I went to a fancy dress party the other night. I love em, coz you can pretend to be anything. I love going as a productive member of society without social anxiety and trust issues…or a pirate! But everyone was taking all these photos, which did my head in coz the party wasn’t even that good.
Here’s my tip, if you’re at a party and you have to tell people to smile, quit snapping. That’s just me. Some people there were loving it.. One of my mates, No photos. He’s not shy, he’s a Red Indian. Apparently a photograph steals your soul.What are they talking about? Steal your soul. Most of my photo’s struggle to capture your image. It’s not my cameras fault. Fuck, when I got given it, I was told it takes photos with more detail than the human eye can make out. That’s handy. “Ooh, I Can’t wait to evolve, then I can really enjoy these snaps”
You know, people are now being warned not to have their keys out in photos, coz the images are so detailed that people can copy your keys from the photo.
Mental, right. Thing is they’re copying our keys now, but soon it’ll be our finger prints, our retinas, facial recognition. We won’t be able to have a Kodak Moment without having our identity stolen. My real concern is that one day, a photo of me is gonna fall into the wrong hands they’ll blow it up so big they can see my DNA, then splice that with a high resolution pic of an unfertilized egg to make a fucken clone.
You might think “A clone? That is radical” Uh-Uh, I don’t want another one of me. I’m not being precious, I just don’t think I’m worth duplicating. And if I thought I was, I’d be a prick. And Jordan’s full of shit, two pricks are not better than one.
I guess the scary thing is, it could have happened already, and I don’t know about it. None of us would.
You know, you get texts
“See ya tonight!”
You text back “What?”
“Oh Sorry, wrong Richard”
Meeting people “You look very familiar." or “Richard, I saw your exact double on the train today”
Then it’s suddenly gonna fall into place. One night I’ll rock up to a party, and hear MY voice telling MY anecdote to MY friends!
"Who the fuck are you?"
“Me.”
"Yes you!"
“I’m me”
"You?"
“Yes”
"What?!?"
He’ll come and stay, but I don’t wanna live with me. Notes left in my own handwriting. My favourite pirate costume’s always getting used.. Every time I need the toilet, so does he. “I was here first!” Though, with my scent, it’s a bit like smelling a roast before you get to eat it.
Then one day he moves out, fuck knows how he affords it, Probably with the steady wage from the proper job he got using MY degree.
Good riddance I say. Now I can get back into things. Jokes jokes jokes.
I keep chasing my dream, things go okay. I seem to be talking a lot about clones and their faults in society. Given how many there are these days, I’m considered old fashioned
I tell him to come see a gig, but he’s too busy with the kids.
“I’ll do that joke about Cameras you like”
“Are you still doing that?” He’ll say.
I can’t wait til he’s dead so I can do my own eulogy at my own funeral, and talk about what a good bloke I am. Prick.
On Facebook, his status is successful.
I’m eating takeaway chicken in my underwear in a hostel in Scunthorpe.
I write a joke about a dog with two tails, he buys a new car.
I break up with my Mrs, he gets back with her
He’s banking and flying his new red jet, I’m wanking in a friends bedsit.
He gets engaged. I get felt up by a drunken hen do.
He’s giving a talk to the board, I’m playing to an audience who’re bored
Christmas with my family, I couldn’t afford it this year.
His kids are growing and so are my debts. I dust off by finance degree, just out of curiosity.
Here I am 47, driving a 1992 Dihatsu Charade that’s more rust than rustic. Housemates that loathe me, broken relationships,and more debt than Africa.
He’s living the life I should have. I feel like my livelihoods been taken away. My life is shit, it’s all a waste, and all I can think is, "There’s probably a joke in that".
I feel empty. Like something’s missing. So I guess maybe that’s what the Red Indians were talking about
Here’s my tip, if you’re at a party and you have to tell people to smile, quit snapping. That’s just me. Some people there were loving it.. One of my mates, No photos. He’s not shy, he’s a Red Indian. Apparently a photograph steals your soul.What are they talking about? Steal your soul. Most of my photo’s struggle to capture your image. It’s not my cameras fault. Fuck, when I got given it, I was told it takes photos with more detail than the human eye can make out. That’s handy. “Ooh, I Can’t wait to evolve, then I can really enjoy these snaps”
You know, people are now being warned not to have their keys out in photos, coz the images are so detailed that people can copy your keys from the photo.
Mental, right. Thing is they’re copying our keys now, but soon it’ll be our finger prints, our retinas, facial recognition. We won’t be able to have a Kodak Moment without having our identity stolen. My real concern is that one day, a photo of me is gonna fall into the wrong hands they’ll blow it up so big they can see my DNA, then splice that with a high resolution pic of an unfertilized egg to make a fucken clone.
You might think “A clone? That is radical” Uh-Uh, I don’t want another one of me. I’m not being precious, I just don’t think I’m worth duplicating. And if I thought I was, I’d be a prick. And Jordan’s full of shit, two pricks are not better than one.
I guess the scary thing is, it could have happened already, and I don’t know about it. None of us would.
You know, you get texts
“See ya tonight!”
You text back “What?”
“Oh Sorry, wrong Richard”
Meeting people “You look very familiar." or “Richard, I saw your exact double on the train today”
Then it’s suddenly gonna fall into place. One night I’ll rock up to a party, and hear MY voice telling MY anecdote to MY friends!
"Who the fuck are you?"
“Me.”
"Yes you!"
“I’m me”
"You?"
“Yes”
"What?!?"
He’ll come and stay, but I don’t wanna live with me. Notes left in my own handwriting. My favourite pirate costume’s always getting used.. Every time I need the toilet, so does he. “I was here first!” Though, with my scent, it’s a bit like smelling a roast before you get to eat it.
Then one day he moves out, fuck knows how he affords it, Probably with the steady wage from the proper job he got using MY degree.
Good riddance I say. Now I can get back into things. Jokes jokes jokes.
I keep chasing my dream, things go okay. I seem to be talking a lot about clones and their faults in society. Given how many there are these days, I’m considered old fashioned
I tell him to come see a gig, but he’s too busy with the kids.
“I’ll do that joke about Cameras you like”
“Are you still doing that?” He’ll say.
I can’t wait til he’s dead so I can do my own eulogy at my own funeral, and talk about what a good bloke I am. Prick.
On Facebook, his status is successful.
I’m eating takeaway chicken in my underwear in a hostel in Scunthorpe.
I write a joke about a dog with two tails, he buys a new car.
I break up with my Mrs, he gets back with her
He’s banking and flying his new red jet, I’m wanking in a friends bedsit.
He gets engaged. I get felt up by a drunken hen do.
He’s giving a talk to the board, I’m playing to an audience who’re bored
Christmas with my family, I couldn’t afford it this year.
His kids are growing and so are my debts. I dust off by finance degree, just out of curiosity.
Here I am 47, driving a 1992 Dihatsu Charade that’s more rust than rustic. Housemates that loathe me, broken relationships,and more debt than Africa.
He’s living the life I should have. I feel like my livelihoods been taken away. My life is shit, it’s all a waste, and all I can think is, "There’s probably a joke in that".
I feel empty. Like something’s missing. So I guess maybe that’s what the Red Indians were talking about
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