Johnnersintheraw's Blog

April 26, 2010

Officially a Perverted Hippy

Filed under: Comedy,Comedy Rants,Rancid Comedy,Really Dumb,Twisted Fables,Uncategorized — johnnersintheraw @ 6:14 am

Yes, folks, I am now officially a Perverted Hippy.  You see, for the first time in my life, I found a personality test that suited my temperament.  In other words, it wasn’t po-faced.  Now, I have nothing against being po-faced, if you happen to be a po.  However, if you are not a po, for God’s sake, don’t pretend to be one.  Which reminds me, I did know someone once who knew a certain Colonel Parker Po, who happened to be married to a Missus Pansy Po.  I’ve always regretted not meeting them – even though they lived in Florida – and I hope they have led long, happy and productive lives.  I believe they were quite well-to-do, and – if so – I hope they didn’t invest it all with Bernard Whatisface.

I don’t believe it, but when I was writing the above paragraph, I spaced out on the spelling of the word ‘colonel’.  It was not a senior moment; I blame God, who is all-powerful and is supposed to know what He’s doing.  Except, of course, He is never around when you need Him, i.e., those moments when you are writing breathless prose and cannot remember any of the words you were looking for.  And if and when you finally do remember them, you instantly misplace the spelling.  Inevitably, these are the times in which God goes somewhere else where they have better food.  And by the way, while we are discussing this, the one thing for which I shall not blame God is Microsoft Spell-check, which was obviously developed by some unshaven geeky tosser wearing a short-sleeved, cheap, wrinkled polyester shirt and a pocket-protector.  Now, to be fair (as one must be), there is something to be said for the argument that God was ultimately responsible for the pocket protector.  Ditto for wrinkled, short-sleeved polyester shirts, but I am not convinced.  And I base this entirely on the claim that He created us in His own Image.  I have never worn such a costume, and He has never guided me to the cheap short-sleeved polyester shirt section of the local discount super store. Furthermore, on every one of His many visits to me – (He finds me restful, because during His stopovers I do all the talking and He gets to take a nap) – God has always been carefully attired in a glowing halo and flowing robes. And because He once worked in the All-You-Can-Eat Donut Bar of the MegaDeepFriedMarsBarTikiMasala Restaurant in Glasgow, He is most particular about His personal hygiene.  Consequently, He is never ever without His hairnet.  And yes, sports fans, He is a Celtic supporter.  He told me so; Rangers fans: let this be a warning.

But let us return to the topic of the day: my personality test.  Before I was interrupted, I started to say that I was lured into taking one of these things by the happy helpful chirpy administrators of one of those free online dating services (about which I can envisage at least a few thousand words at a later date).  Now, let me be blunt.  This is only my second attempt at finding true love and bliss over the Internet.  Setting aside Facebook, of course, where if you have enough ‘friends’ – three or four thousand, for example – at least two of them are guaranteed to declare their undying love to you.  They will then try to make you feel personally responsible for everything that has befallen them, including their lack of happiness and their inability to throw their fucking computers out the window and get on with life.  One wonders how may self-help books and support groups the latter problem has spawned.  And, it goes without saying, How Many Facebook Pages?  And how many column inches have been written in which said Facebookers are never held responsible for their own addiction?  But, never mind, we all need some sort of fix to help us through the day.

But, I digress.  Johnner’s Personality Test.  As I mentioned, being the desperate, unloved and truly sick person that I am, I decided to try my luck once again.  My previous attempt had proved to be – shall we say – a mixed blessing.  Now, I do not blame the lady; obviously with me, she had bitten off more than she could chew.  As for me, even as I flew over 4,000 miles to fall into her arms, the hairs on the back of my neck were screaming, “You fucking moron!  You dumbfuck of a duck-fucker, You did not like her when she messaged you! You thought she was a pillock and a prat!  You are going to fucking hate her… and then you’ll be stuck at the far end of the earth in a country you think is crap!  With a fucking protozoa!”  But, of course, being the dipshit I am, I am forever hopeful.  I am nothing if not consistent: with me, stupidity must reign supreme.

But that was then, and I only suffered for my mistake for four years.  But wa-HAY, what is four years spent living miles away from even the nearest sheep, and inventing new ways to masturbate.   After all, I’m only three-hundred seventy-five years old.  Plenty of time left to get de-virginised again.

Now- to be honest – when it comes to listing likes and dislikes on a profile, I am extremely anal.  Nothing do I leave for chance.  Not a fucking thing! Which is why I am always amused when I receive a suggestion from an ever-helpful administrator in which it is mentioned that I might be more specific.  More specific?  I am so fucking specific I come across as a boring old twat!  That is how specific I am.  In fact, this time round, the only thing I left out was the number of hairs on my scrotum, and I do like my body to be shaved or plucked or au natural?   

I really wonder if anyone actually reads these profiles, and that includes, of course, the ever-hopeful peeps who send you messages.  I mean, how many times can you say ‘Orkney’ and ‘Crofting’ and ‘Rare-Breed Sheep’ and ‘Pigs’ and ‘National Hunt Racing’ and ‘Club Rugby’ and ‘Comedy Improv’ and ‘Possible Long-Term Relationship’ still receive a  dozen replies from expats living in Nicosia, whose interests are confined to sunbathing on the beach, barbequing, clubbing and sex-parties?  I guess it must the ‘island’ theme.

Anyway, to get back to my personality test.   I had it in mind that by my relenting and actually filling out one of these questionnaires soberly, I might improve my chances.  So, of course, I rooted round the various available options, and – lo and behold!  I came up with something quite wonderfully subversive!  And before you ask, as much as I wanted to torture the truth, I refrained.  I even kept a straight face when faced with the question regards physical fights.  I was asked if, in my entire lifetime, I had been in more than three physical fights?  My macho me desperately wanted to say, ‘yes’…. but I couldn’t remember more than one (actually one and a half).  And so I said ‘no’.  And consequently, I ended up feeling like the boring old twat everybody thinks I am.  It was only afterwards that I remembered two more, but since I had forgotten them, they must not have been very special.

Fortunately, the Personality Test was kind.  Instead of coming right out and saying that I had the personality of a boiled newt, it said I was a Perverted Hippy.  I suppose now, I shall be approached by all sorts of people inviting me to the summer solstice, where I can dance around in a circle, wear flowers in my hair and body-paint my willy. And I still won’t get any sex!

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