dancing with amyl on a saturday night

Last weekend, I went to a party and danced to Micheal Jackson while sniffing amyl nitrate. My life has reached some sort of zenith and so I've been thinking about what I could possibly do with the rest of it.

1. Concentrate on writing.
Maybe the best way to take my tendancy for ripping off somethingawful.com and passing it off as my own brand of humour to its logical conclusion is to write for a living. Here's a sample paragraph:

Yo! It's me, straight up from the streets. You know what's a fly album? Busta Rhymes's new one. It's shnizzit on my wazzit. You know what I'm saying? It's all like "bloo da da blip" and Poppa Smurf on my listening biscuit. Let's fight nanoprobes my unfortunate friends!

This is pretty much in the style of all the press in the city where I live. The key to writing for today's youth is to make no sense at all, but name drop constantly, just like Rocky Balboa says.

2. Express myself through dance.
As the amyl seemingly relaxed my sphincter to the extent that my legs moved independantly of my buttocks, I received nods of approval from my peers. This is because through moving in time to 'Beat It' I expressed all their rage against machines and other metal objects that cause alienation. Perhaps this was a window of opportunity, or perhaps it was a chimney of success. Either way, I intend to apply for some dancing jobs and these will be duly noted on next fortnight's dole form.

I would describe my dancing style as part jazz ballet, part scottish sword dancing and part reptile. I feel quite strongly about keeping my elbows below my shoulders when moving to the rhthym of the night. To do otherwise is to enter the realm of flashdance, and at this stage of my career I don't think I'll be ready to flashdance until I'm either a) thirty years old or b) married to Ben Affleck to hide his perchant for man sex.

3. Sit on my arse all day and eat chocolate that Katrina stole from the supermarket.
I crave comfort as much as I crave fame, so why not combine both? Perhaps someone can call one of the tabloid 'current affairs' programmes (hint, hint) and they can do an expose on how a witty, capable man can be so lazy. I'll just stare into the camera, contraband chocolate smeared around my cake hole in a scat-like fashion and wait for the fame to come rolling in. Alternatively, I could get up at 7:00am, make a fort out of the cushions on the couch and wait for Dragonball Z to come on the telly.