ski jumping

“Lennä Nykäsen Matti, lennä… tule elävänä takaisin”. Last weekend I went to the local premiere of the Matti Nykänen movie – like the rest of the Finnish people I guess I wanted a few cheap laughs on Matti’s tab. The story of his life is a goldmine: world’s best skijumper on a neverending bender, turns singer, turns stripper – along the way, everything that can go wrong… you know it. But you can only throw so many tvs out the windows before you start shifting your ass in the seat. The film is pathetic, mostly because Nykänen’s life is so pathetic. A victim of circumstances? Indeed – but only because of his own chronic stupidity, forever to be unmatched by another human being as long as there is life.
God, I really hope the second part of his life turns out well in the end. However, I have an eerie feeling a long and quiet life is not in his repertoire. Bless you, Matti. I really laughed when you drove that lawnmover into the lake…

personal hell

The cruelty of it. I’ve seen my own personal sweetspot in hell. It is Kenneth Branagh in Celebrity, and Paul Giamatti in Sideways. If I over the years morph into one of them, or a combination, do fire a gun in my direction. Multiple times. Until klick klick.
Wait… not if I drive the Aston Martin Kenneth’s character drives – then you must let me live. And if the polymorphously perverse Charlize Theron is in the passenger seat – why, then you must absolutely let me live.

put this in your pipe and smoke it

The latest savage attack in the relentless crusade against the hunted smoker has hit the headlines here in Finland: ban smoking on balconies? Now I have really seen it all, and it is so much more than I can take. Man, the world is obviously spinning out of control. By the byway, I am not even an active smoker, altho I like to think that I look like Clark Gable when I light up at parties…
Black-lung Panthers, we need to stand up and shout: “Jesus smoked too!” ( and some say he drove an SUV…).
Apparently the angry mob of fascist prosecutors think they will face instant death when catching a whiff of cigarette smoke dancing through the midnight air. For those I have composed a special poem that comes straight from the deeper regions of my animal heart.

Mthrfckr
Mdfck
Martha Focker
Moloko Vellocet
Mahatma Ghandi
Malaga Brother
Moped Mam
Hihi!!
Moped Mam…

(shit… started gigglin’)

propaganda

Presidential elections up here in the forest-dressed yellowbelly of the Northern hemisphere are rather irrelevant due to a number of reasons: Finland is a small country, a member of the EU, and the president has little power (diminishing by the day, it seems). In other words, we need a president that can represent, negotiate, dress-code differentiate. (Sigh: O lordy, these are superficial times).
Yass yass, mark it, clearly we are in dire need of a propaganda president, a dashing leader of this tiny part of the free world instead of a mother caricature. Man, I have one already. But then why are we stuck with the angry little orange elf? I feel an insult rising inside of me.. ooh barely managed to hold back – yeah, ask the socialist Finnish people who elected her in the first place, and who will probably go on electing her again. Old people, probably. Well, not me. I gave my vote to Sauli Niinistö. Never has the choice been easier. Now, if I only could find one of those cardboard figures of him to stand guard outside my house at night…

o dirt rider, where art thou?

Ah, the smell of premix in the morning. The mighty sound of ‘braaap’ echoing between the pinetrees. The Oakley goggles softly pressed against your forehead, the slender clutchlever resting underneath two fingers of a crisp washed glove, the ball of the feet giggling on sharp titanium pegs. The perfect anticipation, the perfect storm. Submit, dirt! Submit, I say! My chunky Dunlops will eat you up, spit you out in arcs of beautiful roost, carve a line, bust the berm, break free, take off, fly away.

I was the dirt rider for nearly 20 years, the motocross racer who believed he would ride forever. It was my life – but it was sadly not to be. What gave me life also almost claimed it. Stay tuned and I will reveal, in terrible episodes of violent suffering, how I became the ghost rider.

the pyton propulsion

what? what? oh, that?

I was born 10th May 1974. That’s where it all starts. That’s really when I first wrote this post. Most welcome, my virgins, to take a sip of the epicurean drink, or if you are hungry, a bite of the tree of knowledge.

I offer you no statements here, no grand manifestations, no bladder masterplan. The only propulsion is my ego. The only tools are history and future. It is nothing else but my playground. This is where I build my sand castles, and yes, from where I can see the end of the sea.

If I don’t love you, I hate you. But I love to love and hate to hate and I will, I will, I won’t, I won’t. Wo/men, wo/men! I’m on a mission to really rev my propellers, to push death so far away life will reveal itself from behind!

Be under nada illusions – I write for myself and no one else. It is 100% pure uncut gonzo, the drug of choice for egoistas with ghetto stroll cloud control. In time, I will introduce myself – but only when I find myself. I hope it won’t be too long now – I have already waited more than 30 years. You can help me, you sophisticated sociopath, although I don’t quite know how. As long as you are not yourself, everything will be fine. Come on. Give the equilibrium of the world an elbow in the stomach. Come on, just do it.

So, let’s have some fun while we watch the ice melt in the sun. The time has come to empty the bladder…