The "Freeola Customer Forum" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
I love my dog. One morning my mum went to give a load of old newspaper to the dogs home, saw him waiting there all quietly, and bought him home. I was quite surprised. Well, really! Mum does tend to do some odd things, but usually the things she brings back are dead. Not that she brings back dead cows or anything, but the things she brings back are usually bits of furniture and stuff like that. This certainly wasn’t furniture, because it was running about all over the place, and I’m pretty sure furniture doesn’t do that. Furniture only really moves about when it falls over, or when it’s pushed, or when you’re really fuhucked.
Yesterday, about three in the morning, my dog was barking at the sky. He does that a lot. I think he’s scared of it, and really, he’s right to be. We all should be. Look at it up there, smug little grin on its face. It’s planning something. Probably rain. It will wait until I’m a mile away from shelter, needing to light a fire to avoid being eaten by a mongoose or something, because the sky really is a dicke. We should kick its ass, although I’m not sure exactly where the ass of the sky would be. Probably in Australia. Probably a mile away from shelter, guarded by a mongoose that is scared of fire. Because the sky is a dicke like that.
But this isn’t about my mum, or the sky, this is about my dog, who was barking at the sky. It would be far better if he was baking the sky, and I can’t think why he isn’t. I would be. The only answers I can come up with are
1) that he’s dyslexic
2) that he can’t find an oven big enough.
Both of which are obviously stupid, because only people can be dyslexic, and of course there’s an oven big enough. That’s what God is. God is a bloody huge oven. We are all inside God and he is cooking us, very very slowly. Then when we die, a giant opens up the little door on God, and eats us. The smell of corpse is like the smell of pizza to the giant.
But this isn’t about giants, this is about dogs. I know it should be about giants, but some dick chose dogs as their topic. Dogs. When my dog was barking at the sky, a copy of Delia Smiths How To Cook Volume II fell from the sky and hit him on the head. It would have killed the poor chap, if it were not for the suit of armour I made him for my GCSE DT project.
Jolly good.
Yesterday, about three in the morning, my dog was barking at the sky. He does that a lot. I think he’s scared of it, and really, he’s right to be. We all should be. Look at it up there, smug little grin on its face. It’s planning something. Probably rain. It will wait until I’m a mile away from shelter, needing to light a fire to avoid being eaten by a mongoose or something, because the sky really is a dicke. We should kick its ass, although I’m not sure exactly where the ass of the sky would be. Probably in Australia. Probably a mile away from shelter, guarded by a mongoose that is scared of fire. Because the sky is a dicke like that.
But this isn’t about my mum, or the sky, this is about my dog, who was barking at the sky. It would be far better if he was baking the sky, and I can’t think why he isn’t. I would be. The only answers I can come up with are
1) that he’s dyslexic
2) that he can’t find an oven big enough.
Both of which are obviously stupid, because only people can be dyslexic, and of course there’s an oven big enough. That’s what God is. God is a bloody huge oven. We are all inside God and he is cooking us, very very slowly. Then when we die, a giant opens up the little door on God, and eats us. The smell of corpse is like the smell of pizza to the giant.
But this isn’t about giants, this is about dogs. I know it should be about giants, but some dick chose dogs as their topic. Dogs. When my dog was barking at the sky, a copy of Delia Smiths How To Cook Volume II fell from the sky and hit him on the head. It would have killed the poor chap, if it were not for the suit of armour I made him for my GCSE DT project.
Jolly good.
Page:
You know, this sounds like one of my dreams after eating too much cheese before going to bed.
Odd that it should come from someone with a cheese related name, then. Perhaps these facts are related...
...or perhaps it's just the same drugs...
Odd that it should come from someone with a cheese related name, then. Perhaps these facts are related...
...or perhaps it's just the same drugs...
That made for a strange read.
Entertaining, if not a little *illegal* fuelled.
...
How very random.
How very random.
Too many drugs, Cheese
I love my dog. One morning my mum went to give a load of old newspaper to the dogs home, saw him waiting there all quietly, and bought him home. I was quite surprised. Well, really! Mum does tend to do some odd things, but usually the things she brings back are dead. Not that she brings back dead cows or anything, but the things she brings back are usually bits of furniture and stuff like that. This certainly wasn’t furniture, because it was running about all over the place, and I’m pretty sure furniture doesn’t do that. Furniture only really moves about when it falls over, or when it’s pushed, or when you’re really fuhucked.
Yesterday, about three in the morning, my dog was barking at the sky. He does that a lot. I think he’s scared of it, and really, he’s right to be. We all should be. Look at it up there, smug little grin on its face. It’s planning something. Probably rain. It will wait until I’m a mile away from shelter, needing to light a fire to avoid being eaten by a mongoose or something, because the sky really is a dicke. We should kick its ass, although I’m not sure exactly where the ass of the sky would be. Probably in Australia. Probably a mile away from shelter, guarded by a mongoose that is scared of fire. Because the sky is a dicke like that.
But this isn’t about my mum, or the sky, this is about my dog, who was barking at the sky. It would be far better if he was baking the sky, and I can’t think why he isn’t. I would be. The only answers I can come up with are
1) that he’s dyslexic
2) that he can’t find an oven big enough.
Both of which are obviously stupid, because only people can be dyslexic, and of course there’s an oven big enough. That’s what God is. God is a bloody huge oven. We are all inside God and he is cooking us, very very slowly. Then when we die, a giant opens up the little door on God, and eats us. The smell of corpse is like the smell of pizza to the giant.
But this isn’t about giants, this is about dogs. I know it should be about giants, but some dick chose dogs as their topic. Dogs. When my dog was barking at the sky, a copy of Delia Smiths How To Cook Volume II fell from the sky and hit him on the head. It would have killed the poor chap, if it were not for the suit of armour I made him for my GCSE DT project.
Jolly good.
Yesterday, about three in the morning, my dog was barking at the sky. He does that a lot. I think he’s scared of it, and really, he’s right to be. We all should be. Look at it up there, smug little grin on its face. It’s planning something. Probably rain. It will wait until I’m a mile away from shelter, needing to light a fire to avoid being eaten by a mongoose or something, because the sky really is a dicke. We should kick its ass, although I’m not sure exactly where the ass of the sky would be. Probably in Australia. Probably a mile away from shelter, guarded by a mongoose that is scared of fire. Because the sky is a dicke like that.
But this isn’t about my mum, or the sky, this is about my dog, who was barking at the sky. It would be far better if he was baking the sky, and I can’t think why he isn’t. I would be. The only answers I can come up with are
1) that he’s dyslexic
2) that he can’t find an oven big enough.
Both of which are obviously stupid, because only people can be dyslexic, and of course there’s an oven big enough. That’s what God is. God is a bloody huge oven. We are all inside God and he is cooking us, very very slowly. Then when we die, a giant opens up the little door on God, and eats us. The smell of corpse is like the smell of pizza to the giant.
But this isn’t about giants, this is about dogs. I know it should be about giants, but some dick chose dogs as their topic. Dogs. When my dog was barking at the sky, a copy of Delia Smiths How To Cook Volume II fell from the sky and hit him on the head. It would have killed the poor chap, if it were not for the suit of armour I made him for my GCSE DT project.
Jolly good.
Page: