If someone told me Pulp Fiction was 23 years old, I’d stamp on their impudent feet, knee them in their stupid lying face, then kick them in their Judas nuts. Then I’d scream in their face how it was more than they deserved since ancient greek generals used to put messengers to the sword if they brought them bad news.
Then I’d check the calendar, count several times over on my ridiculous sausage fingers, apologise profusely to the gentleman and offer him a seat, a glass of Tizer, and a briefcase full of gold to keep my indiscretion out of the newspapers.
(Then I’d turn around and pretend I was tying my shoe lace while writing on my hand to google the whole greek general thing cos I have a feeling I dreamt it)
23 years? SHHHHHHHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTT !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
That is just rude.
What have I been DOING with my time?
It feels like yesterday I was kicking back with Matt and Holly smoking and drinking beer, INSIDE THE CINEMA DAMN YOUR EYES! …. and watching Pulp Fiction.
If 23 years can go that quickly then I have a major MAJOR issue with this temporal roller coaster we find ourselves strapped into and forced to ride at gunpoint.
Back then I was a god among men. Women wanted to BE me and men wanted to be WITH me!
Oh, wait … ahh fuck it.
I had thick swathes of He-Man hair that pigmies had to carry in a train behind me.
All the major studios used to call me every week begging me to star in their movies.
I would’ve fought a silverback gorilla given the chance, but they were all too scared and ran and hid whenever I looked for them in the jungle!
I could run a marathon and not even be out of breath …. ON MY HANDS!
I could go on.
Now, I would tell you that even my cat looked down his nose at me BUT I DON’T EVEN HAVE A CAAAAAT!
No, he left 2 years ago with his possessions bundled into a spotty hankie tied onto the end of a stick slung over his shoulder; muttering something about how I was an embarrassment to him now. Why that Go-Cat chomping smug ungrateful little ponce!
Mirrors sigh when I walk past them and my few remaining follicles of hair taunt me daily, threatening to jump if I look at them funny.
My wrinkles are a contour map of a life gone wrong.
Beggars don’t even want to be me.
Women talk in code whenever I approach to brace themselves for my passing.
And even the ironing board hates me.
But at least I can still rely on this song.
Counting Flowers on the Wall – The Statler Brothers: