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VISIT THE HIPPY'S NEW SITE: www.northlondonhippy.com Spend some time chilling out with the hippy...He used to be "the most shroomtastic stoner on the internet!" until the UK banned fresh magic mushrooms. He's still "the biggest internet celebrity you've never heard of!" He'll make you laugh, he'll make you think...he'll make you wish you were a hippy too!
Sunday, November 27, 2005
I profess that I’m a pseudo-intellectual, philosopher, humorist, satirist and drug abuser. In reality, only that last descriptive term is really true.
I’m just like everyone else tooling around on this planet. I pretend I know things, I act like things matter, I smile knowingly at all and sundry. I act like I give a shit.
The truth is: I’m just as scared and pig-ignorant as the rest of us. I’m no different from anyone else, I’m just higher more often. And if I wasn’t, I’d probably be clinically insane.
As it stands, I’m insane, but not clinically.
That’s alright then.
I search for truths, in my life, in the universe, in everything. The truth is: I don’t know dick. I know less than dick. I’m no different from anyone else.
We pretend we know things; we act like we understand our role in the universe. Bull-fucking-shit! We don’t know dick.
No one knows why we’re really here. No one knows how we got here. Go on, make up your own theory, it will be just as valid as anyone else’s. It’s all speculation anyway, who’s to say you’re not the one true genius of the human race, with all the right answers?
It has to be someone, why not you?
Why not me?
I stumble around, stoned out of my mind on drugs, pretending I’m the ultimate authority on everything. I profess to be the one true genius of the 21st century. Maybe I am?
Who are you to say I’m not? Who’s anyone? I could be, you know.
Of course, if I really was, then no one would pay attention to me.
Oh wait, no one pays attention to me now, so maybe it really is me…?
I toil away here in relative obscurity, in my own little corner of internet hell. If I truly was a genius, wouldn’t you all be worshipping at my feet and sucking my cock heartily while you were down there?
I’m looking down, all I see are my shoes. I need new laces, these are frayed at the ends.
The truth is: If I really was the one true genius of the 21st century, no one would know it now.
Maybe after I’m dead, my place in the history of the universe will be confirmed and my hippy visage will be staring at you on postage stamps. First class, naturally.
Perhaps in 100 or 1000 years, some future resident of this muddy hell-hole we call home will stumbled upon this very blog and see my writing for what it is, be it shit or solid gold.
I say solid gold, but I’m unashamedly biased.
I’m stupid, you’re stupid, we’re all stupid.
None of us are special, we’re all exactly the same, and we live our rather dull, uneventful, little lives in relative obscurity.
Everyone I love is dead or dying. We're all dying, slowly, one cell at a time, one day at a time.
We’re born, we live, and we die. The end.
Whether you’re an aid worker feeding the starving in Africa, or some serial killer dispatching street whores twice a night, your life will still follow along these simple lines. Birth, life, death. Oh and taxes, unless you know how to avoid them, which makes you smarter than me already.
Some might argue that it’s not those three simple things, but what you do in-between them.
I don't agree, because no matter where you’re born or how you live your life, that third one, death, still gets you in the end.
I fear death, I fear getting older and I fear being infirm. I’m terrified of some calamitous, catastrophic health problem, leaving me as an invalid. I don’t fear a swift death, dying quickly doesn’t worry me at all.
But lingering, hanging on, and not being able to feed myself or wipe my own goddamn ass, now that scares the motherfucking bejeesus outta me!
Hey, you fucking hippyfans owe me! If you hear I’m vegetating away in some hospital bed, with no chance of recovery, you have to promise you’ll kill me. Smoother me with a pillow, shoot me, poison me, stab me, I don’t care what you do, just make sure it’s quick and I don’t suffer too much.
I’d pray to god for insight and understanding and faith, but he doesn’t answer my prayers.
He doesn’t answer anyone’s. He doesn’t exist. He’s fictitious, he’s not real, he’s a construct; a creation of someone just like you or me.
God was invented to give us something bigger to believe in, to answer the unanswerable, to promise a better life in the next world.
Bullshit! If you buy into any of this, you’re not very clever and you deserve to be anally raped by satan until you bleed buckets. Ouch.
Fairytales ain’t gonna help any of us. Believe in yourself and know that none of us are any better off. Other people may have more dosh and more things, but they don’t have any better idea of the answers to the unanswerable than you do.
And if some fucking cunt comes ‘round, telling you they have all the answers while passing the collection plate, RUN. If you want to give some loser all your money, I’m just as good as your priest. And you know I’d blow it all on drugs, hookers and handguns, so it would be going to a very worthy cause.
When you realise how pointless it all is, how no one knows any better than you, it’s actually quite liberating rather than depressing. I get more joy out of knowing for sure that I don’t know anything, than pretending to have all the answers.
At least I know what the questions are and if you’re reading this blog, you probably do too.
Think of all those poor schlubs who don’t even know what to question. Feel sorry for them, pity them, for they know not of what they’ll never know.
Actually, perhaps rather than pity them, perhaps we should envy them. Think about it, have you ever met a proper Jesus-freak? Their eyes have this glazed-over quality of someone who knows something you don’t, only worse. Because they think they’re right and you’re wrong, they’re certain you’re going to hell! What’s even spookier is these pseudo-christian cunts seem to take pleasure in telling you that you will spend eternity getting poked in the ass by satan.
Hell’s where all the really cool will be. Heaven will be pretty empty, with god, jesus and the Osmond family your own company. For eternity. And since you’re already dead, you can’t top yourself, it won’t work. I suppose your only option is to try and slip it to Marie Osmond and hope you get sent downstairs with the rest of us hipsters.
Look for me, I’ll be the long-haired guy with the big bong and all the really hot chicks fighting over who shags me next. I’ll be hard to miss, and even harder to beat!
And remember, this hippy is available to entertain at parties. I’m one big fucking barrel of laughs!