Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.

 

Want to become self-sufficient and make Millions?

Sick of working a shit load of hours for fuck all money? Jealous of those fat slobs that gloat ‘yeah, I work from home’ Most of them writing ridiculous self-made millionaire articles when in reality, they were just lucky to born into an affluent family that accepts their gluttonous lifestyle. Well, thanks to the internet, modern technology and the twenty-first century decorum, you don’t need an affluent family, just some small business advice. In one year I have made tens of thousands of pounds, and I haven’t worked a single day. To let you in on my little secret, you must first promise not to judge, okay?

It’s really easy. Go on the internet and sell your body. I’m not just talking about prostitution. There are far easier options to do that. No, I’m talking about the parts of your body you don’t want. A jar of fingernails go for ten pounds apiece. 50 pence a cm for human hair (better rates for back and pubic). A small pot of dead skin cells is about a fiver, but they have to be ground (the best way to do this is to use a foot scraper, one of those that collects the skin, they look like mini cheese graters). Ever wondered if your parmesan cheese is legit, now you have your answer. Think about it. Besides funeral directing how many other businesses do you know that has business coming out its ears (quite literally, ear wax is used in many polymers around the world and medicinal purposes in Asia).

I’m serious, you don’t even need to hack into the black pages. It’s there right in front of you. Ever clicked on one of those ‘work from home’ advertisements, it’s not a scam. Ever wondered why percentages don’t add up in clothing? Human hair. That’s not all.

The iron that could not be absorbed from your body, does not go to waste; it helps the anaemic. Enema centres are eco-friendly, recycling 100%, so no wastage. Green business, that’s the future. Make money on poo coming out, make money on poo going in, 100% profit.

Defecate can also be sold to scientific research, although this is a little more complicated, dietary requirements are explicit. If this is not your style, then look into fetish websites, although obviously there is far more business for the fairer sex defecate distributor.

Your body is a money making machine; you’re your own key to success; know thyself. If you’re fat, sell fat. If you’re skinny, perhaps you only need one kidney, one lung. Plenty of smokers could do with a new lung. Be proud of what you have, but not greedy, if have too much of something, sell it. Too little of something, there are plenty of people doing this. Google it. You’ll find a good price.

There is a whole array of human excretions, each and every one of them worth a small fortune. Get into a routine, and you could become self-sufficient. Every businessman will tell you, ‘sell yourself’; take it literally.

I have given you many different avenues in which you can start. You won’t believe the success you will have.

Reduce. Reuse. Recycle.

 

Published by ceasecows.com without prejudice. 

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Trevor the Rabbit.

 

Trevor, had been in the freezer for three months, awaiting his autopsy. Trevor, was my house-mates pet rabbit. Potentially, famous pet rabbit; posthumously, like an artist or twenty seven year old musician. Although, Trevor’s suicide did not consist of heroin or a gun, just ketamine. As her crucial data for her dissertation, Trevor was going to unlock all kinds of biological secrets. But alas, he managed a couple of hits that carelessly fell from his owner’s sniff key, and it was all too much.

However, two weeks ago I unlocked the front door at four in the morning and a peculiar smell gate-crashed my nostrils.  Besides the usual bong water, Body odour and stale beer, there was something…worse. One of these idiots had attempted cooking. I walked through the hall and into the living room, to find Harris and her k-head friends all passed out. The smell had intensified; Plastic burgers? Quorn? I could now see a faint trail of smoke, whatever it was they had forgotten, it had been in there a while.

The fire alarm hadn’t gone off, thanks to the extra safe durex covering the smoke detector. I kicked Harris on my way through, she was on the bean bag in her usual spot by the kitchen door, probably inhaling the last innocent soul in the building. Harris loved to order a cultural dish whilst high, usually Chinese or Italian; pizzas’ a fave, then she would k-hole for a few hours, whilst intermittently re-heating the greasy cuisine several times. She still hadn’t stirred. When you’re in a ketamine-cloud nothing little will wake you. I walked into the kitchen and my shoe crunched glass like whisky over ice. The microwave door was half of its hinges; game entrails hung from its last remaining shards. I looked down to find a small metal disc next to my shoe. TREVOR was engraved in the middle. Mistaken for the pizza that’s defrosting next to the kitchen sink, somehow.

Have you ever seen an animal post-wave? Not pretty. As a child, I remember reading ‘Watership down’, and being genuinely disturbed. My reaction to this ghastly sight was, well…cold. At parties, Trevor was the life and soul. Harris would prance around with Trev in one hand, carrot in the other; preaching the importance of Trevor under the influence, neglecting him on a come-down. The poor thing was skin and bone. If you leave an animal in the microwave for over five minutes, its long enough for the heart to cook off and stop beating. If you set it under five minutes, the poor thing will live; now that, is cruel. Medium rare and still twitching. The poor thing must feel every electromagnetic pulse splice every atom. Thankfully, Trevor had thawed, roasted and exploded, without feeling a thing. In some cultures, lagomorphs can be extremely symbolic. In many tribes, a rabbit’s foot is carried for good luck. So I put what was left of Trevor’s in my pocket. You never know. In Japan, rabbits work on the moon making sticky-rice. I wondered if you ate pet rabbit, would you notice, or even care? No one really knows what makes a doner kebab at three in the morning, but everyone does it nonetheless. Most, would rather not know and smear it in garlic mayo.

In England, rabbits are pets for children, not adults. They are not symbolic, or even cared for, genuinely. Most, get a pet to test their empathy to something else, their level of commitment; a preliminary test before marriage, until death does it part. Then, there is regret, sadness and grief, yes, but like everything else, it is easily replaced, like a microwave.

I peeled off what fur I could. Picked out the sinewy bits. Most of the meat had a shredded look, like pulled pork. With the glass safely removed I put the decent chunks of Trevor on the pizza that Harris clearly had intended to microwave, and shoved it in the oven at 180 degrees Celsius. The smell of game and basil now replaced the smell of burnt plastic and the recently cremated. I opened all the windows and Cilit-banged the guts and gore from the grimy surfaces. Perhaps finding out the next day that eating your friends pet rabbit in a Ketamine and cannabis induced hunger has surpassed the subliminal and yet, ever-interchangeable line of normality. Perhaps this will act as their intervention; no need for a sit down. They might even finish university with a First; sober living and a successful career in the world’s finest meat substitute burgers; all thanks to dearly departed Trevor.  At the very least they might stop using my fucking living room as a ket-den. I will be their Good Samaritan, disguised as a man who plays with animal carcases whilst drunk at four in the morning. A hideous act of deception with a good intention of salvation. The line of morality; where does that lie? I have avenged an animal that died of neglect, anonymously. If only the vegetarians of Bristol knew. This is all except Harris, of course. She is quite literally going to flush her dissertation down the pan.

Twenty minutes later and Trevor was ready. I tip-toed into the living room and placed the pizza on the centre table for all five of them to rise to. I left no trace of my presence and crept up to my room.

In the morning, they will all wake, and upon seeing the perfectly placed pizza, they will devour Trevor, slice after slice. Then entering the kitchen probably for a beer. A hair of the dog. They will find the hair, of a hare. The fluff and fur of the formerly beloved house-mate, placed as neatly as possible to resemble a cuddly toy on the kitchen counter. Their stomachs will turn, flip and somersault as their minds fire a thousand electromagnetic signals, like that of the microwave, killing every possible alternative explanation. There won’t be one.

Restau-Rant

 

‘I’ll have a coke please mate’. Here we go, my first customer has to be a Brummie. ‘Ice & lemon?’ I politely ask, knowing full well this manner will not be reciprocated, and already asking myself why the fuck did I bother? Because your job is to be treated like a cunt?

‘What?’ I told you.

‘Ice & lemon?’ I repeat.

‘Yeah, go on then’ He smiled but his vacant eyes tell me he’s probably wondering where the fuck his shitty little kids are, so his words ooze lazily from face-hole, and barely resemble perfunctory.

‘Anything else?’ I ask, hoping this transaction, this inter-locution, this space and time, this epoch will rapidly dissolve into the particles of history.

‘What?’ This is what I could gather he meant; you see, I am spicing up his vocabulary, for you. Otherwise it will simply be ‘ooo’s and ‘ahh’s and ‘mmmth’s; I want you to understand this human being, is an adult. Can you tell I’m bitter?

‘Anything else, mate?’ I linger on mate, just enough so he senses my agitation.

‘Yeah, another coke please mate’. No common-fucking-sense, plus, he has repeated mate, not because he has returned the loathing, but by sheer ignorance of his own mouth!

‘Is that everything?’ My eye begins to twitch, and the monster inside me imagines driving two cocktail sticks into his frontal lobe, but instead I calmly wait.

‘Ummm yeah I think so…oh wait wait wait, my wife hasn’t ordered yet, la, Love….Deirdre….Deirdre, you’re holding up the barman, what would you like?’ He exhorts from across the bar to his fat wife, who is currently trying to tame one of her screaming children, whilst licking her thumb and smearing it across the face of another; she bellows back…‘I’ll have a gin & tonic Pete’

Pete, then turns back to me, and yet again, I have to ask, ‘ice & lemon with that one sir?’ This question will truly be the death of me, I will hang myself from the very curve in its mark.

‘Deirdre…ice & lemon?’ While trying to get her attention, Pete, has turned around a couple of times to see a blank extremely pissed off face.

‘What?’ she hisses.

I see he now understands how irritating it can be to ask the same questions over and over again. But what annoys me is how he will blame on it his wife. I can never work out why people do this. Are they are just ignorant to the world and have no self-awareness? Or do they know how fucking irritating they are, but would rather blame it on their wives than admit it?

‘Ice…& lemon?’ These are his first fully enunciated words, which he slows for her benefit.

She smiles, probably happy that she has managed to piss her husband off, or maybe she is so used to being patronised in such a way, and decides to rise above it. Calmly she replies, ‘Yeah, go on then, ta.’

‘Sorry mate’ he chucks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Deirdre and continues, ‘Women eh? Who’d av’em? Oh, sorry mate, I said no ice for the kids… Oh, and I didn’t order mine’ he finished jovially. I didn’t physically say anything, but inside I was screaming, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOOOOUUU, as he winced and asked his final question, ‘do you have Guinness?’