Excerpts from Lardman's Blog

Blog of Lard

What do my friends think of me? - I’ve been musing on this for days. Am I alone to think I have a sensible person living inside me, or are they also aware of the fact? Or are they convinced that I am bragging, swear-happy, fat idiot? Because, you know: every company needs an idiot… I got to the point, where I cannot decide if my friends laugh with me or laugh at me. I would hate myself if I were somebody else and met me for the first time, or for that matter, I hate myself anyway. I am content with the fact, that I constantly feel myself less than the average guy, but I am not ok with this affecting my daily routine. I hate always being two steps under the average. I am a real morose whacko, that’s me. I have no opinion, or if I do, I cannot formulate it. I should have studied something, but I did not feel like, and I don’t take my job too seriously either, so what kind of a fucked-up person am I? I used to sooth my conscience with saying: I have no diploma, but I have my line, that’s all I am worth, and that’s that. Now I don’t believe in this shit anymore. I cannot decide if I am a mentally handicapped person, and feel rightly that I am treated as such, or I was simply born stupid, and I am unable to comprehend the goal of my existence, and the reactions I exert from my surroundings. Or maybe its just, that today its FRUIT-day, and I really fucking hate starving? It cannot be that simple…

I just heard about a guy of my weight dying at the age of 37 of embolism. Thrombus goes down, and that’s that. Being fat is not just an embarrassing condition, it’s a highway to the grave. And I am really bored of hearing how long some obese friends lived. I see overweight whales fall dead around me and I feel my time to say goodbye is coming closer and closer.

Hello Sea of Lard!

I am Mr. X (who’d sue me if I wrote down his name) from RTL Klub Television!

I was surprised to read your blog.

I see a real sincere, open-hearted guy in you, somebody, who is not afraid to tell what he feels and thinks.

I shall have my show screened next week, on Tuesday, and I am looking for sincere talkative people!

I would be happy to know more about you!

If you would be willing to participate, and know more about the show, please write, ASAP!

Life is beautiful. I am happy. I love my life. I love to wake up smiling. Love to draw a deep breath of fresh air. It is only a matter of minutes to reach the shop I am working at, where I am awaited by many an entertaining, interesting and useful tasks. The morning passes on in an instant. I spend the lunch hour sipping fresh coffee, and picking flowers on the meadow. Afternoon is even better - if its possible. The shop is full of nice, kind and attentive people – I feel their love streaming through me. I was quite reluctant to close, I enjoyed the day’s work so much. I enjoy living here so much! I go to sleep full of anticipation for the next magnificent day… I cry tears of joy and cry till I fall asleep.

Positive thinking, would you fuck fuck fuck…

Not sure, why, but today its “shrieking nerves” day. Not only for me: for everybody. In the morning I tried to have my head smashed to pieces by the hand of somebody else, but I only managed to have my hair greased. Later I felt a serious urge to get out of the car to beat innocent people black and blue every meter, but I did not let myself to, instead I consoled myself to frequent sonofabitching. I reached my first destination only to be served by a woman with a deficient brain, but for some reason she also escaped a lethal beating by me. There were three ticket-machines in the parking garages, none of them accepting banknotes (fuck fuck fuck), and I still kept myself from kicking. Fuck all the famished and the dispossessed, why can’t I pay with banknotes? Ok, after surviving this, I slid to my next destination, where they only had one of the usual two employees, the slower one, the one that “has the shit fly out of his mouth”, but he managed to escape, when I decided to tear out his larynx. Getting home, I found my sister in the same mood, so we got down to hysterically listing the day’s grievances. I think Monday is a furuncle. Purulent, putrid and rotten to the core. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

Question of the day: If they vex the fuck out of you at the shop, without reason (or at least the reason is inaccessible to you, because the unfucked whore representing the client is unable to form a decent sentence about what you failed to do, what they did not even ask for), what do you do?

Send them to sniff their mommas’ warm, hairy parts, then find a rope and hang yourself.

Blast everybody to smithereens around you, then mime fainting and die.

Try to seek compromise with somebody who hates you because you are not an only child.

You ask for a leave because of nervous breakdown, then search out the bitch, open her stomach and play a sardonic version of “Nothing else matters” on her guts.

Facts are facts. I produce most of them, and they appear as problems. Like pharyngitis, obesity, uncoordinated defecation and boredom. Whatever I do, my days are always the same. I find less and less joy in life – even masturbation seems to be a boring, joyless activity.

I guess, I have already mentioned: we live here with my grandmother. Five o’clock in the afternoon, she fished for something in the drawer, then fell flat on the kitchen floor. Stroke, dementia - recovery almost impossible - doctors shaking their heads. Her left side is paralyzed, shows no reaction. She has a well developed osteoporosis, her hip is a bit off, her vertebrae are crumbling, her back is bent. But she wants to live. She does not whine, she suffers patiently. I cannot possibly list the thousands of reasons I love and respect her. I don’t know if she was thinking any longer, if she had a single last wish, or something that bothers her, or some kind of a case yet to be closed… or anything. Any reason she wound want to stay. Though I am not sure, I think she really needs this life. Her husband is dead for already more than two years, and granny mentioned something about him “calling” her to follow. Maybe now they can talk it over, and grandpa would decide (as he was always the one to make decisions) if granny could stay or she had to go. There is no God, and I can cry now. Heavily.

So: you decided to make some hot dish. I tell you what NOT to do with the ingredients. Even if you taste the chili beforehand, never slice six pieces of bloodyfuckingscorchinghot potatosized minichilies into it. But, hell, if you still do, and fry them together with the sausages, do not hope for the sausages not adopting their unbelievable wormdestroyer, worldburner, painfully nuclear, mucousmembranekiller, dysenterygoutcolony, death, death, death taste. But if you still do, it is totally useless to break five perfect eggs on top, because it remains the same filthyembryosweltering, cattlegutsknottingonmyteeth, nosuchlifeformthatcouldsurvive, hyper-giga-mega-acidbitten shit-capacity and vomit-volume increaser scrambled eggs-lookalike with the wrath of a napalm-eater’s smile, that should not be consumed in any way. And then. If you strengthen your spirits and say, ok, I go and eat what I cooked, well… then you can only blame yourself for what follows. I sat down and devoured the bigger part of it, and got my gullet and respiratory tract burnt to the bone, while at the same time, the skin on my forehead, later on the whole of my body gave way to the intensively pumping geyser-like fountains of sweat. I burst into tears and I had the privilege to enjoy the fourfold joys of heartburn, nausea, anus-scorching diarrhea, and burning hot belching. Now I am only sitting and I will be glad if my bowels don’t wear through until tomorrow. Until the time comes when I have to shit out the poison I swallowed.

The shell I live in is sometimes a bit disturbing. It acquires a double-chin, it gets baggy and sloppy, then it cracks, its gravity equals to that of lead, I wore a decent ditch into my part of the bed, wow!

I masturbate every day – sometimes twice a day – since I was twelve. Now that I should beget a child, continence is a difficult task. But all the same, we shall buy some sperms in the department store, if these ones don’t feel like going with the flow.

I was eight years old, when it turned out, that my foreskin sticks to my cockhead, but my father did not take me to the doctor, but he brought home some analgesic instead, sprayed it on my part, and tore the excess skin off. It was an experience to remember. But I don’t think it was the reason, why it stopped growing. My scrotum was always in inverse proportion with my dick. That’s a fact, but I don’t mind, ‘cause at least I have quite some balls to fidget with when I get bored.

The soul I think is something of an idiotic, fucked-up thing. God, I guess must have fallen asleep during the genesis, and somebody puked into his hat in the meanwhile, and that was the creation of this ever-aching, idiotic inner enemy.

Although my mask is perfect, I am a jolly guy, always funny, silly, but inside me, something is wrong – next to my bowels of course – I only refrain from crying because the chlorinated water burns my eyes. So, am I really ill? It would be nice to understand myself, what I have never managed before. I could save my soul, I wouldn’t even need a cd, a floppy would do. These cares are grinding… I crush myself in body and soul… could it possibly be any better? I am a nobody, please thrash me!

My third noble and yet unfulfilled task is the begetting of a child. Unfortunately there are a number of lesser obstacles keeping me from successful conception. Well, I need some time anyway to get used to the thought of taking responsibility for someone for the first time in my life. I have to get used to the thought that this little piece of shit will stick around – hopefully - until the end of my life, and I feel I would be inclined to love him or her, and consequently I cannot ever slaughter my wife, nor myself.

My short and shitful morning has not yet ended, though I already feel like tearing out my guts and pushing them down my throat, then shit them out and tie it into knots or something like that.

Ok, you don’t have to kill me, but would anybody be so kind as to bury me? Face down, of course, so if I change my mind, I could only escape toward the glowing core. Thank you for your kindness.

I am absorbed in an activity I never tried before: I collect my semen, then put it into a plastic glass next Monday, and take it to the doctor to have it assessed. My only joy in life was to masturbate as much as I wanted, the way I wanted, and now they take this away from me. What else do I have to sacrifice for this child…

Now I can start again collecting, because what I took on Monday was of an insufficient quantity, so it turns out not to be so simple, and I only hope my life would not revolve around this fiasco in the next months. Beware: If you have to collect sperm-sample, do it standing, because if you sit, the little bastards won’t find their way into the glass. Well, that’s about it. I won’t go back to sleep. I mourn.

Tomorrow I am going to a few days wellness-program with my missus. This includes one massage, and I already see the poor masseur sobbing, as he desperately tries to free his hands from among the greasy wrinkles of my fat, yelling and begging, then giving it up he drowns in my flab. Whalers shall find his body years later, or I shall peel him off during a heavier summer burn.

I died, as I did so many times. Finally it was not the masseur, who perished in my pores, but I was done with in a very serious way. He started to massage my legs, but so strong I shitted myself. So they had my nappy changed, and then back to the table, no mercy. After he concluded that my leg consists of knots instead of muscular tissues, I began to have a deeper understanding of my predicament, but when he reached the inner side of my thigh, new dimensions of pain opened up in my mind. I was crying tears of thin shit, and it burned my face, so I asked him to move on, and assured him that my legs are going to be amputated half an hour later. He was kind, and moved on to tear out my spine without a word.

Let’s accept ourselves the way we are! Yeah, that should help. Fuck cares if I accept myself, if society does not. Don’t tell me, I would be happy if I loved this tower of flesh, I live in, and I wouldn’t mind if they laugh at me, pity me, insult me, marvel at how much I eat, produce clothes, chair, car, anything in my size. If the reason for your being fat is not some kind of illness, you must lose weight now, or die now. That’s the trend.

Revelation came, oh, great lord of my great colon! Complexes! They are what I have, and they make me eat… or at least that’s what they say. Because I live in the shadow of my father, it’s his requirements I have to meet, I don’t have a single original idea, if I did, the boss came and hit me in the throat. Then there’s my wife - much more clever and intelligent then me – oppressing and humiliating me whenever she has the chance, but all this in a cunning way, so I wouldn’t even have the chance to rebel. Then there’s the whole life. Not much nice things in it. I am a communicational one-way street, absolutely not open to human contact, not a bit. Reticent, full of inhibitions (thanks daddy), with a well shaken cocktail of inferiority complexes. Every sentence I utter is a weapon of defense against my own insecurities. Not very effective , though, as you can see. If I could be independent, I would lose my excess weight and live happily ever after. This is the Word, and I received it, oh, my Creator, I am feeble, I beg you to nail me to the cross with my frontal lobe facing the earth, if I do not adhere to these simple regulations. So the man with nail driver cometh and driveth his body face to the soil onto his cross, because he hath not liveth according to the simple rules. Because its not so simple. I don’t sport a distorted image of myself, if my arm fell off, or twenty kilos, I could accept that, I could live with the situation. It’s not my father, it’s not my wicked wife, or my idiot self that makes me so fat and angry. Nobody is content with his or her fate, I am not either. But I believe if I can (and if I want, of course) do something against the overwhelming power of my guts over me, I would succeed. It would take some moral depression, but if this depression lasted a day, a week or a month is just a minor detail. Theoretically I come out at well at the end, without any medical help. If not, my friends were right, and I am really too weak to solve my problems. Let it not be this way.

I only wanted to say, that maybe I cannot lose weight because I am ILL, and not because I am one bloody weak blob of pus, born without any strength of will. I am thinking of what else could I attribute the total lack of free will, but nothing comes to my mind.

I have four days to answer the following question: why did I become such a disastrously fucked up idiot asshole, who had done nothing at all in his life, except for the occasion, when I bit off my own leg, and had it grown back just to prove, that I was a lizard. The two most important factors of my life are closely connected to each other: eating and crying. Well, that’s already something of a paradox: crying suggests emotions, which I don’t have.

I have invented a new approach to my problem, because so many people have hurt me with good reason. So: I am not crying because I am fat, but because I have no stamina or willpower to change my condition. And if I kick the bucket shortly over thirty, it won’t matter if it was the fat, or the pathetic nobody, who failed to fight it, that killed me. Anyway, a fact is a fact, I am not very beautiful, and I can’t do nothing about it… the man who was born without a character and free will. Deep sea grease-fish, with a limited amount of roe for sale. By the way, I managed to spend some money to increase my happiness. Now I have new shoes, trousers, and – how surprising – sunglasses. I buy one every year – one that suits my personality.

I am only willing to live this miserably idiotic life out of some morbid curiosity. I spent the last month with crying and praying to God to give me some brain with some sensible thoughts – in vain. I drew the layout (sarcastic giggle) for our bathroom, and it will probably turn out so ugly, I would not ever set foot in it.

A dishonest death is the goal, green prokaryote wish I could be, sallalllallla

Heathen fucking heat. Stinky grease is pouring down on my forehead as a tsunami. While my feeble windscreen-wipers work on high gear without any visible result. I am stinking as a five week-old carcass of a dead cat, only I am uglier.

God has almost heard my prayer. I have been asking for a lethal blow, a stray lightning, or a heavy object to free me of my life, and now he seems to have decided to do something for me. The shutters of the shop entrance have collapsed on me – only I survived. With an horrific sound it collapsed the very minute I trespassed under it. Too bad it was neither heavy nor fast enough to hurt my spine, so I only felt heart attack imminent, but it was lost somewhere on the way, the bloody bastard. The noise triggered the alarm, waking up the entire street, yeah! I managed to crawl in midget-walking, turn off the alarm, cancel security, and look for somebody to fix the shutter in a frenzy, and find one luckily. God has his eyes on me, but he doesn’t want to destroy me too quick, just bit by bit, now is it good, or is it not? Well, its bad for me, but funny for him, it’s real fun to be omnipotent. Must be.

Missus comes to me to tell, that she poured burning hot white sauce on herself, so what she does? She licks it off spontaneously, just to burn her tongue as well. Congratulations: women and instincts.

Theoretically I should keep quiet about it, but I am bored of keeping this secret: missus is pregnant – and how surprising – she carries a human baby (or something like that) under her heart, or slowly rather under her breasts.

Can you leave a handicapped child in the hospital, saying “thanks, but I don’t need it like that”? I don’t mean the usual unavoidable things like, deaf, mute or blind, but the serious mental or physical handicaps… What happens then?

Now finally a perfect day! I could go down the street without anybody spitting me in the eye, humiliating me or offering me a job as a freakshow in a circus.

Ok, today nobody spat on me on the street, and nobody wanted to beat me up. But, my perfect Toyota broke down in the weekend, the alarm killed it, but as it turned out, the rain-detector leaked. Fuck electricity, even Japanese produce shit, but especially if I am the costumer. I would also mention, that there was a dead bird in the bonnet, and I would also grab the opportunity to warn my readers, who are martens, that my engine is not a larder. They had devoured the cover of the hood, but it seems like they still have their dinner heated up on my engine. I can imagine one day the distribution belt shall tear their little hairy bodies into pieces, I would happily pay for the engine-washing, as I myself would never climb into constructions built by other people to deposit food. Ok, its true, that we humans tend to overtake most of their territories, and they have to adapt somehow. But still: fuck them.

Missus has said what’s on her mind. Let me quote: “Your prick is small, hardly visible in the flab, but I love you like that.”. Well, not exactly these words, but she was quite straightforward, and when I burst into tears, she began to try to water it up, but of course, it was too late. I would like to believe it has an average size, but I know, it’s even small for a child. I have been frustrated by this for ages, it’s on second place after being a “blob of lard”, but I guess, now it comes up to the first place for a few days. There is a surgical way to increase the size, but it’s such a small change, it is just not worth it. The only good thing it is that my self-esteem is so low, it just can’t be pushed any lower. Now I imagine myself something between a bloody excrement and an overdeveloped tumor. Hmm… These don’t have sexual organs, am I right? Good because it looks like, I don’t eitherJ. And she still wants to marry me… well, that’s something to think about. I must get a bigger prick before she gets one for herself.

How nice it is to splash a brain with a gunstock! How nice it is to squash somebody with a tank! How stupid it is to write such crap here! It was a spectacularly boring day, with fartmelodies played on a shitpiano in the background. Only three people fell in through the door only to spit at me, rob me, tear off my head, and fold paper ships from my limbs for their cannibal children. Now that I am exsanguinated, I am overwhelmed by happiness.

Today we spent money like water, but I don’t mind, because all we bought is mine. Ok, missus got a few things too, but it was me, who bought two trousers, a T-shirt, a shirt, basketball colours, while she bought a jeans jacket, a belt and three tops. It’s wonderful to spend money, I hope I can continue tomorrow.

Apartment renovation

Written and directed by real fucking life

What’s given is a makeshift living room built of ruins, a neurotic owner, and a few unreliable, negligent craftsmen. The balcony door has been fit, but if I close it, the door-case moves away from the wall, revealing a crack in the wall – oh, I love that! They have painted the walls, splattering everything they should have spared, and now comes the parquet-polishing murderer, not on time, I presume, ready to do an expensive and awful job. If I manage to get over this in a lifetime, I would still not be happy, knowing I have to get this over again in a few years, if I live that long.

I succeeded in getting my weight back to the point where I started to lose weight. If I’d tell anybody my choice of sports, he would laugh whining, and die laughing. I can’t see my prick again, only in the mirror with a magnifying glass. I’ve read about a possibility to make it thicker and longer, if I ever have the money, I should think about it. I would be satisfied only if all the fat from my belly could be syringed into my dick, although with that forty kilos willy, I could only harm whales or elephants. Shit, it doesn’t work out either way. I go and continue doing nothing, but if anybody needs ideas how to destroy a living room, just ask me for advice.

My eyesight is a little blurry for already a week… I may have got cold, or maybe it didn’t like my finger in it, or I am a diabetic, and this is already it. What wold happen if I visited a doctor? It would become clear I should have already died with this blood pressure, cholesterol and sugar. I wouldn’t be surprised. Project Bucket-kicking started.

I bought a mobile phone for Christmas – for myself of course. I must vent my anger: it really hurts. I bought a smart phone, an N73. Because I thought, I should keep up with the progress, I thought that’s the future. I was wrong. I am a thick-brained fossil. I have been fumbling with it for two days already , and I can only use half of what the gadget is capable of. Pathetic. Configuring my e-mail took me an hour in itself, and I was really thinking about turning to the manual, when I realized I confused incoming mail with outgoing mail, and then everything straightened out.

I knocked back almost a liter of milk, with the direct intention of relieving my bowels in a radical manner. Something is fishy down there for days (or weeks), and I finally decided to take drastic measures. If the milk would not make me shit until morning, then comes the drill-hammer. But if it does, I shall whine in satisfaction thinking about how my beautiful wife enjoyed the orgy of stench erupting from my bottom in the company of some liquid and thin shit. I hope I am a real vulgar boor, that’s what I choose to be. I devote tomorrow to soul-searching, oh I wish my arshe could speak, pabadam, my new pants burst on my bum, it’s time to have a sack made to fit, in which I could appear in a public place without having any flab flowing over it. Great plans, I know, but I don’t get intimidated by challenges… even if they seem impossible to tackle. Good night, green prokaryote, you who hang on the walls of my guts and peek around, blinking into the light that slashes the space from behind… Beware, and never follow the light!

The result of the medical examination: I am good at spunk. I have 75 percent what’sitsname in 6 million who’sitcalled, which is something to envy, which means I spray quality material from my minuscule prick. But: there is too much of mucus or whatthehell in it, which makes my little river of sperms flowing in the wrong direction; they must be a fucking headstrong bunch.

Wife’s oviduct has been painted well, it seems ok, trespassable (but what the fuck these examinations are for before anything happened?), only her thyroid gland is lagging a bit behind, which they would fix, and if not, I should perhaps cut some vital parts out of her, or something. There is one more awfully idiotic examination to go, when they shall take a look at what happens after copulation. We wait for the ovulation, then they instruct us to copulate, then they laugh until they bleat, then we have to go to the hospital in six hours, where they check if them little bastards drag themselves duly toward the egg, to headbutt it in the most violent manner, until one of their heads get stuck in the soft ball, or something like that… Just please don’t ask what this whole discombobulation is for, even the sis made a peculiar face when my missus answered her question “For how long are you trying?” “1-2 months”, which would not be too much even counted in years in a normal case. But you know, its us, and in our family, normality as such is an unknown phenomenon.

“There is a superhero called Sylar. Its from the Heroes. Looks like you a bit, by the way.”

It’s a bit frustrating to realize I have the same profession as Sylar, but until I don’t get into the habit of cutting off the top third of special peoples’ heads, it is not a real problem. But if I still do, I would not chew their minds and try to analyze how they work, so it seems like, I am no hero, so you can all relax. If you have no idea, what I am talking about, you are a happy person.

This request from Africa made me think for a moment. Maybe it would be right to have myself distributed by Red Cross, to relieve half the world from hunger. Today’s best news: the asphalt has collapsed under me, getting me in close acquaintance with the large family of main rising water-pipes and other unhealthy occurrences.

We wanted to purchase a new bra for miss mamma, formerly known as my wife, but her frontal excrescences took over the power over her mind. Naturally most of the shops offer nothing above size D, so it seems we won’t be able to squeeze that angry nipple into the cups anymore. Ok, now, I go and talk to those two gigantic breasts, who sponge on the girl that used to be my wife.

I shout in to the kid, tell him to behave and staff like that, since his mother wouldn’t, I must take over communication. But my wicked wife says, that the kid only recognizes her voice, mine is as good as background noise for him, he doesn’t give a shit about it. I am a fat-rich background voice, shit. So much about prenatal verbal communication. Next time I write something on her belly, and wait for the numbers 666 to emerge, just to make me burn to ashes spontaneously. Well, its worth a try…

I am not a good husband, I always knew. If your pregnant wife feels she became fat, you must not make jokes about it, because you are a boor, and you cannot imagine, how it feels to live with a parasite within your stomach. Well, maybe I can, because I am full of worms and different fungi, but they don’t usually grow so big as this kid would. So missus became a sausage, and I try to explain to her how much I love a sausage in vain. The worst is that I really don’t think she was fat, only I have a habit of ever kicking the point where it hurts, and I do it no matter how pregnant she is, since I was born without a heart. But it really hurts me, when I see her crying, afraid of standing on the scale, and feels she has to explain her kilos to ME, who has the self-control of a walking stick, and who would still be quite big after losing third of his weight. Pregnancy is a condition, and I should not be a burden, she should be left to battle with the little parasite, who is in the habit of merging mamma into a sausage, condemning her to a life without hip and waist.