to subside.
Sean did indeed die much the way he lived, with his genitals being violently thrust into something.
(Here the Archbishop cattle prods the Pope back into sense)
We learnt! However! That however magnificently hung a man is, he cannot stop a speeding truck using his own erection, however sturdy and well travelled it may be. Sean lived what the bible would have called Sin. However it is the churches decision that we now rewrite the entire scripture to have Sean co-star as the rival of Jesus Christ our lord and saviour. I feel it is only fitting that a man so godlike in stature be preserved for future generations in this way.
I now present, as a sneak preview to be released by Universal Studios in film form starring Brad Pitt as Sean Rodrieguez, part of the newly written scripture:
“And Yea, the Lord did say to his Son Jesus of Nazereth, you shall accept that Sean Rodrieguez is your superior. To which Jesus did appear bemused and was heard to comment “But he’s just a rich pretty boy father!” and so the Lord did respondeth “How very dare you my Son, truly this man in his very essence was the salt of the earth and the water of the oceans.” The disciples here gathered close around Jesus in his hour of need.
“Futhermore” the Lord continued “Surely such a man who hath fought lion’s with his bare hands and hath fought bears with his lion’s heart must be recognized as the reason for creation, lest we forget he was truly perfection in man’s form”
“Fuck” Cursed Jesus as he stubbed out his Marlboro under his sandaled foot. Jesus has struggled long and hard for his father’s attention only to have it stolen from under his very nose by this pretty, rich, well hung, talented author of bestsellers. All he wanted was attention, all he wanted to be loved and that whole cry for attention with the cross had gotten him nothing more than a few embarrassing scars and the laughter of a million Romans. “Sean didn’t need to do any of that” Jesus thought angrily “All he did was attend an orgy and please all the females in the room whilst arguing the newest military campaign with the counsel”
Sean Rodrieguez stepped forward into the pool of light cast from the heavens and knelt before his lord and adoptive father. From nowhere “Get Down Saturday Night” by Oliver Cheatham was heard to blast from the clouds and Sean did verily get down and get funky with it, so much so that the disciples joined in and the dance sequence that followed was glorious, much sand was kicked with spin moves and many maidens were allured to Sean, whom merely winked at them and explained that he was already busy betting busy with THE FUNK.
“Sean I have an important mission for you my son” quoth the Lord.
Sean however was too busy doing such slick dance moves that the great, great, great, great, great, great, great ,great grandfather of James Brown was heard to declare “WHOOOOOOOAaaaaaAAAAAAAA”
From a distance, in his dark room Jesus did hear the merriment of this occasion and had had enough. He stormed out of his room, he’d show up that Sean Rodrieguez, with the dance routine he had practiced in his bedroom mirror to “Digital Love” by Daft Punk. Indeed twas well known through the land that few did the Robot like Jesus did the Robot. Jesus decided that truly now and forevermore he would prove to his dad that he was better than this alluring pretty author who had captivated the civilized world with his incredible wit.
Jesus did reach for the door and did storm out of the Lord’s House. “I’m going to do the best damn Robot, they ever did see” Thought Jesus “Then they’ll see, oh yes, then they shall see.”
Meanwhile Sean was just breaking out one of his many dance moves whereby a large lion, a large bear and a large elephant joined him in his dance. Some say that no man could teach a Lion, Bear and Elephant how to dance in perfect timing to a disco song that wouldn’t be written for some 2000 years, but surely it was seen that day that Sean Rodrieguez could. So the crowd grew larger and larger, watching this man dance like few have ever danced.
And that’s when Jesus got mad.
With a primal scream Jesus began laying waste to warriors right and left with his bare hands, tearing out spines and spleens like a fat man fisting an even fatter girl only to pull out her vital organs. After the first 50 had been slain Jesus let loose a mighty roar.
A roar that carried all the way to where Sean, his Lion, his Bear and his Elephant were still dancing only now to “You See The Trouble With Me” by Barry White so well that even the lord had begun to weep and so a terrible rainstorm befell the land. This only served to soak Sean’s robes so much so that his stunning body was shown through the white of the material. But suddenly, Sean heard Jesus’ roar and threw his long haired head in it’s direction, rain water splaying off his glorious bonce. The music suddenly died (just as it was getting to the good part) and every head in the crowd of over 200,000 watching Sean now looked to where the roar had came. Sean instantly knew that Jesus was being attacked by Roman Ninja’s and that truly only he and his band of loyal animals could now be the group for the mission.
“Sean!” Bellowed our Lord. “Save my Son!”
Sean looked at the kicked about sand he had been dancing on and lit a cigarette, exhaling the first drag into the rainy desert air.
“I’ll try” Said the mighty Rodrieguez in his throaty growl of a voice, the sound of which caused all female virgins in the surrounded expanse of a crowd lose their hymen’s and experience their first orgasm simultaneously.
Will Sean Save Jesus from the Ninja Romans??
Will Jesus earn the respect of his father??
How much more unbelievable can this story get??
Time: Right Now.
-
Opening Sermon
The Artist Formerly Known as The Pope Himself:
Hello and welcome to the SuperAwesome Funeral of Sean Jose Jesus Rodrieguez presented by www.seanrodrieguez.blogspot.com. You may be seated.
Sean was taken from us all too soon. Taken the way he truly would have wanted to be taken, by offering Superman, Spiderman, Al Pacino, Zach and Slater from Saved By The Bell to a contest of “Let’s See Who’s More Awesome By Doing Stupid Things”. So sad it was that when Sean drunkenly tried to stop a speeding 18 wheeler truck using only his erection he perished.
*pause for weeping, sobbing, cries of “WHY?! WHY?!!” and “HE WAS SO
AWESOME!” to subside.
Sean did indeed die much the way he lived, with his genitals being violently thrust into something.
Please rise for the first hymn…
(After the frantic sobbing and beating of the floor has began to subside, the Pope Himself continues with his eulogy)
(Here the Archbishop cattle prods the Pope back into sense)
We learnt! However! That however magnificently hung a man is, he cannot stop a speeding truck using his own erection, however sturdy and well travelled it may be. Sean lived what the bible would have called Sin. However it is the churches decision that we now rewrite the entire scripture to have Sean co-star as the rival of Jesus Christ our lord and saviour. I feel it is only fitting that a man so godlike in stature be preserved for future generations in this way.
I now present, as a sneak preview to be released by Universal Studios in film form starring Brad Pitt as Sean Rodrieguez, part of the newly written scripture:
“And Yea, the Lord did say to his Son Jesus of Nazereth, you shall accept that Sean Rodrieguez is your superior. To which Jesus did appear bemused and was heard to comment “But he’s just a rich pretty boy father!” and so the Lord did respondeth “How very dare you my Son, truly this man in his very essence was the salt of the earth and the water of the oceans.” The disciples here gathered close around Jesus in his hour of need.
“Futhermore” the Lord continued “Surely such a man who hath fought lion’s with his bare hands and hath fought bears with his lion’s heart must be recognized as the reason for creation, lest we forget he was truly perfection in man’s form”
“Fuck” Cursed Jesus as he stubbed out his Marlboro under his sandaled foot. Jesus has struggled long and hard for his father’s attention only to have it stolen from under his very nose by this pretty, rich, well hung, talented author of bestsellers. All he wanted was attention, all he wanted to be loved and that whole cry for attention with the cross had gotten him nothing more than a few embarrassing scars and the laughter of a million Romans. “Sean didn’t need to do any of that” Jesus thought angrily “All he did was attend an orgy and please all the females in the room whilst arguing the newest military campaign with the counsel”
So it was that Jesus did respondeth “BUT DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD”
and the lord did comment “But nothing Jesus, now go, I want to talk to Sean.”
Yea, so did Jesus storm off to his room and slam the door.
“Why is Sean so great anyway?” Jesus wrote in his journal “All he does is have sex with the most attractive women of the land. I HATE SEAN RODRIEGUEZ” thereupon Jesus did throw himself upon his bed and listen to Rage Against The Machine, longing for the day he too would be appreciated by his father.
Sean Rodrieguez stepped forward into the pool of light cast from the heavens and knelt before his lord and adoptive father. From nowhere “Get Down Saturday Night” by Oliver Cheatham was heard to blast from the clouds and Sean did verily get down and get funky with it, so much so that the disciples joined in and the dance sequence that followed was glorious, much sand was kicked with spin moves and many maidens were allured to Sean, whom merely winked at them and explained that he was already busy betting busy with THE FUNK.
“Sean I have an important mission for you my son” quoth the Lord.
Sean however was too busy doing such slick dance moves that the great, great, great, great, great, great, great ,great grandfather of James Brown was heard to declare “WHOOOOOOOAaaaaaAAAAAAAA”
From a distance, in his dark room Jesus did hear the merriment of this occasion and had had enough. He stormed out of his room, he’d show up that Sean Rodrieguez, with the dance routine he had practiced in his bedroom mirror to “Digital Love” by Daft Punk. Indeed twas well known through the land that few did the Robot like Jesus did the Robot. Jesus decided that truly now and forevermore he would prove to his dad that he was better than this alluring pretty author who had captivated the civilized world with his incredible wit.
Jesus did reach for the door and did storm out of the Lord’s House. “I’m going to do the best damn Robot, they ever did see” Thought Jesus “Then they’ll see, oh yes, then they shall see.”
Meanwhile Sean was just breaking out one of his many dance moves whereby a large lion, a large bear and a large elephant joined him in his dance. Some say that no man could teach a Lion, Bear and Elephant how to dance in perfect timing to a disco song that wouldn’t be written for some 2000 years, but surely it was seen that day that Sean Rodrieguez could. So the crowd grew larger and larger, watching this man dance like few have ever danced.
Elsewhere, Jesus stormed toward the sounds of merriment on the horizon. Suddenly a group of ninjas and Romans (the most deadly of all warrior combinations) swarmed him.
“Stop King of The Jews!” they yelled.
Jesus was a man on edge and so it was he did respond “Fuck Off! I’m not in the fucking mood!”
But the Ninja Romans would not be discouraged and they lunged at Jesus. Jesus jumped high into the air and with a mighty kick impaled three attacking Romans like meat on a kebab skewer. Three more ninjas charged him and Jesus let loose a mighty right handed punch that knocked all three out in immediate succession.
And that’s when Jesus got mad.
With a primal scream Jesus began laying waste to warriors right and left with his bare hands, tearing out spines and spleens like a fat man fisting an even fatter girl only to pull out her vital organs. After the first 50 had been slain Jesus let loose a mighty roar.
A roar that carried all the way to where Sean, his Lion, his Bear and his Elephant were still dancing only now to “You See The Trouble With Me” by Barry White so well that even the lord had begun to weep and so a terrible rainstorm befell the land. This only served to soak Sean’s robes so much so that his stunning body was shown through the white of the material. But suddenly, Sean heard Jesus’ roar and threw his long haired head in it’s direction, rain water splaying off his glorious bonce. The music suddenly died (just as it was getting to the good part) and every head in the crowd of over 200,000 watching Sean now looked to where the roar had came. Sean instantly knew that Jesus was being attacked by Roman Ninja’s and that truly only he and his band of loyal animals could now be the group for the mission.
“Sean!” Bellowed our Lord. “Save my Son!”
Sean looked at the kicked about sand he had been dancing on and lit a cigarette, exhaling the first drag into the rainy desert air.
“I’ll try” Said the mighty Rodrieguez in his throaty growl of a voice, the sound of which caused all female virgins in the surrounded expanse of a crowd lose their hymen’s and experience their first orgasm simultaneously.
Will Sean Save Jesus from the Ninja Romans??
Will Jesus earn the respect of his father??
How much more unbelievable can this story get??
Tune in next time for the final instalment of “JESUS: The Sean Rodrieguez Story”
Saturday 27 June 2009
Dating for Idiots Part 4
Breaking Up Painlessly Like A Man.
Many leading relationship experts believe that breaking up with somebody is akin to the grief experienced when a close member of your family dies. A fact that would only perhaps be true if your father were somebody you fucked a few times a week and blew money buying teddy bears for. This isn’t to say that breaking up isn’t a traumatic situation. Another common theory is that whilst in love your body creates more endorphins and when suddenly this love is taken from you, your body essentially goes through a cold turkey withdrawal of having these endorphins. This again is a complete and utter fallacy. Whoever claimed this theory has obviously never experienced a break up whilst you can’t afford your next crack hit, THEN they’d know pain.
Many theories are bandied about the world regarding break ups. Some say it’s a cold turkey withdrawal, some say it’s a grieving process. It is without doubt a cold, dark period of your life. A period where you realize that some period of time at least, you will have to go without sex.
There is no easy remedy for a break up (outside of Amsterdam) but seeing as I got you into this mess I suppose it is really my responsibility to get you out of it as painlessly as possible. So herein lies the guide to Breaking Up Painlessly Like A Man.
Part 1: Preparation.
So you realized it. It may have been whilst you were sat there having to watch Desperate Housewives for the 15th consecutive week whilst your friends were getting hammered and doing drugs with strippers. It may have been when you realized that The Ting Tings really weren’t that awesome. It may have been when you realized that your every movement was now being monitored, measured, graded, timed, criticized or reviewed. One way or another you want out and whilst the swiftest option may seem like a romantic walk to a shallow grave and a swift strike around her head with a shovel this isn’t necessarily the best (or legal) way of dealing with the situation.
The important thing here is to remain mature and think logically. Is she really at fault for the relationship having ran its course? Is it really her fault that that blonde girl at the club the other night had an arse that made you weep at it’s beauty and gave you her number like it was loose change to a beggar? Can you really blame her for changing from a girl very similar to that blonde girl at the club to, well, HER?
The important thing is to put her in a situation where she can’t lash out angrily at you, yet still feel suitably demeaned and useless. The cliché here is to go to a restaurant. However I thoroughly recommend attending anything that gathers a large crowd. The recently announced string of The Who concerts are a good idea failing that lower league football teams have very cheap tickets and still attract a crowd measuring into the 10,000 mark. Call up beforehand and tell the event organizer that you have a very important announcement to make to your special lady in your life that you would like to make at the interval. They should accept. Now you have the perfect staging ground.
Pre-write what you’re going to say to her to, make it an epic speech. You want this girl to remember this moment for a long time. So don’t drunkenly fumble “It’s not you it’s you soz x” into a text message, prepare small 2 by 5 cards and if possible arrange for a small podium to stand above her, microphone optional depending on the size of the crowd you have to talk over. It’s a good show of masculine power to throw each separate 2 by 5 card at her as you finish reading from it, however this may incur more wrath than you really want.
Now as with all speeches it’s important to figure out what you say before you get up there to say it and telling your soon to be ex just why she isn’t working for you anymore is a situation that requires tact, mental guile and a good knack for improvisation. However we’re men, so we’ll just lie.
Often there are no real reasons for the break up but believe you me she will ask for them. Women require reasons for many things, I can only presume this is because they so scarcely offer any for the things they do wrong. The relationship probably isn’t working for a variety of reasons but do NOT say the following:
- I want to have sex with other people
- I’m tired of having sex with you (or any euphemism which means that such as “You can only plough the same fields so many times/You can only dig a hole so many ways/Your vagina has lost it’s allure…etc)
- I’d like sex with the annoying side of emotion it now comes with as processing such feeling requires effort which we both know is not my strong suit.
- Well come on, you tell me you wouldn’t want to fuck that girl from the club (whereupon you show her a photo your friend took of you licking the salt for your tequila shot off her breasts.)
Your lies you see, like a portly woman’s thighs, are there to cushion the blow. Needless to say this will be the most crushing moment of her life so you need to soothe her with sweet platitudes. Focus on her good points, the points that made her the woman she was. Indeed it is vital you tell her that the sex was great but more so reassure her that her numerous faults, her numerous glaring faults can be rehabilitated if only she completely and utterly changes her persona. Let her know beyond any doubt that she can control whether or not any man will ever love her by simply not being such a total bitch.
At this point, depending on her temperament she’ll likely start crying. This is merely a devious tactic of hers, an emotional smoke screen if you will, to distract you from your main purpose of having sex with other women. Do not fall for it. It is at this point the tough love must come out for the good of you both. Slowly slide your hands up to her shoulders, look her tenderly in the eye and smile just a little sadly at her. Then proceed to shake her violently and tell her to get a hold of herself.
Now it’s time to leave, don’t drag out leaving this is unfair to her. Don’t say any special little leaving line or do anything tender or fond. The men in romantic movies would hug the woman, perhaps choking back a few tears in a vaguely manly sort of way. This is simply because the actor and 90% of males in the film industry are homosexual and have homosexual ideals of how to treat women. But as a red blooded god of fertility you aren’t going to do this. The best way to leave a sobbing, distraught women for the last time in your relationship is to merely quickly mutter “Gotta go” and then sprint to your car, wheel spin off (particularly effective in dusty or muddy dumping environments) whilst this song is blaring out of your system .
The hardest part is now over and by the hardest part I mean the part that required any real exertion on your behalf whatsoever. Thus we move swiftly on.
Part 2: Moving Swiftly On.
It’s important to not mope around after a break up. As I mentioned before your body will enter a cold turkey rehab of endorphins should you let it. Allow me to educate you somewhat on endorphins.
Endorphins, according the reputable online font of knowledge Wikipedia, are endogenous opioid polypeptide compounds. They are produced by the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus in vertebrates during strenuous exercise, excitement, pain, death, and orgasm.
Strenuous exercise, excitement, pain, death and orgasm are all things commonly found within a relationship, so you can see that clearly after a break up the endorphins are going to be at an all time low. The best method to avoid cold turkey, one often espoused by heroin addicts is the simply avoid going cold turkey. Thus don’t let your body run out of endorphins, have sex, have sex with anything that moves, have sex with things that don’t move, have sex with your hand, with hollowed out melons, cucumbers or particularly tight pipes. Keep those endorphins racing through your system, when you can’t have sex then settle for excitement. Go to biker bars in assless leather trousers, spraying poppers into the air and asking when they want to start doing the YMCA. Skydive with another person and one parachute that neither of you is wearing. Walk into a gaggle of lions and tell them you didn’t care for their Disney movie at all.
This truly is the simplest way to deal with your break up. Psychiatrists would have you believe that to truly deal with something you need to face it head on and deal with it emotionally, that you need time grieve and process your emotions. This is bullshit. There is nothing about emotions that cannot be solved by developing a severe alcohol problem, having sex with anything that moves and, just every once in a while when it all gets that little but too much for you, stealing an ice cream van just to pelt the children that flock to you with ice.
Indeed, fuck psychiatry. You’ve just got to keep your glands pumping out that sweet chemical reaction that stops you from realising you broke up with the girl because the second you realize that you’ll realize that all the effort you put into being with her, getting with her and being with her (because it was a lot of effort it deserves listing twice) was wasted because you wanted to fuck somebody else.
Which leads me to the final part of our little guide to relationships.
Part 3: The Realization.
Ultimately afterward you will come to the harrowing realization that in breaking up with this woman you have effectively wasted all the effort you put into her. All that time jockeying for her attention, all that time winning her favour, all that time getting her to lift the restraining order, all that time seducing her, having sex with her, shopping for sex toys to use on her, thinking of excuses not to see her, the effort spent resisting banging her best friend. All wasted, all completely pointless and cast away into the winds for your stupid, simple, animalistic instincts to conquer and sexually dominate as many separate women as you can. If you gave it some thought you’d realize that it was an incredibly stupid thing to have done and that more so that that woman you left did indeed make you happy in small ways beyond the sex and crushing her spirit systematically over a period of time.
Depressively you’ll reflect, in your darkened room sat in your leather armchair surrounded by the empty cans you’ve drained to forget that you feel any which way about anything that that’s all that this whole relationship thing is really. A lot of effort that is eventually, as sure as the day is long, a waste.
Then you’ll drag yourself up out of the chair, the cans metallically clanging as you topple them with your drunkenly stumbling feet. It’ll be 2am, the moon will be the only light source and you will be alone. You’ll fondly recall the time when you weren’t alone at 2am, when there was somebody there that made you feel good, great to be who you are. Somebody that made you feel much better about being blind drunk at 2am in a dark room. You’ll climb the stairs wearily and upon gazing into the mirror will be staring into sunken eyes that are worn and tired, your shoulders slumped because nobody sinks their nails into them orgasmically each night.
You’ll take your phone from your jeans pocket and a few buttons pushes later you’ll be looking at a photo from when you were together, all smiles and happy eyes, arms clinging to each other. It’s then you’ll come to the wistful second realization…and you’ll smile. You’ll know exactly what it is that you need to do to make things right again, to make you feel whole again. You feverishly tap out a text message as you bound down the stairs again and out into the summers evening air.
After all you never did fuck that blonde girl from the club…
And for that I refer you to The Idiots Guide to Dating Part 1. You’ll thank me later.
Many leading relationship experts believe that breaking up with somebody is akin to the grief experienced when a close member of your family dies. A fact that would only perhaps be true if your father were somebody you fucked a few times a week and blew money buying teddy bears for. This isn’t to say that breaking up isn’t a traumatic situation. Another common theory is that whilst in love your body creates more endorphins and when suddenly this love is taken from you, your body essentially goes through a cold turkey withdrawal of having these endorphins. This again is a complete and utter fallacy. Whoever claimed this theory has obviously never experienced a break up whilst you can’t afford your next crack hit, THEN they’d know pain.
Many theories are bandied about the world regarding break ups. Some say it’s a cold turkey withdrawal, some say it’s a grieving process. It is without doubt a cold, dark period of your life. A period where you realize that some period of time at least, you will have to go without sex.
There is no easy remedy for a break up (outside of Amsterdam) but seeing as I got you into this mess I suppose it is really my responsibility to get you out of it as painlessly as possible. So herein lies the guide to Breaking Up Painlessly Like A Man.
Part 1: Preparation.
So you realized it. It may have been whilst you were sat there having to watch Desperate Housewives for the 15th consecutive week whilst your friends were getting hammered and doing drugs with strippers. It may have been when you realized that The Ting Tings really weren’t that awesome. It may have been when you realized that your every movement was now being monitored, measured, graded, timed, criticized or reviewed. One way or another you want out and whilst the swiftest option may seem like a romantic walk to a shallow grave and a swift strike around her head with a shovel this isn’t necessarily the best (or legal) way of dealing with the situation.
The important thing here is to remain mature and think logically. Is she really at fault for the relationship having ran its course? Is it really her fault that that blonde girl at the club the other night had an arse that made you weep at it’s beauty and gave you her number like it was loose change to a beggar? Can you really blame her for changing from a girl very similar to that blonde girl at the club to, well, HER?
The answer, of course, is yes you can. It goes without saying that in instigating a break up you have already decided on some level that everything is the other parties fault and even if it wasn’t you’ve made up some damn good excuses. So now is the time to think of the best possible way of telling her these things in quick succession and then telling her that it’s over. I find that a break up should proceed like a knockout combination in boxing. You lead with the jab then swing the big punch to put them on the canvas, then walk away doing the Ali shuffle to this song.
The important thing is to put her in a situation where she can’t lash out angrily at you, yet still feel suitably demeaned and useless. The cliché here is to go to a restaurant. However I thoroughly recommend attending anything that gathers a large crowd. The recently announced string of The Who concerts are a good idea failing that lower league football teams have very cheap tickets and still attract a crowd measuring into the 10,000 mark. Call up beforehand and tell the event organizer that you have a very important announcement to make to your special lady in your life that you would like to make at the interval. They should accept. Now you have the perfect staging ground.
Pre-write what you’re going to say to her to, make it an epic speech. You want this girl to remember this moment for a long time. So don’t drunkenly fumble “It’s not you it’s you soz x” into a text message, prepare small 2 by 5 cards and if possible arrange for a small podium to stand above her, microphone optional depending on the size of the crowd you have to talk over. It’s a good show of masculine power to throw each separate 2 by 5 card at her as you finish reading from it, however this may incur more wrath than you really want.
Now as with all speeches it’s important to figure out what you say before you get up there to say it and telling your soon to be ex just why she isn’t working for you anymore is a situation that requires tact, mental guile and a good knack for improvisation. However we’re men, so we’ll just lie.
Often there are no real reasons for the break up but believe you me she will ask for them. Women require reasons for many things, I can only presume this is because they so scarcely offer any for the things they do wrong. The relationship probably isn’t working for a variety of reasons but do NOT say the following:
- I want to have sex with other people
- I’m tired of having sex with you (or any euphemism which means that such as “You can only plough the same fields so many times/You can only dig a hole so many ways/Your vagina has lost it’s allure…etc)
- I’d like sex with the annoying side of emotion it now comes with as processing such feeling requires effort which we both know is not my strong suit.
- Well come on, you tell me you wouldn’t want to fuck that girl from the club (whereupon you show her a photo your friend took of you licking the salt for your tequila shot off her breasts.)
Your lies you see, like a portly woman’s thighs, are there to cushion the blow. Needless to say this will be the most crushing moment of her life so you need to soothe her with sweet platitudes. Focus on her good points, the points that made her the woman she was. Indeed it is vital you tell her that the sex was great but more so reassure her that her numerous faults, her numerous glaring faults can be rehabilitated if only she completely and utterly changes her persona. Let her know beyond any doubt that she can control whether or not any man will ever love her by simply not being such a total bitch.
At this point, depending on her temperament she’ll likely start crying. This is merely a devious tactic of hers, an emotional smoke screen if you will, to distract you from your main purpose of having sex with other women. Do not fall for it. It is at this point the tough love must come out for the good of you both. Slowly slide your hands up to her shoulders, look her tenderly in the eye and smile just a little sadly at her. Then proceed to shake her violently and tell her to get a hold of herself.
Now it’s time to leave, don’t drag out leaving this is unfair to her. Don’t say any special little leaving line or do anything tender or fond. The men in romantic movies would hug the woman, perhaps choking back a few tears in a vaguely manly sort of way. This is simply because the actor and 90% of males in the film industry are homosexual and have homosexual ideals of how to treat women. But as a red blooded god of fertility you aren’t going to do this. The best way to leave a sobbing, distraught women for the last time in your relationship is to merely quickly mutter “Gotta go” and then sprint to your car, wheel spin off (particularly effective in dusty or muddy dumping environments) whilst this song is blaring out of your system .
The hardest part is now over and by the hardest part I mean the part that required any real exertion on your behalf whatsoever. Thus we move swiftly on.
Part 2: Moving Swiftly On.
It’s important to not mope around after a break up. As I mentioned before your body will enter a cold turkey rehab of endorphins should you let it. Allow me to educate you somewhat on endorphins.
Endorphins, according the reputable online font of knowledge Wikipedia, are endogenous opioid polypeptide compounds. They are produced by the pituitary gland and the hypothalamus in vertebrates during strenuous exercise, excitement, pain, death, and orgasm.
Strenuous exercise, excitement, pain, death and orgasm are all things commonly found within a relationship, so you can see that clearly after a break up the endorphins are going to be at an all time low. The best method to avoid cold turkey, one often espoused by heroin addicts is the simply avoid going cold turkey. Thus don’t let your body run out of endorphins, have sex, have sex with anything that moves, have sex with things that don’t move, have sex with your hand, with hollowed out melons, cucumbers or particularly tight pipes. Keep those endorphins racing through your system, when you can’t have sex then settle for excitement. Go to biker bars in assless leather trousers, spraying poppers into the air and asking when they want to start doing the YMCA. Skydive with another person and one parachute that neither of you is wearing. Walk into a gaggle of lions and tell them you didn’t care for their Disney movie at all.
This truly is the simplest way to deal with your break up. Psychiatrists would have you believe that to truly deal with something you need to face it head on and deal with it emotionally, that you need time grieve and process your emotions. This is bullshit. There is nothing about emotions that cannot be solved by developing a severe alcohol problem, having sex with anything that moves and, just every once in a while when it all gets that little but too much for you, stealing an ice cream van just to pelt the children that flock to you with ice.
Indeed, fuck psychiatry. You’ve just got to keep your glands pumping out that sweet chemical reaction that stops you from realising you broke up with the girl because the second you realize that you’ll realize that all the effort you put into being with her, getting with her and being with her (because it was a lot of effort it deserves listing twice) was wasted because you wanted to fuck somebody else.
Which leads me to the final part of our little guide to relationships.
Part 3: The Realization.
Ultimately afterward you will come to the harrowing realization that in breaking up with this woman you have effectively wasted all the effort you put into her. All that time jockeying for her attention, all that time winning her favour, all that time getting her to lift the restraining order, all that time seducing her, having sex with her, shopping for sex toys to use on her, thinking of excuses not to see her, the effort spent resisting banging her best friend. All wasted, all completely pointless and cast away into the winds for your stupid, simple, animalistic instincts to conquer and sexually dominate as many separate women as you can. If you gave it some thought you’d realize that it was an incredibly stupid thing to have done and that more so that that woman you left did indeed make you happy in small ways beyond the sex and crushing her spirit systematically over a period of time.
Depressively you’ll reflect, in your darkened room sat in your leather armchair surrounded by the empty cans you’ve drained to forget that you feel any which way about anything that that’s all that this whole relationship thing is really. A lot of effort that is eventually, as sure as the day is long, a waste.
Then you’ll drag yourself up out of the chair, the cans metallically clanging as you topple them with your drunkenly stumbling feet. It’ll be 2am, the moon will be the only light source and you will be alone. You’ll fondly recall the time when you weren’t alone at 2am, when there was somebody there that made you feel good, great to be who you are. Somebody that made you feel much better about being blind drunk at 2am in a dark room. You’ll climb the stairs wearily and upon gazing into the mirror will be staring into sunken eyes that are worn and tired, your shoulders slumped because nobody sinks their nails into them orgasmically each night.
You’ll take your phone from your jeans pocket and a few buttons pushes later you’ll be looking at a photo from when you were together, all smiles and happy eyes, arms clinging to each other. It’s then you’ll come to the wistful second realization…and you’ll smile. You’ll know exactly what it is that you need to do to make things right again, to make you feel whole again. You feverishly tap out a text message as you bound down the stairs again and out into the summers evening air.
After all you never did fuck that blonde girl from the club…
And for that I refer you to The Idiots Guide to Dating Part 1. You’ll thank me later.
Friday 1 May 2009
Finishing It Off.
Explanation: Well anybody who knows me will get who this is about after about ten seconds of reading what follows. This is however intended to be part of a much larger project which I feel has a great deal of promise but will also need a great deal of work to even complete, but I'll be updating the blog with news of that soon. For the meantime here's the latest, well, anything that I've written and one I'm particularly proud of.
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You know it’s funny to think of him as dead. Even now, when you know damn well he’s dead cause he hasn’t been around to call you a motherfucker OR a cunt for around 2 months. I don’t want to apply myself to that cheesy school of thought whereby he isn’t actually “dead” note the speech marks because he lives on in my memory. That to be seems to be such a stupid approach to the whole thing. People are always in your memory. Jesus when he was alive I remembered the stupid things he did daily, the triumphs as well. Death has just left me with nothing but the memories. With him not here, what else do I have left?
But still it’s a very funny thing to think of your friend as dead. Sometimes when my mind idles I wonder where he must be still, what he might be doing then the logical part of my brain kicks in with the realization that he’s around 5 miles away underneath six feet of earth slowly decomposing. Not the most romantic of thoughts I will grant you, but logic is rarely a nicety is it?
No it’s not that he’s still here in memories, it’s that he’s still there in my head somewhere. In everyday life he still exists. Take for example the end of the bar.
The end of the bar was less the end of the bar and more a serene respite from work that was conveniently located some 5 feet away from where we worked. The end of it is warped and chipped from the countless spills, wet glasses and piles of washed cutlery set upon it. It’s the filthiest most unkempt corner of the entire bar but it was ours. It was our little place. The hours spent there are countless. To the point where it seems that the most part of work was spent there. There was always a very comfortable routine to it. Send out the last of the checks, clean down the sides, one sweeps, one does pots, we both mop out and one of us orders two pints of Carlsberg when we’ve mopped to the exit door. Then you go up and get changed laughing about the events of the night, whatever they may be and go down. In routine the first pint is always the best tasting, the coldest, the most satisfying. You drink it unlike any of the rest of them. You drink it with a sense of direct urgency. It’s an urgency born both from thirst and stress equally we decided one night when we both happened to question it at the same time.
And there you’d stand. Stood at the end of the bar drinking yourself into a small oblivion and feeling like you’d live forever. Life is full of small ironies that way. At the end of the bar you always had this sense of immortality in the fact that no matter what had gone wrong before that was now set perfectly right by the consumption, the heavy consumption of alcohol. There was also the oddest sense of unity, a sense never apparent when we were both alive, it’s funny how you only notice these things when one of you is dead. You both knew you were looking forward to this pint at the end of the bar all fucking night or all fucking day as applied. Then you’d neither say anything for those first few mouthfuls as you just sort of…savoured being there. That’s one of those incredibly odd things you realize when somebody close to you dies, you slowly gain a little more appreciation for those million moments in day where you are just simply glad to be exactly where you are stood. Those enchantingly tiny seconds of every single day where you are just happy to be where you are. The horrible thing to admit about this situation is that being around my friend, these moments came every single time I finished work and stood there at the end of the bar with him.
Looking over it as the alive party in this situation you realize that when it was happening to you, you never realized. This leads you to realize that the greatest moments in life, the most perfect, the most content moments in life tend to completely pass you by. You spend your whole life hungering for being content or having lived in that perfect moment where everything is just…right. You hunt for them daily and never realize that you’re shooting past the target. We spend so many days festering on the worst part of the day, week. We look so much at the days when we have no money and payday is just a vague dot on the horizon. We pull ourselves through every lonely day of being single, each morning we don’t wake up with whoever next to us. Then when we wake up next to that person, when we’re with somebody we just find something else negative to focus on. I guess we have to scrape the gutter in order to appreciate the stars. What astonishes me now, looking over it, two months after he has died is that I never ever realized how perfect those small moments at the end of the bar were. But I suppose it’s forgivable in it’s way. How many times during the course of the day do you really take to think “What if this never happened again?”. That’s exactly what happens when one of your closest friends dies, you cold turkey in a sense, from the happy little moments. Thus in the most human of ways we can only realize the beauty of things that are dead, the serenity in more peaceful moments.
I don’t know what I’m meant to say here. What little truism I’m supposed to comb from it. That’s what makes me alive and that’s what makes me human, I will never ever realize how great I have everything for me in this moment until it is all stripped away from me. I’ll never know I was sleeping in a cloud until I’m brought back down to earth.
I opened saying how funny it was to think he was dead but truthfully, as of this moment I’m slowly realizing what an incredibly truant gift it is to be alive and to be able to experience this all. If I was a cheesier person I might say that is his gift to us all, but really he didn’t intend for that. It’s not a wake up call either, his death isn’t a fucking alarm clock to any of us.
I don’t know why I wrote any of this now. I suppose more so than anything else I guess I just miss my friend. I can’t be held to blame for that, it’s the most human of mistakes to not appreciate what is around you everyday.
The end of that bar is dry now. I won’t ever laugh with him on the end of it ever again, I’ll never again have those precious little parts of the day when you can simply relax and join together in the decadent art of drowning away stress in pints of beer. I’ll never have that ever again but it’s ok. Not because he’s alive in my memories, not because he’s made me wake up to what’s around me, these things are a given.
It’s because that whilst it’s funny to think of him as dead, all of a sudden it’s even funnier to think of myself as being alive.
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After a tough couple of months in many respect's I'm intending to bring the blog back better than it ever has been. I'm planning for a couple week's hiatus to write some new stuff and then I'll be back, apologies to my Newbury peep's.
Wednesday 11 February 2009
Sean Rodrieguez' Links: Showing you Random crap since Today
From the fantastic www.thingsbearslove.com
Fantastic in it's hilarious simplicity, all of the things bears love can be purchased on a T-Shirt, which I intend to purchase the next time I've got some spare cash. This, however, is my desktop background for the meantime.
Wednesday 4 February 2009
Sean Rodrieguez: Explains Complex, Meaningful Lyrics.
Hello and welcome to "Sean Rodrieguez Explains Complex, Meaningful Lyrics. In this segment I hope to answer some questions some of you may have over the lyrics of some of the best music ever written. From analyzing the string sections of Strauss or the fiery anger of Bruce Springsteen.
Many people know the words to the great songs and even more sing along to them whenever they get the chance. But what good is this if people don't know the meanings behind the words? The very raison d'etre of the lyrics themselves? Well as a well renowned musical genius and a man whose analytical skills get him laid frantically at English Literature exams, I've taken it upon myself to help you all understand better the lyrics to a few hand picked songs that I feel are particularly complex and meaningful. Perhaps I'll go through the psychadelic genius of Pink Floyd, the sublime sound of The Beach Boys or the subtle hidden meanings of Morrissey. But this week I'll be covering...
Womanizer by Britney Spears
A devillishly complex song, Britney Spears once again regailed us with her lyrical abilities with the recent smash hit "Womanizer". The song reached number 1 in Eleven different countries charts, including Israel which is widely known as the home of great music. When the video for Womanizer first hit YouTube it was played over 7,000,000 times in the first 48 hours in the United Kingdom alone and at the time of writing has been viewed 60.5 million times overall. The Beatles never did that and thus I feel that is a sign of Britney Spears lyrical superiority. So with out further to do, onto the analysis.
Analysis.
It is important before you can truly understand the lyrics to this piece that you understand the characters involved, here is a brief profile of them all:
Womanizer - Male, Likes: Puppets, Women, Using Women for sex (sex that the women involved do not enjoy in the least because he is a womanizer)
Britney Spears - Female, Powerful, Intelligent and she KNOWS just what YOU are are are.
With that in mind the story and emotion behind the lyrics is much easier to understand. Here, let's examine the first stanza.
"Superstar
Where you from, how's it going?"
Analysis: Britney has just met a "Superstar" and would like to know his hometown and how his day is going. However these lines leave us as an audience with many questions. Is Britney's use of the title "Superstar" sarcastic? Is she commenting on the mans illusions of grandeur or the terrible chauvinistic world in which she co-exists with this man?
"I know you
Gotta clue, what you're doing?"
Analysis: But the folly of the above lines is revealed here as Britney reveals that she knows the male antagonist and she knows the motives of his actions.
"You can play brand new to all the other chicks out here
But I know what you are, what you are, baby"
Analysis: Britney claims that he can try his spurious games of turning up in the vicinity and having a penis with other women, but she knows what he is really planning
Just when you thought that first stanza wasn't a sledgehammer cracking your very being open to possibilities of music as the great communicator of emotions, Britney then unleashes herself into this next stanza
"Look at you
Gettin' more than just re-up
Baby, you
Got all the puppets with their strings up
Fakin' like a good one, but I call 'em like I see 'em
I know what you are, what you are, baby"
Analysis: Britney orders the Womanizer to look at himself. We as an audience then learn that he is apparently a puppeteer, whether or not it's his career or if he's simply a Punch and Judy affecionado we do not yet know, this helps create suspense within the piece. Apparently the man is trying to not appear like a puppeteer but Britney see's through this thin disguise and reiterates for the second time to him that she knows what he is planning. As an audience we are now on the cusp of our seats waiting for her to reveal this man's terrible secret.
"Womanizer
Woman-Womanizer
You're a womanizer
Oh Womanizer
Oh You're a Womanizer Baby
You, You You Are
You, You You Are
Womanizer, Womanizer, Womanizer"
Analysis: Britney herein reveals that the man is a Womanizer, that he Womanizes Women and then reiterates for effect the fact that he is, in fact, a Womanizer. Then she seems to knowingly exclaim that he is a Womanizer with the use of "Oh Womanizer" and then for the fifth time let's us know that he is in fact a Womanizer. Then so as to avoid confusion she points out to us six times in eight words just who is a Womanizer (You). She clearly doesn't think much of the man in questions intelligence as she then tells him three more times that he's a Womanizer. This is an incredibly emotional reveal from Britney as we the audience did not in fact know upto this point in the song just what this man was (A Womanizer).
"Boy don't try to front I I know just just what you are are are
Boy don't try to front I I know just just what you are are are"
Analysis: Britney then reiterates that he should not front (which is youthful terminology for putting up a false pretence) because Britney knows, despite her difficulty here in expressing herself due to an unfortunate stutter presumably due to the intense emotion involved, just what the man is.
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From this examination of the first quarter of the song I feel the main idealogy and meaning behind this song can be clearly identified. The man in question is a Womanizer and Britney knows just what he is.
Fun Fact: Britney uses the word "Womanizer" 42 times in this song. This song is 3 minutes and 45 seconds long. That's 235 seconds. Which means Britney averages a "Womanizer" every 5.5 seconds in this song.
This is an intensely meaningful song that I feel says a great deal about Male-Female relations in this crazy cooped up modern world. Shown beautifully in her choice of costume for the beginning of the video for this lyrical masterpiece:
Analysis: DAYUM LOOK AT THAT BOOTAY.
This has been Sean Rodrieguez Explains Complex Meaningful Lyrics. I hope you have learnt a little something today about this song that you didn't previously understand. It's a deep, meaningful ballad that I feel has an undeniable strength in it's choice of words.
Well I've been Sean Rodrieguez, you, you,you have, you, you, have been a great audience.
Wednesday 28 January 2009
Sean Rodrieguez Writes: An Apology
Dear Loyal Readers and my Newbury Peeps,
I apologize for the distinct lack of updates over the previous two weeks, it's not because I've given up writing for this most awesome of pages, I merely have a college exam coming up (tomorrow in fact) and I've been running around like an idiot applying for University (Stafford, Keele, De Montford, Chester and Salford.)
I'll be back with new material very soon when I no longer have to give a shit about knowing about singular personal pronoun's, active verbs and the date Samuel Johnson published the first English Dictionary thus spawning standardized spelling and allowed for deeper analysis (heh, ANALysis) of the text. Samuel Johnson published the first dictionary in 1755 in case you were wondering.
I'd like to thank any of you reading this on any regular basis and for those of you I know are sharing the site with. Also I'd like to personally thank the lone person from Sydney, Australia for visiting the site. Worldwide Fame Baby!
By way of apology here is a picture of a piglet wearing Wellington boots:
Awwww!
Love,
Sean Jose Jesus Rodrieguez.
Thursday 15 January 2009
Dating for Idiot's Part 3
Dating for Idiot’s Part 3: Surviving a Relationship WITHOUT ANY Violent Convictions.
Or
Shut The Fuck Up Already I Didn’t Fucking Look At Her.
Congratulations today is the first day of the rest of your life the way she envisioned it. So you’ve got yourself into a relationship, which is kind of like getting sent to jail in a game of monopoly, it’s a minor pause before you start trying to buy something else for minimal cost… that metaphor made no sense.
Which leads me to my other opening point: You will slowly lose your mind over the course of the coming months. Sure you have what is graciously referred to the “Honeymoon” period which basically can be translated as “Fucking Each Other Hasn’t Got Repetitive Yet” but it’s short lived like my erection after a bottle of tequila.
Eventually those eyes that held the key to everything you thought you needed will be filled with intense rage because you said that Hollyoaks didn’t have a logical plot line, they’ll be filling with tears every time you say her best friend looks good tonight. That shapely body that first drew you to her like she was wearing a suit of armour and you had a magnet on your dick will soon be used to essentially bribe you into attending meals for your “5 and 3 weeks anniversary”. Her mind which spawned such stunning personality that you were dumb struck upon first meeting her has now apparently been overtaken by a malevolent force with two main goals. First, to turn you slowly insane. Second, to make you believe that it’s YOUR fault you turned insane.
You don’t even want to know what the erogenous zones will do to you, I don’t know if you can take it yet.
You can’t take it yet because you haven’t read the latest and greatest advice from a man who’s in the process of inventing a GPS system that tells you where her clitoris is from the other side of the room. A man who was recently referred to as “The #1 Man You Would Sleep With If The Vibrator Broke On A Desert Island”. The following is the secrets that I have slowly perfected over years of arduous relationships. I was once like you. I know it’s hard to believe but work with me here. I was once the guy who’s got his neck tied to his shoelaces so he can’t look at anybody else when he’s out. I fought my way out with my patented system of rules, which I now bestow upon you, kind reader for being SuperAwesome enough to read this blog.
So check if it’s OK with her and then let’s begin.
Rule #1: Accept That She Will Never Trust You BUT Don’t Take No Shit.
Ok so she’s tied you down now and I don’t mean in the kinky way where you have to use safe words to escape when she’s read the sex tips wrong and is pouring boiled wax onto your bare chest. She’s got you tied down in the sense that this women now for all intent’s and purposes owns your testicles. You may as well copyright a picture of them in her name.
The problem with getting with a girl is, unlike when you’re single, they notice every single fucking thing you do. Thus this means you will inevitably do something that she doesn’t agree with. This will usually occur shortly after your feet touch the carpet rolling out of bed in the morning and end when one of you is dead or in a coma. You have to see things the way she sees things just without the hormones. You’ll quickly learn this is an impossibility.
They just don’t see things the same way as you, this is why they find Pop Idol interesting and give a flying fuck what celebrities are wearing. It took me years of painstaking accusations and this is by no means concrete but the following is a rough translation guide of she thinks you’re doing when you say:
You Say: I’m just off out for a few pints with the lads.
She Thinks: He’s clearly lying, his friends are all layabout evil bastards intent on turning him against me. He’s going to go the nearest brothel whereby his friends will pay for a wild orgy of people who look just like that girl I don’t like.
You Say: I’m going to work.
She Thinks: He’s going to pull up, clock in and then proceed to have wild photocopier sex with that secretary who always looks at me funny.
You Say: I’m going to live in a remote monastery with some monks.
She Thinks: It’s a monastery of nymphomaniac monks who all look like that girl off The OC. Urgh, I just can’t watch that show now.
You Say: I’m going out to buy you a large gift to show my undying love for you.
She Thinks: He’s going to fuck the girl who work’s at Thornton’s and bribe me with a box of Continental with a gift tag he wrote with her pen in the car on the way back here.
As you can see gentlemen, you’re royally fucked. Basically her main tactic of stopping you from fucking any girl other than her is to automatically assume that you’re fucking every girl but her. The main thing to remember is NEVER admit that you’re actually fucking every girl AND her, it doesn’t go down well, trust me.
Let her accuse you a few times and explain calmly and carefully that you are not in fact doing anything wrong by doing exactly what you did 6 months ago when she didn’t give a flying fuck where you were. She’ll continue to accuse you. Now it’s time to display masculinity in order to set her straight.
Chicks dig masculinity trust me.
The next time she accuses you of something like this calmly pick up the TV set and launch it through the window and if she has any pets viciously slaughter them and then CALMLY explain that you didn’t want to do that but she wasn’t listening to you. She’ll lock herself in another room, call her best friend and you can have a nice casual beer and cigarette whilst you text that other girl in peace. Just like she would do, if you only gave her the chance, which leads me to:
Rule #2: If you can’t see her, she’s fucking somebody else.
The rule says it all really. Remember that nice guy she introduced you to last time you dared to go drinking with her without your own friends. The one who was so funny and such a good friend? Yeah the second you aren’t there she’s going to be doing some freaky shit with him and biting the teddy bear you brought her to apologize for going out with your friends and having a good time.
Trusting a girl you can’t see is like looking a tornado heading straight toward you, turning your back to it and saying “oh well it probably won’t hit ME”. This is retarded. There’s a very simple method of dealing with this however I told you that you wouldn’t get any violent convictions.
Beyond that, unfortunately, you are essentially royally fucked. I never said a relationship would be easy.
You have to deal with it like a cold by which I mean you treat the symptoms not the virus. Every time you leave her alone leave some kind of ingenius booby trap in your wake. Duct tape some thumb tacks onto your side of the bed, set up a cunning spring assisted claw hammer trap that triggers when the headboard hits the wall. The best trap I’ve found is to SAY you’re going out and then climb into the attic and wait on the space of roof above your bed. If you hear any noise jump through the floor holding a sledgehammer whilst screaming wild obscenities.
Besides that you’re really on your own sir. I’m trying to figure out a shock collar to deter women from doing this but the fucking fashion season’s keep changing every time I perfect the design.
Rule #3 For The Love Of Christ Don’t Mention Their Weight.
This includes:
- Saying another girl looks thin.
- Saying another object looks thin.
- Saying anything that means “light”. If a bag is light then simply say “Well this bag weighs as much as you!”
- Saying thin in any context not involving her.
- Say anything, ANYTHING about heavy weights or something that connotes “Heavy” around her. I’m sorry, you’ll never eat a Whopper at Burger King around her due to this.
There are drug dealers less concerned with weight than most women. Often you will hear this immortal phrase: “I Feel Fat”. DO NOT SAY:
- Well that’s a stunning coincidence because you look fat.
- Well that’s kind of what happens when you eat 3 kilograms of chocolate.
- Well you’re not exactly athletic.
- YARRR thar be whales ahoy! Drop the anchor! (whereby you pick up and drop her arm)
Simply reassure her in a calming tone, something along the lines of:
- Don’t worry we’re entering an economic depression, you’ll HAVE to lose weight soon.
- I happen to know a great liposuctionist.
- I think the idea of a crash pad for my pelvis during sex is great.
- Don’t worry, you look beautiful.
It doesn’t really matter which of the above you choose because she won’t believe you. It’s here that I want you to go to your happy place. Think of puppies holding hands, think of kittens playing hula hoop, think of two giraffe’s playing “header tennis” with a football.
Just distance yourself because now for at least the next hour she’ll talk at great length about her weight. You advice here is the same as your advice about her buying clothes: she will ask for it but pay zero fucking attention whatsoever to what you said.
Just prepare yourself to calm your homicidal tendencies for the next time she says “I feel fat” around one of her female friends and they say exactly what you say and your girlfriend proceeds to gush and proclaim her love for her. Take revenge for this. The next time you’re making sweet love to her, in the foreplay tell her that you can’t wait to harpoon her.
Rule #4: You Aren’t Ever Going To “Get” Her TV Shows/Magazines.
Yes it is entirely believable that a man would get a map of a prison tattooed onto himself, get sent to prison and then break out just to save his brother rather than say, oh, going to see him in visiting hours and getting on with his life. It’s always highly viable that they’ll both be tall, muscular, good looking and total arseholes that every woman would likely rape given a Viagra and a bed.
It’s also entirely possible that four women who live in New York can get laid more individually than every single person you know ever will in their entire lives. They’ll also juggle high powered jobs and have lots of time to shop as well. Also the best looking one will get laid the least. It’s completely believable shut the fuck up.
Gay people are funny too. Gay people all also know fashion and clothes really fucking well and want nothing more than to be best friends with the gender they optionally chose not to mate with. They’ll all be really flamboyant and be the comforting fe/male presence when any women in a 50 yard radius is single or in the middle of a break up.
Yes it is a good use of our trees to create paper on which to print 300 + pages of pictures of clothes and shoes that they will never, ever purchase but rather look at longingly like a caged lion being offered a sirloin steak with a side of paralysed zebra.
It doesn’t make sense, but for the love of almighty god just let them have their illusions, shut up and buy them the fucking box sets for Christmas.
Rule#5: They aren’t stupid, Why are you talking to them like they’re stupid?!
As if the above wasn’t already like trying to navigate a minefield whilst wearing stilts and being chased by a lion whose mother you just insulted, you have to watch your patronization.
Now whilst I’m a strong advocate of the ideal that patronization is the most fun you can have with a woman that doesn’t involve broken bed slats followed by a smirk and a cigarette, if you want to survive the relationship it’s not recommended.
Bear in mind that women very often confuse honesty with patronization. So your best bet is to just never be honest or better still to just never communicate with her on any medium other than a Birthday, Christmas or Valentines card.
Because if you tell her she just did or said something incredibly stupid it might well be true but telling her isn’t honesty it’s patronizing her. A girl could walk into the path of a speeding truck and if you told her during her recovery it was a pretty stupid thing to do, you can expect a mood.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Now I’m not saying these things are easy to achieve. You probably now understand why your father was so unhappy/angry/alcoholic all through your childhood. You probably get why men celebrate quite so hard at stag parties.
But this is what you get when you give women equality so my dad tells me. Surviving a relationship comes down to these above five rules more often than not. The depressing thing about these things is that there’s a million other little things you learn on your own. They’re usually learnt via a long drawn out argument that solves or proves nothing and leaves none of you any the wiser about each other.
You tread your own little path on the minefield that is a relationship. The prize for making it through is simply a very tired woman who simply cannot be bothered to criticize your faults anymore and grudgingly accepts them and this, my friends is what marriage is.
You don’t want to get married though. As the man I was educated in women by once said “Son don’t get married because then the next thing you know you’re paying for an idiot like you to attend college to avoid a divorce.”
He was a loving man my father.
But you’re in luck because as always I’ve got you covered my lucky readers and fans. If you’re already contemplating caving your girlfriends head in with her latest pair of New Look heels then have I got the right guide for you next…
Tune in Next Time For The Final Part Of Our Guide Series: Dating for Idiot’s Part 4: Breaking Up.
Monday 12 January 2009
Dating For Idiots: Part 2
Forming a "Relationship".
So the first date went well. She fell like a double leg amputee patient negotiating a large set of stairs for your boyish charm, viper like wit, exquisite sense of style and your penis that would put a sperm whale to shame in the showers. Of course she did, this is to be expected when one follows the Rodrieguez Guides but you now will find yourself asking; “What happens next?”
Well of course, as a man of intense passion and romance, as a boiling over saucepan of sheer male hormones, as a man with so much testosterone I once one punched a grizzly bear for looking at me funny, I know what comes next.
What you have to do now is form a relationship.
You don’t, I suppose, HAVE to form a relationship. Some men may prefer tagging their dates best friend next, start the slow arduous task of having one night stands with the rest of her family or even start going to singles nights to pick up lonely fat chicks with inferiority complexes. These are all perfectly understandable options that I inherently endorse especially the charity of banging fat girls, it being recently discovered in a scientific study that every time a fat girl gets laid Jesus smiles a little.
But these options are not necessarily the correct option.
The thing that most men overlook about relationships is that it’s essentially like having sex not on tap as the saying goes, it’s like have sex on fucking fire hose set to full. Now some men (whom are gay) will point out the emotions involved. The feeling of contentment and extreme happiness of being somebody who you love, the great times you can spend together, the feelings you can share. These are generally the men who don’t like having regular sex with females (because they are gay) because they don’t read guides like this. I mean Christ they probably even try to “make love”…
Regardless the following is going help you to steer your battle cruiser of love into her pearl harbour so frequently you’ll be known to all your friends as “The Admiral”. Building a relationship can take patience and requires nerves of steel so that you don’t lose it and start beating her over the head with a rolled up copy of her Cosmo when she tries to get you to watch Will & Grace. This guide can’t teach you these things. The gift of causing severe brain haemorrhages with a magazine that’s all about (from what I’ve gathered) clothes, how men suck and how to make men want you is a rare one.
But don’t be glum, chum! With my technique soon to be published in Cosmo’s “Sexiest Sexist Male Bastards” column, you probably won’t even need to strike her.
Unless it’s for fun of course.
Section 1: Making That First Step.
So the date went well. You’ve dropped her off at the door, she didn’t sleep with you because you only had £30 on you and didn’t want to haggle. You’re in position to strike like a cobra playing Wii Sport’s bowling.
As soon as her door shuts on that last sweet goodbye, head home. Camping in her front garden, whilst it shows dedication to her, is sadly illegal. It’s also not recommended to pick the door lock on her house later that night, slip into bed next to her sleeping body and explain it with “I missed you” when she awakes screaming. Trust me.
No you have to play it cool and casual. Women love a man who’s aloof. Go home and go about your life. Watch some TV, maybe a film, read a book, take a relaxing shower and think about how awesome you are. Anyway after 20 minutes have passed, call her house. If she doesn’t answer it slam the phone down, wait five seconds and redial. She’ll answer eventually. When she does answer, don’t waste words. Tell her that you love her and you miss her, that you want to be with her and any other decent lies you can come up with.
This will catch the female off guard because you’re sending her mixed signals and women can only notice one emotion at a time. Any more than one and they tend malfunction and have to drink wine with their friends and call you an arsehole. Now the girl will think you’re displaying a weakness by showing emotion. Let her have her petty games, play along as a being of superior intellect. She’ll tell you that you’re a really nice guy but she:
- Just doesn’t know you well enough yet.
- Thinks of you as more of a friend.
- Is married/arranged to be married/in a relationship/a mail order bride.
- Is gay (don’t be alarmed by this unless she didn’t wear make up to the date)
These are all complete fallacies. If she didn’t want to be bound to you for the foreseeable future then she would never have let you pay for the dinner at the first date. She’s simply trying to outwit you the best way a woman can: by lying.
But you are prepared.
Let her finish telling you one of the above reasons.
(NOTE: Which can take anywhere up to half a day as she explains her emotions and probably cites previous examples of where there was a guy like you and she took a chance and it didn’t work out and she got hurt and she doesn’t want to make herself vulner…etc. So I recommend recording a clip of you saying “Alright” and “I understand”, set it to repeat every minute and go start a hobby, ship building worked for me.)
Letting her finish is important because if she thinks your listening you’ll boost your status with her even more because then she’ll think you’re “sensitive” and she doesn’t mean after an orgasm. She means in the emotionally involved way, little do they realize men have long since evolved past the need for any emotions. When she’s finished make a few anguished sobbing sounds and hang up, then go make yourself a large manly sandwich, you’ve earnt it.
We are now playing on the second most reliable emotion a woman can display “Guilt over things she hasn’t actually done.” Get comfortable exploiting this, it’ll come in handy during the relationship.
Part 2: The Seduction Method That’s Like Shooting Retarded Fish In a Barrel That Worry If Their Outfit Goes as They Bleed to Death.
Give it a day exactly from the moment you hung up. She WILL call (if she doesn’t then just trust me on this, she had a cock).
When you finally decide to answer her call, she’ll explain that she feels bad and that she hopes that her “rejecting” you isn’t going to make things weird between you. React as though she told you something really ordinary, as though she just commented on the weather, a current news event or how badly she wants to tear off your boxers with her teeth like a rabid jackal.
I find saying “Oh”, “That’s nice” or “Jesus Christ would you shut the fuck up” works. Whatever you do, do not accept her apology. Don’t say you’ve forgiven her, this helps keep her right on the edge of the cliff where at the base of the fall is your penis.
Then say “So do you want to go out sometime?”
She’ll respond affirmatively.
Then say “Yeah I’ll call you when I’ve got some spare time ok? Bye.”
WAIT for her to begin saying goodbye then hang up halfway through her saying the word.
Now we’re in control. Notice that the females power, though feeble at it’s peak relative to your male prowess, is now stripped away. Thus you learn:
Rule #1 Of Starting a Relationship: Strike when they are at their weakest.
As you wield the power now feel free to do whatever the fuck you want to really, just don’t call her. If you’re on fire and she’s got the bucket of water, just act cool until you either die or pass out from the pain. If our almighty saviour Zeus was to come down from the heavens and says he’ll bitch slap you with lightning bolts if you don’t call her, refuse and spit on him. If Mike Tyson threatens you with some “cellblock loving” then goddamn it man you bite into that bar of soap and take it like a champ, cause this is all for a higher cause.
If she calls you, do not pick up. If she bumps into you on the high street, shield your vision from her and run frantically away screaming “LALALALA” so you can’t hear her yelling out for you to come back. If by some insane, incredible coincidence you end up in the same social situation as her that you can’t escape then be sure to answer her every sentence with “The Three Magic Words.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Example:
Her: Oh..hi…Ralph? Ralph!! Hi!!
After a quick glance for escape routes you discover that you’re at a bar and last orders is just finishing. You weigh up your options and decide to grit it out. But it’s ok, You’ve read this guide
Her: Wow! I haven’t seen you for about…2 weeks? Has it been 2 weeks?
You: Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
At this point she attempts to hug you, a common trap that you should never fall for. You do the right thing and go completely limp, thus using her power against her and sending her to the floor
Her: Owww! So how’ve you been?
You: Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
Her: I’ve been pretty good in fact I got promot…
You: Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
Her: Well I have to go back to my mates now (LIE) but we should really get together again sometime soon OK?
You: Yeah. Sure Whatever.
She dives onto your face right there at the bar, guaranteed.
And with just those three magical words I’ve just got myself date number two and I’ve demonstrated why the above was worth the anal rape, the lightning bolt injuries and the first degree burns:
Rule #2 of Starting a Relationship: Women love a guy to be an obnoxious, self absorbed prick more than they love Sex and The City.
With this rule absorbed you know now the basically infallible rule of getting women into a relationship.
You see gentlemen, it’s all good being that nice guy who listens to what she say’s, who’s sensitive, who always tells her how pretty and unique she really is and how it’s totally not just about the sex for you at all. It’s all good being the guy who likes all the same things she does and buying her gifts “just because you saw it and thought of her”. It’s fine to go about your appearance with only pleasing that special girl in mind, smelling the way that she wants you to, wearing your hair the way she likes it, squeezing yourself into skinny jeans because she thinks they look good on guys. This is all well and good until you make that great revelation every man comes to make at some point in his life.
Women don’t have a fucking clue what they want.
That doesn’t matter at all though because thanks to this guide you just ascertained yourself a relationship and months of carefree rampant sex, god bless you. Who’s glum now chum?
Well give it a few months or so and it’ll be you and you’ll be needing to read the next part of my critically acclaimed “Sean Rodrieguez’ Guides” series:
Dating for Idiot’s Part 3: Surviving a Relationship WITHOUT ANY Violent Convictions.
Wednesday 7 January 2009
Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Six
I awake among a cluster of naked runway models with severe father issues. In my left hand I’m grasping the long neck of a drained bottle of Jose Cuervo my right holds a bottle of Bud Ice that’s dripping it’s last slowly onto sound asleep female midriff. Something is definitely right here…
I get out of bed and walk over a carpet of naked bodies, waking up each one as I step with a shower of profanity and abuse. As a celebrity I’m pretty used to that kind of reaction when I stand on people’s naked girlfriends. I step into a more literal shower and looking over the stunning mass that is myself I realize suddenly I’ve gotten a new tattoo. Despite my usual tattoo of the word “Talent” in bold letters down my left forearm I apparently got “Matthew xvi. 23” down my right forearm at some point last night.
I get out of bed and walk over a carpet of naked bodies, waking up each one as I step with a shower of profanity and abuse. As a celebrity I’m pretty used to that kind of reaction when I stand on people’s naked girlfriends. I step into a more literal shower and looking over the stunning mass that is myself I realize suddenly I’ve gotten a new tattoo. Despite my usual tattoo of the word “Talent” in bold letters down my left forearm I apparently got “Matthew xvi. 23” down my right forearm at some point last night.
It never felt so fucking awesome to make a drunken mistake.
Alcohol Intake: FUCK THIS DIARY SHIT.
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With Special Thanks To: Seb De Turenne for help with the French on day 4 and to all of you who read all the updates. Thanks for reading.
Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Five
I awake with a sense of desperation. My body is screaming out for alcohol. I shower and seeing as I get most of my major thinking done there, staring absently at the sheer beauty of myself. Whilst stood there in the steam and soap I made a decision, perhaps the best decision of my life. I dried myself off with a thick luxurious towel and decided that I was going to act now. It was time to take control of my destiny. I flung open the door to my walk in closet (recently valued at around £1.4 million, not including the clothes) and picked out a crisp, new Paul & Joe suit.I all but ran out to the courtyard, dived into my Ferrari Enzo and took off, heading for the bright lights of the city.
I came to a screeching halt outside a cathedral looming over me casting a dark shadow over my stylish entrance as I rolled out of the car and sprinted up the long stone steps to the heavy wooden doors, throwing myself at them and flinging them open. The midday sun poured into the room, showing thousands of specks of dust floating through the air like gnats. I looked to the right. A confessional booth. Salvation.
Throwing aside a queuing nun I dived into the booth.
“Bless me father for I have sinned.” I blurted out. “It has been 19 years since my last confession.”
“Go on my child.” Said the priest, his face obscured by a small stained glass window.
“Well I might as well start from now” I sighed.
Then I stood and punched him on the jaw through the window, sending glass shattering throughout the booth. Outside a woman screamed, I didn’t care. I stepped out of the booth and breathed in the balmy air, feeling like a new man. A new born soul. That’s about the time that the vicar slammed me on the temple with the hardback edition of The Bible, sending me sprawling into the pews. I stood up and wiped away the blood from my lip. I reached out for my Ray Bans on the floor, picked them up, cleaned them off and put them back on. Then I knocked them down my nose and looked hard at the vicar. He seemed unshaken by this, odd I thought, but at least it was a challenge. He moved into some kind of martial arts stance.
“I’m not having this shit” I thought and went to kick him in the balls.
He caught my foot and went to throw me but I used to momentum to back flip and land perfectly on top of a nearby pew. I laughed at his attempts to harm me and began what could only be described as a breath taking display of acrobatics using the pews as landing and launching pads. The vicar was astounded, dazzled by this display, that is until I landed right next to him like a ninja and floored him with a powerful elbow blow so hard I could feel his nose break through the delicate fibres of my suit. He fell to the floor, writhing in agony. I looked down on my fallen foe and smiled.
“Say sorry to your friend.” I said pointing to the unconscious priest in the confessional booth. “It’s been a bit of a rough week for me.”
“Consider it done.” The vicar said.
“Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going for a drink.” I declared.
And, seducing four nuns on my way out with a click of my fingers. That’s exactly what I did.
Alcohol Intake: 27 Units.
Cigarettes Smoked: 20
Drug Intake: None.
Nuns Slept With: 4
Song of The Moment: My Sweet Lord by George Harrison.
Current Mood: Elated, Free.
I came to a screeching halt outside a cathedral looming over me casting a dark shadow over my stylish entrance as I rolled out of the car and sprinted up the long stone steps to the heavy wooden doors, throwing myself at them and flinging them open. The midday sun poured into the room, showing thousands of specks of dust floating through the air like gnats. I looked to the right. A confessional booth. Salvation.
Throwing aside a queuing nun I dived into the booth.
“Bless me father for I have sinned.” I blurted out. “It has been 19 years since my last confession.”
“Go on my child.” Said the priest, his face obscured by a small stained glass window.
“Well I might as well start from now” I sighed.
Then I stood and punched him on the jaw through the window, sending glass shattering throughout the booth. Outside a woman screamed, I didn’t care. I stepped out of the booth and breathed in the balmy air, feeling like a new man. A new born soul. That’s about the time that the vicar slammed me on the temple with the hardback edition of The Bible, sending me sprawling into the pews. I stood up and wiped away the blood from my lip. I reached out for my Ray Bans on the floor, picked them up, cleaned them off and put them back on. Then I knocked them down my nose and looked hard at the vicar. He seemed unshaken by this, odd I thought, but at least it was a challenge. He moved into some kind of martial arts stance.
“I’m not having this shit” I thought and went to kick him in the balls.
He caught my foot and went to throw me but I used to momentum to back flip and land perfectly on top of a nearby pew. I laughed at his attempts to harm me and began what could only be described as a breath taking display of acrobatics using the pews as landing and launching pads. The vicar was astounded, dazzled by this display, that is until I landed right next to him like a ninja and floored him with a powerful elbow blow so hard I could feel his nose break through the delicate fibres of my suit. He fell to the floor, writhing in agony. I looked down on my fallen foe and smiled.
“Good shot with that Bible” I said in my coolest voice, which caused a cry of female orgasmic pleasure to come from the office block across the road, shattering every window on the street. I helped up the vicar, he rubbed his broken nose and smiled at me.
“Say sorry to your friend.” I said pointing to the unconscious priest in the confessional booth. “It’s been a bit of a rough week for me.”
“Consider it done.” The vicar said.
“Now if you’ll excuse me I’m going for a drink.” I declared.
And, seducing four nuns on my way out with a click of my fingers. That’s exactly what I did.
Alcohol Intake: 27 Units.
Cigarettes Smoked: 20
Drug Intake: None.
Nuns Slept With: 4
Song of The Moment: My Sweet Lord by George Harrison.
Current Mood: Elated, Free.
Tuesday 6 January 2009
Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Four
2pm
I awoke groggily in the middle of my 20 foot master bed. I went downstairs and Jive’s the Butler had already prepared my breakfast of Bran Flakes with low fat milk with the incentive of a banana if I finished the bowl. I wolfed down the bran flakes, took a great swig of my Evian water and then dressed in my tracksuit and went for a jog. I’ve taken to jogging from my front door to the gates of my estate and back which my pedometer tells me is roughly 3 miles. I can do it inside of an hour now, I’m definitely improving. When I got home I took a quick shower, slapped a nicotine patch on my forearm and dressed into my best suit, I was heading out to my psychiatrist. He says that I’m suffering from severe manic depression, egotistical delusions and he says it’s all related to my mother but he’s Freudian so he would. I walked down the stairs and Amelie looked up from checking the mail on the armoire by the ornate front door. She smiled as she noticed me and as I passed by she kissed my lightly stubbled, chiselled cheek.
“See you at one.” I said with a voice that’s been known to be comparable to foreplay. “We’ll go out, I’ll buy you a horse steak.”
She smiled at me and nodded gleefully, she didn’t have a fucking clue what I’d just said but those crazy French bastards man, they love their horses. I knocked on my Ray Bans and as I crunched up the gravel courtyard to my Bentley Continental I was fairly sure I’d made a significant, positive change in my lif…
Ahahaha. You didn’t believe that shit did you? I started today (well I haven’t actually slept now for about 48 hours) running around the grounds naked and punching out the gardener’s for no apparent reason. This rehab might be slowly getting the better of me.
Last night I sat in the corner of the room with “Nothing Compares To You” by Sinead O’Connor playing on repeat whilst I drew endless pictures of bottles containing alcohol and glue-sticking them to myself giggling. The cocaine stopped somewhere around my fifth set of heart palpitations when Amelie started crying hysterically whilst running in circles to drum and bass music I started to think it wasn’t a very good idea anymore. She started freaking out when we ran out and started whipping me with anal beads, which was a pretty shitty situation.
Anyway she ran off to somewhere else on the estate and I locked myself in here coming down and deliriously believing I was an entire barbershop quartet and singing “For The Longest Time” by Billy Joel that’s when I started deliriously drawing bottles.
I’ve calmed down a little now, stopped licking the CD cases and rubbing the baggies onto my eyes. The music’s toned down and I’m sat here on the bed wondering just why I ever wished this rehab on myself. All’s I can remember now is something about sleeping with Grant Hancock and punching his dog. My willpower is lower than ever. In the distance I can hear Amelie screaming “espèce d'enculé de ta grand-mère la vieille pute suceuse de cailloux” Whatever that means.
Its time to sleep I think, my eyes are dark bruises set onto sunken holes, my nose is red raw and bleeding sporadically and I’m daydreaming of snow white mountains made of cocaine with me sliding down it from the peak naked laughing maniacally. Yeah definitely time for bed.
Alcohol Intake: ZERO FUCKING UNITS
Cigarettes Smoked: Countless
Drug Intake: Too much cocaine
Song of the moment: For The Longest Time by Billy Joel
Current Mood: Exhausted, emotionally drained, very anti French.
I awoke groggily in the middle of my 20 foot master bed. I went downstairs and Jive’s the Butler had already prepared my breakfast of Bran Flakes with low fat milk with the incentive of a banana if I finished the bowl. I wolfed down the bran flakes, took a great swig of my Evian water and then dressed in my tracksuit and went for a jog. I’ve taken to jogging from my front door to the gates of my estate and back which my pedometer tells me is roughly 3 miles. I can do it inside of an hour now, I’m definitely improving. When I got home I took a quick shower, slapped a nicotine patch on my forearm and dressed into my best suit, I was heading out to my psychiatrist. He says that I’m suffering from severe manic depression, egotistical delusions and he says it’s all related to my mother but he’s Freudian so he would. I walked down the stairs and Amelie looked up from checking the mail on the armoire by the ornate front door. She smiled as she noticed me and as I passed by she kissed my lightly stubbled, chiselled cheek.
“Ton nouveau mode de vie m'excite grave” She said, her whirlpool blue eyes gazing lovingly into my own.
“See you at one.” I said with a voice that’s been known to be comparable to foreplay. “We’ll go out, I’ll buy you a horse steak.”
She smiled at me and nodded gleefully, she didn’t have a fucking clue what I’d just said but those crazy French bastards man, they love their horses. I knocked on my Ray Bans and as I crunched up the gravel courtyard to my Bentley Continental I was fairly sure I’d made a significant, positive change in my lif…
Ahahaha. You didn’t believe that shit did you? I started today (well I haven’t actually slept now for about 48 hours) running around the grounds naked and punching out the gardener’s for no apparent reason. This rehab might be slowly getting the better of me.
Last night I sat in the corner of the room with “Nothing Compares To You” by Sinead O’Connor playing on repeat whilst I drew endless pictures of bottles containing alcohol and glue-sticking them to myself giggling. The cocaine stopped somewhere around my fifth set of heart palpitations when Amelie started crying hysterically whilst running in circles to drum and bass music I started to think it wasn’t a very good idea anymore. She started freaking out when we ran out and started whipping me with anal beads, which was a pretty shitty situation.
Anyway she ran off to somewhere else on the estate and I locked myself in here coming down and deliriously believing I was an entire barbershop quartet and singing “For The Longest Time” by Billy Joel that’s when I started deliriously drawing bottles.
I’ve calmed down a little now, stopped licking the CD cases and rubbing the baggies onto my eyes. The music’s toned down and I’m sat here on the bed wondering just why I ever wished this rehab on myself. All’s I can remember now is something about sleeping with Grant Hancock and punching his dog. My willpower is lower than ever. In the distance I can hear Amelie screaming “espèce d'enculé de ta grand-mère la vieille pute suceuse de cailloux” Whatever that means.
Its time to sleep I think, my eyes are dark bruises set onto sunken holes, my nose is red raw and bleeding sporadically and I’m daydreaming of snow white mountains made of cocaine with me sliding down it from the peak naked laughing maniacally. Yeah definitely time for bed.
Alcohol Intake: ZERO FUCKING UNITS
Cigarettes Smoked: Countless
Drug Intake: Too much cocaine
Song of the moment: For The Longest Time by Billy Joel
Current Mood: Exhausted, emotionally drained, very anti French.
Monday 5 January 2009
Sean Rodrieguez' Alcohol Rehab Diary: Day Three
10 A.M.
GOOD MORRRRRRRRNING SWEET DIARY! How great it is to be alive on the glorious, happy, happy, awesome day. You know what I just realized this morning, well actually what I realized about ermmmmmm twenty minutes ago about addiction? Yeah about addicition? Honestly I’ll tell you diary because you’re fucking awesome dude I fucking swear. Hold on a minute I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG...
WHOO HOOOOOO!
AND IM PINS AND IM NEEDLES! WHOO HOO!
WELL I LIE AND I’M EASY!
ALL OF THE TIME BUT I’M NEVER SURE WHEN I NEED YOU!
PLEASED TO MEEEEEEEETCHA!
…FUCK man that’s such a fucking great song. Hold on a minute…YEAH!!! So what was I saying? Oh yeah dude I swear to Christ mate I’ve figured out an easy way to beat this addiction shit! Cocaine! This is the most awesome rehab I’ve ever had I swear to god. What’s even better is I didn’t do anything wrong yesterday! I just had what my drug dealer/psychiatrist refers to as a “relapse” which caused me to “accidentally” get a “hedge strimmer” and “mercilessly slaughter puppies”. Which is good cause they’re much easier to dispose of than Amelie’s corpse! How fucking great is that? FUCK MAN I’M SO FUCKING HAPPY!! So after I woke up yesterday I kinda, you know, ran around sobbing and screaming which is all good cause I’m letting the emotions out and that’s part of the healing process and that can only cause me to get better and help me with my rehab and god everything is just fucking GREAT! This waterfall is incredible, hold on a minute….ALRIIIIIIIIGHT!!! So yeah I found out what I’d done and I apologized to Amelie and she forgave me and then we went to my room and she was like “J’adore Cocaine?” and I was all like “Fuck that shit, you know who I fucking am Sean Rodrieguez baby SUPERAWESOME?” but I tried some cause I’m all about expanding my mind and next thing I know it’s 10am and I’m sat here on top of the waterfall again with a really tense jaw feeling like I really need to blink and listening to some kick ass SuperFuckingAwesome music. GOD I never knew drum and bass music could be so GREAT!
Alcohol Intake: Zero Units
Cigarettes Smoked: 55
Drug Use: 9 grams of Cocaine.
Song of The Moment: Funky Shit by Prodigy.
Current Mood: AWWWW YEAAAH!!!!
Sunday 4 January 2009
Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary: Day Two
7:32 am
I’ve just awoken naked atop my man made waterfall. Amelie sleeps peacefully beside me, her black hair shifting back and forth with each breath like an ocean tide drawing back and forth into the beautiful infinity of her shoulders. For a moment everything in the world seems right. Something inside me fits just perfectly. I light a cigarette and exhale slowly, looking out across the expanse of luxury below me. How lucky I am to be so SuperAwesome. Outside a symphony of birds play a delightful tune to the lush backdrop of the sun shining out across a frosty early English morning and it seems as though I can see it’s reflection in every slowly melting piece of ice on every blade of perfectly trimmed grass on my long, ornate 44 acre back garden. Outside it’s probably below freezing but here in the artificial environment of the Spa it’s a delightful 22 degrees which the inordinately expensive air conditioning is blowing a perfect breeze through. I let my feet dangle off the edge of the waterfall and look down into the plunge pool below, finishing my cigarette off and stubbing it out on one of the many ashtrays I had built into the artificial rocks decorating the peak. Perhaps this rehab was the right thing for me, maybe it’s going to make me a better man, a better human.
A long elegant, bronzed arm reaches over my broad shoulders and rests on the expanse of muscle that is my chest. It’s Amelie. Suddenly I feel such love and compassion for the world, for her. I feel her lips kiss my shoulder muscles gently and her breath sounds into my ear as she leans close to it.
“Mon Chéri…” She whispers, her voice an angelic choir to my ears…
“Would you like a beer?”
9:02am
I awake in a daze, washed up on the plunge pool’s shore. There’s blood everywhere. Christ what have I done? Where’s Amelie?
Alcohol Intake: Zero Units
Cigarettes Smoked: 6 (better today)
Urge To Kill: ???
Song of The Moment: Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve
Current Mood: What The Fuck Have I Done?
I’ve just awoken naked atop my man made waterfall. Amelie sleeps peacefully beside me, her black hair shifting back and forth with each breath like an ocean tide drawing back and forth into the beautiful infinity of her shoulders. For a moment everything in the world seems right. Something inside me fits just perfectly. I light a cigarette and exhale slowly, looking out across the expanse of luxury below me. How lucky I am to be so SuperAwesome. Outside a symphony of birds play a delightful tune to the lush backdrop of the sun shining out across a frosty early English morning and it seems as though I can see it’s reflection in every slowly melting piece of ice on every blade of perfectly trimmed grass on my long, ornate 44 acre back garden. Outside it’s probably below freezing but here in the artificial environment of the Spa it’s a delightful 22 degrees which the inordinately expensive air conditioning is blowing a perfect breeze through. I let my feet dangle off the edge of the waterfall and look down into the plunge pool below, finishing my cigarette off and stubbing it out on one of the many ashtrays I had built into the artificial rocks decorating the peak. Perhaps this rehab was the right thing for me, maybe it’s going to make me a better man, a better human.
A long elegant, bronzed arm reaches over my broad shoulders and rests on the expanse of muscle that is my chest. It’s Amelie. Suddenly I feel such love and compassion for the world, for her. I feel her lips kiss my shoulder muscles gently and her breath sounds into my ear as she leans close to it.
“Mon Chéri…” She whispers, her voice an angelic choir to my ears…
“Would you like a beer?”
9:02am
I awake in a daze, washed up on the plunge pool’s shore. There’s blood everywhere. Christ what have I done? Where’s Amelie?
Alcohol Intake: Zero Units
Cigarettes Smoked: 6 (better today)
Urge To Kill: ???
Song of The Moment: Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve
Current Mood: What The Fuck Have I Done?
Saturday 3 January 2009
Sean Rodrieguez' Alcohol Rehab Diary
DAY ONE
This may be the hardest thing any man has ever done. I’m sweating out alcohol and ten minutes ago I tried making wine by stamping frantically onto some grapes and weeping. I’ve completely purged my house of any alcohol. I filled two large dustbins with crates of lager, bottles of tequila, fine wine, spirits. I then rolled them to the curb where a group of homeless men ran from nowhere and stole them as I screamed obscenities and death threats at them until Jive’s the Butler restrained me and led me back to the Spa, where I currently write this on a waterproofed laptop sat on top of my man made waterfall. Everywhere I look I see alcohol, even in the small diving pool filled with Budweiser, I’d empty that but it’s on a constant refill cycle so instead I drowned one of the homeless thieving bastards in it as an act of retribution for stealing the alcohol I was throwing away. My hands are clenching into fist’s uncontrollably and my urge to kill has hardly been sated by the homeless guys thrashing, violent death. I’ve just put out my tenth cigarette since I quit.
It’s been a horrible 20 minutes so far.
Alcohol Intake: Zero Units
Cigarettes Smoked: Ten
Urge to Kill: Insatiable
Song of the Moment: The Hush Sound – Don’t Wake Me Up
Current Mood: Optimistic/Homicidal
Friday 2 January 2009
SuperAwesome Sean Rodrieguez' Wild Adventures #2
The Story of Sean Rodrieguez’ Alcohol Rehab
The room was dark, very dark. I couldn’t see anything in fact. Had I gone blind? Had the previous New Year’s Eve’s night of debauchery ended terribly? Was I dead? I lay pondering these questions and thinking of the beginnings of a new, more efficient theory of relativity as a voice called out my name from somewhere else in the room. As a man of such incredible sexual prowess I can actually impregnate people’s pets by stroking them (an ability that caused my upcoming television advert for the RSPCA to be banned) I was more than used to hearing a voice calling my name in the morning, but this was different, this was a male voice. Something was definitely wrong.
I realized this fact was definitely true was I attempted to move and found that it felt as though an angry barbarian had taken a sledgehammer to my skull. My limbs were paralysed. Perhaps this was where it would end for me, perhaps some evil mastermind had taken offence to my sheer, effortless perfection in all area’s and captured me in my drunken partying, sedated me, blindfolded me and tied me down to this bed. This would not stand. Sean Rodrieguez wasn’t going out like this.
My vision refocused, I realized a few alarming facts.
“Why are they staring?” I wondered as the body of what I thought was my captor groaned in the wreckage of what used to be his home entertainment set up.
It was then I realized I was stark naked and looking down I still had a condom sheathed around my gigantic love stump. Reaching to my knee I pulled off the condom and in a moment not so rare to me I looked around to see where I’d been lay moments before, surely my bed partner would still be there, waiting for a bout of passionate morning after sex?
It appeared I had been lay on a sofa and from under the duvet bounded a small, white dog who barked happily, winked at me and ran off to god knows where.
I felt perhaps this time I had gone too far. Perhaps it was time for me to quit drinking. Not one for apologies I quickly winked at the girl in the fold out bed, causing her to orgasm so hard the plate glass patio windows next to her smashed and put my suit back on. Her boyfriend (I assume) ran at me in anger for (I assume) pleasing his girlfriend more than (I know) he ever could. As he was about to strike me I put on my Ray Ban’s and knocked them down my nose. The boy froze.
“Rough night eh Granty Boy?” I questioned
“Urrrrrrrgh” Grant replied.
I felt kind of bad about the whole affair so I counted out £2,000 worth of £20 notes onto his prone body to pay for the television.
“Keep the change” I insisted. With that I walked out of the house, stopping en route to give the dog I’d apparently slept with my business card. From there I got into my Rolls Royce Phantom and drove top speed back to my palatial estate in Barlaston stopping only when a female police officer stopped me for drink driving which I got out of by bending her over the front of her police cruiser and making sweet passionate love to her whilst passing by cars honked their horns in approval.
As I arrived home to my estate and handed my keys over to Jive’s the Butler I considered what I’d thought earlier. Had I gone too far? Was it time to quit the booze for good and all? Like all my decisions I decided to relax before making it.
“You look great naked, sir” She said in her cute accent.
“Why thanks doll.” I replied
“Would you like a beer?” She asked
WOULD I like a beer? I remembered that before my relaxation time I was supposed to have made a decision about something roughly like that. Quit alcohol? Sure why not? What’s the worst that could happen?
“No thanks baby” I said, considering having sex with her later, “I’ve quit.”
Featuring today’s guest star: Grant Hancock
“Sean…Sean…”
The room was dark, very dark. I couldn’t see anything in fact. Had I gone blind? Had the previous New Year’s Eve’s night of debauchery ended terribly? Was I dead? I lay pondering these questions and thinking of the beginnings of a new, more efficient theory of relativity as a voice called out my name from somewhere else in the room. As a man of such incredible sexual prowess I can actually impregnate people’s pets by stroking them (an ability that caused my upcoming television advert for the RSPCA to be banned) I was more than used to hearing a voice calling my name in the morning, but this was different, this was a male voice. Something was definitely wrong.
I realized this fact was definitely true was I attempted to move and found that it felt as though an angry barbarian had taken a sledgehammer to my skull. My limbs were paralysed. Perhaps this was where it would end for me, perhaps some evil mastermind had taken offence to my sheer, effortless perfection in all area’s and captured me in my drunken partying, sedated me, blindfolded me and tied me down to this bed. This would not stand. Sean Rodrieguez wasn’t going out like this.
“Sean can you hear me Sean?” the voice called out again, this time cackling malevolently afterward.
I’d be damned if I was going to be laughed at. I summoned all of my strength and willed my limbs to move. Miraculously I sat up and realizing my strength had returned dived, screaming like a banshee toward the voice. I landed a sublime right handed punch on whoever or whatever it was and the voice screamed in pain, crashing backward into a TV set in the corner of the room with a sickening crunch of glass, plastic and bones.
My vision refocused, I realized a few alarming facts.
First of all, I wasn’t in some kind of evil madman’s secret dungeon awaiting to be tortured slowly to death, I was in some kind of living room. Across the room a younger couple lay in a fold out bed looking at me in open mouthed awe or perhaps shock. This was a reaction I was fairly used to by now but this time something seemed different.
“Why are they staring?” I wondered as the body of what I thought was my captor groaned in the wreckage of what used to be his home entertainment set up.
It was then I realized I was stark naked and looking down I still had a condom sheathed around my gigantic love stump. Reaching to my knee I pulled off the condom and in a moment not so rare to me I looked around to see where I’d been lay moments before, surely my bed partner would still be there, waiting for a bout of passionate morning after sex?
It appeared I had been lay on a sofa and from under the duvet bounded a small, white dog who barked happily, winked at me and ran off to god knows where.
I felt perhaps this time I had gone too far. Perhaps it was time for me to quit drinking. Not one for apologies I quickly winked at the girl in the fold out bed, causing her to orgasm so hard the plate glass patio windows next to her smashed and put my suit back on. Her boyfriend (I assume) ran at me in anger for (I assume) pleasing his girlfriend more than (I know) he ever could. As he was about to strike me I put on my Ray Ban’s and knocked them down my nose. The boy froze.
“Thanks for keeping her warm for me” I said, clicking my fingers into a gun and pointing my index finger at him.
With that I walked over to the television set to see just who I’d brutally incapacitated. I was mildly surprised to see it was my ever trusty sidekick Grant Hancock. He lay groaning in the shards of glass and plastic. I smiled, relieved I’d hit a person I knew.
“Rough night eh Granty Boy?” I questioned
“Urrrrrrrgh” Grant replied.
I felt kind of bad about the whole affair so I counted out £2,000 worth of £20 notes onto his prone body to pay for the television.
“Keep the change” I insisted. With that I walked out of the house, stopping en route to give the dog I’d apparently slept with my business card. From there I got into my Rolls Royce Phantom and drove top speed back to my palatial estate in Barlaston stopping only when a female police officer stopped me for drink driving which I got out of by bending her over the front of her police cruiser and making sweet passionate love to her whilst passing by cars honked their horns in approval.
As I arrived home to my estate and handed my keys over to Jive’s the Butler I considered what I’d thought earlier. Had I gone too far? Was it time to quit the booze for good and all? Like all my decisions I decided to relax before making it.
I walked into my spa complex and paused for a moment to soak in the opulence of the place. White marble covered every surface, my iTunes selection played quietly in the background on hidden speakers. I pulled out my platinum pill dispenser from my suit jacket and popped two paracetamol. Then, in my Armani suit, climbed into my 16 man Jacuzzi to think about my rehab and recover from my hangover. Floating there in the foamy delight of the water, my long blonde hair splayed around my superbly featured head I mused about life, philosophy, women and just which publisher I’d let publish my next bestseller.
Somewhere on the other side of the room I could hear my man made 30 foot water fall splashing playfully into it’s plunge pool or it could have been my fountain in a likeness of me pissing onto a globe whilst smoking a cigar and giving all onlookers a thumbs up. I gave up deciding which it was and climbed out of the Jacuzzi, feeling fresh and invigorated. I stripped out of my suit and handed the ruined thing to Amelie my French maid who knew only how to say the English phrases “Would you like a beer?” and “You look great naked, sir.”
“You look great naked, sir” She said in her cute accent.
“Why thanks doll.” I replied
“Would you like a beer?” She asked
WOULD I like a beer? I remembered that before my relaxation time I was supposed to have made a decision about something roughly like that. Quit alcohol? Sure why not? What’s the worst that could happen?
“No thanks baby” I said, considering having sex with her later, “I’ve quit.”
There will now be daily updates with Sean Rodrieguez' Rehab Diary. Be sure to check in each day to see just how the man Time Magazine deemed unfair to name "Man of the Year" is getting on with his rehab. Updates should go up at 7pm GMT, but it really depends on whether he's getting any at that precise moment or not. Which as we all know is fairly likely.
Thursday 1 January 2009
The Rodrieguez Lists #2: Where I can't use pictures right.
The Rodrieguez List’s: Because everybody loves a top ten li…oh shit already did that joke.
The SRSA (Sean Rodrieguez Super Awesome) Cool List.
As you may or not know some stupid magazine written by people less talented than myself called NME does what they dare deem a “Cool List” whereby they stroke the cocks (or the female equivalent) of celebrities and cause a lot of flocking scenester’s to suddenly begin to follow them and claim they always knew about them. (LINK) You can see their attempt here. But it occurred to me that they don’t really have a fucking clue as to what cool is. I, being super awesome, however do know what cool is. I’m basically the epitome of cool so it’s understandable that I’d “get” cool. I mean if Elvis hadn’t lived I’d have probably invented the word.
So here, for posterity is the REAL cool list from the source of what cool really is which is basically this very blog you’re cool enough to be reading right now. Cause let’s face it, you’re a suave motherfucker.
10. Russell Brand
- Caused vast lust among many, many females for no real reason.
- Appeared in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” and made me realize he was funny.
- Claimed he fucked the butler from Fawlty Towers daughter, caused tabloids to wet themselves in gossip glee, half heartedly apologized and managed to come out of it just aces. Which is worthy of respect if anything because he probably did fuck the daughter.
- Rocked the decks at the world’s (read: Stone’s) hottest bar: The Lounge
- Drank a concoction of drinks that included: Half a pint of Guinness, a shot of: Rum, Bacardi, Vodka, Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort, Gin and Tequila in 10 seconds with two straws
- Came onto every single woman he met the entire year, including my mother and YOUR mother.
- Took a world of abuse in everything I wrote and yet still called me funny.
8. Sean Rodrieguez
- Re-attended college, got shitfaced and somehow didn’t fail.
- Made at least 30 people smile.
- Became an alcoholic after discovering Dave Walker was actually his father.
7. Alex Turner
- Was still a member of The Arctic Monkeys which is easily the coolest and best band Britain has spawned since Oasis.
- Did fuck all else, which in a lazy way is so fucking awesome it’s beyond words.
6. Robert Harvey (Lead Singer Of The Music)
- Caught a fan’s jumper and sang to it.
- During the last song of the gig exclaimed “Fuck it, lets have a fucking dance!” and then did just that in a way that was basically so cool Jimi Hendrix stopped rocking in heaven and pointed in the general direction.
- Was played by an equally cool Johnny Depp in the film “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
- Did a LOT of drugs.
- When he died he had his ashes fired from a gigantic customized cannon.
- Was an incredible, absolute, arrogant, whiny cunt.
- To be fair did a lot of good for charity.
- Is such a cunt I don’t really mind calling him a cunt and that’s a horrible word.
- Was an absolute literary genius whilst being an incredible guy.
- Drank and smoked so heavily, whilst being diabetic, he had both legs amputated and eventually died. Yet never stopped doing either.
- Never once finished any project larger than a weekly newspaper article about his own life and wasn’t very punctual at doing that.
- Which included the songs “Sheila”, “If You’ve Got The Money” “Pacemaker” and “Alicia Quays”
- Was cooler than Alex Turner and performed questionably as good music on his own
- Made songs for near enough every drunken and very English occasion, that you can sing along to with glee every time it’s played anywhere.
- Wrote the greatest song ever written; “Like A Rolling Stone”
- Is immeasurably cool, even when improvising on stage.
He also wrote and performed “Brown Eyed Girl” which quite possibly the most universally liked song I can think of that isn’t the Beatles or Elvis (whom I didn’t include because I don’t like either of them that much and it’s my list dammit).
There are an absolute mass of people that could fill this spot. Not just in music which I tried to stick to for the NME theme; in film, in effectively every single aspect of life. Van Morrison to me however is the epitome of “cool”. He exudes that much passion, talent and ability in what he loves that you can pretty much experience it every time you hear him sing.
The main factor of being “cool” to me is envy. That’s why Bono is so high on the list despite the fact I hate him. If something is “cool” to you, I feel you basically envy whatever that is because you know really that you could never do it in the same way and frankly you’d give pretty much anything to be able to. This is why Van Morrison is a close number one on Dylan. I envy Van Morrison because he is so incredible at what he does, so remarkable that not only will I never be as good as him, its highly doubtful anybody ever will.
Plus you know, he’s got the drugs, alcohol, smoking and “Brown Eyed Girl”.
People I Remembered after writing this list and then realized the futility of writing any serious top 10 list whilst drinking:
- Prince
- Robert De Niro
- Al Pacino
- Seann William Scott
- Charlie Sheen
- Mick Jagger (when he was young)
- Nick Cave
- A begrudging vote for Oasis
- Countless others, I’m never writing a semi-serious top 10 list ever again.
- Late much more drunk addition: Beck.
The SRSA (Sean Rodrieguez Super Awesome) Cool List.
As you may or not know some stupid magazine written by people less talented than myself called NME does what they dare deem a “Cool List” whereby they stroke the cocks (or the female equivalent) of celebrities and cause a lot of flocking scenester’s to suddenly begin to follow them and claim they always knew about them. (LINK) You can see their attempt here. But it occurred to me that they don’t really have a fucking clue as to what cool is. I, being super awesome, however do know what cool is. I’m basically the epitome of cool so it’s understandable that I’d “get” cool. I mean if Elvis hadn’t lived I’d have probably invented the word.
So here, for posterity is the REAL cool list from the source of what cool really is which is basically this very blog you’re cool enough to be reading right now. Cause let’s face it, you’re a suave motherfucker.
10. Russell Brand
What he did:
- Caused vast lust among many, many females for no real reason.
- Appeared in “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” and made me realize he was funny.
- Claimed he fucked the butler from Fawlty Towers daughter, caused tabloids to wet themselves in gossip glee, half heartedly apologized and managed to come out of it just aces. Which is worthy of respect if anything because he probably did fuck the daughter.
Why he’s cool: When you can happily admit that a man could nail your own mother and you’d just shake his hand because he’s so cool. When a man can do this whilst wearing skinny jeans, cowboy boots with hair gayer than gay porn star’s holding a lubed up sign that reads “We’re really gay” you have to like, nay, respect him. When somebody who I wholeheartedly despised before this year can turn that table on me, he’s pretty fucking cool in my book.
9. Dave Walker
(Photo provided by Becki Birkett Photography. Taken from the album "Drunk Crazy Hobo's" out soon)
What he did:
- Rocked the decks at the world’s (read: Stone’s) hottest bar: The Lounge
- Drank a concoction of drinks that included: Half a pint of Guinness, a shot of: Rum, Bacardi, Vodka, Jack Daniels, Southern Comfort, Gin and Tequila in 10 seconds with two straws
- Came onto every single woman he met the entire year, including my mother and YOUR mother.
- Took a world of abuse in everything I wrote and yet still called me funny.
Why he’s cool: When a man can turn alcoholism into a fine art and smack that many female asses his hand is actually appearing on wanted posters throughout the county, he deserves some semblance of respect. Dave’s cocky southern charm found it’s fame in being written about by me, by which I mean at least 5 people who didn’t know him before I wrote about him know about him and, in time, will be flirted to by him.
8. Sean Rodrieguez
(Photo Provided by J'adore Ya Photo's)
What he did:
- Re-attended college, got shitfaced and somehow didn’t fail.
- Made at least 30 people smile.
- Became an alcoholic after discovering Dave Walker was actually his father.
Why He’s Cool: When a man can fail astonishingly and set himself up to fail even more astonishingly the same year whilst developing a new addiction that has him in Wetherspoons at dinnertime so often the bar staff know what he drinks, he’s done something so remarkably stupid he deserves recognition.
7. Alex Turner
What he did:
- Was still a member of The Arctic Monkeys which is easily the coolest and best band Britain has spawned since Oasis.
- Did fuck all else, which in a lazy way is so fucking awesome it’s beyond words.
Why He’s Cool: Is the author of and regularly performs “A Certain Romance”. If you’ve heard that song, that’s reason enough. If you haven’t you’re reading the wrong list. Shit I just sounded as obnoxious as NME.
6. Robert Harvey (Lead Singer Of The Music)
What he did:
- Caught a fan’s jumper and sang to it.
- During the last song of the gig exclaimed “Fuck it, lets have a fucking dance!” and then did just that in a way that was basically so cool Jimi Hendrix stopped rocking in heaven and pointed in the general direction.
Why He’s Cool: Despite starting his career as a long haired weirdo he managed to turn into this incredibly awesome skinhead that can also play the bongo’s which is, past the pink oboe, the coolest instrument ever. He also just happened to be the front man of the first real live gig I ever attended and thus soaks up some of my coolness.
5. Hunter S. Thompson
What he did:
- Was played by an equally cool Johnny Depp in the film “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
- Did a LOT of drugs.
- When he died he had his ashes fired from a gigantic customized cannon.
Why he’s cool: Despite being heralded as what he would despise: a cult icon, Hunter S. Thompson managed to give so little of a fuck about things he’s didn’t care about and write about what he did care about so superbly he could still serve as an inspiration to countless people, including myself. A modern philosopher that didn’t even try to be, an effortless prophet, deserves to be read by every single person who reads this blog.
4. Bono
What he did:
- Was an incredible, absolute, arrogant, whiny cunt.
- To be fair did a lot of good for charity.
- Is such a cunt I don’t really mind calling him a cunt and that’s a horrible word.
- Was however the guy running around a MASSIVE stage in front of a mind bogglingly huge crowd in this clip (Where The Streets Have No Name Live At Slane Castle)
Which Blogger is fucking refusing to show whatever I do so: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=uDkBzkA9L4s
Why He’s Cool: To be fair, he’s not a cunt he’s just that cool that I hate him for it. I’m not a fan of U2 on ANY level. I don’t think they’re that great, no real reason they just aren’t my kind of music. However when I saw the above clip it made my hairs stand on end. The energy is pretty sickening and during this beautiful moment of just well, sheer stage presence I guess…Bono is RUNNING laps around the stage. Just because…he can. He’s Bono. So whether I think he’s a cunt or whether I like his music is irrelevant. He run laps in front of a crowd of god knows how many people whilst some genuinely hair raising music is being played, LOUD. That’s pretty cool.
3. (tie) Jeffrey Bernard
What he did:
- Was an absolute literary genius whilst being an incredible guy.
- Drank and smoked so heavily, whilst being diabetic, he had both legs amputated and eventually died. Yet never stopped doing either.
- Never once finished any project larger than a weekly newspaper article about his own life and wasn’t very punctual at doing that.
- Hated a lot of people in a very clever way.
Why He’s Cool: Cool is supposedly doing your own, unique thing. If so, Jeffrey Bernard did this without even trying to be cool, just doing what he enjoyed most. He made a career of it and never once tried to be recognized, hated to be in fact. Jeffrey Bernard was cool without even trying. Deserves to be read.
3. (tie) Jamie T
What he did:
- Which included the songs “Sheila”, “If You’ve Got The Money” “Pacemaker” and “Alicia Quays”
- Was cooler than Alex Turner and performed questionably as good music on his own
- Made songs for near enough every drunken and very English occasion, that you can sing along to with glee every time it’s played anywhere.
Why He’s Cool: He’s just the songwriter you wish you could be after 8 pints down the local. Immeasurably British, incredibly talented, insightful and yet does its all without ever being pretentious in the least. Plus he makes the most songs by one person that make me smile every single time I hear them.
2. Bob Dylan
What he did:
- Wrote the greatest song ever written; “Like A Rolling Stone”
Why he’s cool: He’s been cool without remotely even thinking of starting to try for something like 4 decades now. He released an album at aged 65 that was a complete change of style and got rave reviews by near enough every major music reviewer out. That was also his 32nd studio album. Despite writing “Like A Rolling Stone” which Bruce Springsteen himself said the opening snare “was like somebody kicked open the door to your mind” he’s written countless other timeless songs that could in their own right be some of the best songs written since music has been recorded. If that wasn’t enough in an interview once when asked a question he didn’t agree with he got offended and exclaimed: “What?! Would you ask the fuckin’ Beatles that question?!” Genius.
1. Van Morrison.
What he did:
- Is immeasurably cool, even when improvising on stage.
- Wrote the song “Caravan” which if it weren’t for “Like A Rolling Stone” would be the greatest song ever written.
He also wrote and performed “Brown Eyed Girl” which quite possibly the most universally liked song I can think of that isn’t the Beatles or Elvis (whom I didn’t include because I don’t like either of them that much and it’s my list dammit).
There are an absolute mass of people that could fill this spot. Not just in music which I tried to stick to for the NME theme; in film, in effectively every single aspect of life. Van Morrison to me however is the epitome of “cool”. He exudes that much passion, talent and ability in what he loves that you can pretty much experience it every time you hear him sing.
The main factor of being “cool” to me is envy. That’s why Bono is so high on the list despite the fact I hate him. If something is “cool” to you, I feel you basically envy whatever that is because you know really that you could never do it in the same way and frankly you’d give pretty much anything to be able to. This is why Van Morrison is a close number one on Dylan. I envy Van Morrison because he is so incredible at what he does, so remarkable that not only will I never be as good as him, its highly doubtful anybody ever will.
Plus you know, he’s got the drugs, alcohol, smoking and “Brown Eyed Girl”.
People I Remembered after writing this list and then realized the futility of writing any serious top 10 list whilst drinking:
- Prince
- Robert De Niro
- Al Pacino
- Seann William Scott
- Charlie Sheen
- Mick Jagger (when he was young)
- Nick Cave
- A begrudging vote for Oasis
- Countless others, I’m never writing a semi-serious top 10 list ever again.
- Late much more drunk addition: Beck.
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