Cocaine is the new feng shui
Oh. Oh right. All my life I've been getting Jeff Bridges and Kurt Russell mixed up.
The rest of my life should be a bit easier now.
I've lost a permanent marker. How is that even possible
I've written a poem, chronicling in verse, the story of Ronald Shusset and Dan O'Bannon's screenplay of a murderous alien xenomorph, as brought to life by the incredible Ridley Scott in 1979's Alien.
The opus begins:
Ripley, Dallas, Lambert, Parker,
Ash and Kane and Brett,
Were all aboard the Nostromo,
And then they all got ate.
When the inventor of the USB stick dies they'll gently lower the coffin, then pull it back up, turn it the other way, then lower it again.
Mastodon? Fantastodon more like! Or something.
- Glowing stars. I used to sit here as a child
- And now?
- Now space travel isn't a thing. Everyone's in the network. I spend my days there working, porting apps between clusters
She stood up and threw a stone in the water
- Nobody's out here any more. At least the seas are clean
- Yeah. Pity about the military drones. Can't swim in there
She sat down again, looking ahead, three metal plugs visible at the base of her skull
- We screwed up, didn't we?
Hello Mastodon. I'm getting shit-faced.
Why are shampoo adverts so insistent that 'strong hair' is something we need?
"You look glum, John. What's up?"
"It's my hair, mate. It can barely lift a small dog."