A few months ago, I decided to keep the text messages on my phone that were important to me. Here they are so far…


Mouse Trapping In The Hood.

Ever since I had mice in my previous flat 2 years ago, I’ve been obsessed with reading about the little buggers. Although mice are no longer a problem for me, I do feel guilty from time to time about the 8 or so I killed and since I’m completely clued up on them these days, I even sort of admire mice. They ain’t stupid. That’s for sure.

Whilst reading some user submitted mouse stories on Reddit, I came across this one particular story that made me laugh myself silly whilst terrifying and horrifying me at the same time!

Obviously written by some sort of Commando psychopath who has had enough, here it is…

ok, a bit of a long read but worth it. true story.

i used to live in an apartment in the hood and i had a miniature doberman pincher that would keep the mice at bay. after my dog passed away at 14/15 yrs old i took a summer long vacation to take my mind off of things.

when i came back i realized the first night how much the dog was doing to keep the mice away… as i had an infestation of mice. literally hundreds of mice (from the entire building) had sought refuge in my apartment.

being in the hood the slumlord landlord didnt give 2 fucks about it and told me to just lay out some traps.

the second night back i had mice running across my bed…across my chest and across my face as i tried to sleep. as they had got used to run of the entire place while i was gone.

i snapped and got out my air rifle. and sat up late at night perched on a stool in the corner of the room with my air rifle and would snipe the bastards till the sun came up.

i would go in the kitchen and sit on the stove and snipe the bastards as they went around the area where the dog food used to be at.

i learned the patterns that they would run (for example…behind the stove…to behind the dinning table… to behind the fridge… to a hole in the corner. they would run from cover to cover to avoid getting shot.

little fuckers where smart and learned the sound of a safety being “clicked” so i had to have my gun ready and just sit and wait with safety off and aimed at where i thought they were going to run. they learned the sound of bb’s rattling so they would hide if they heard that (so i adjusted and switched to pellets…arrowhead kind).

they learned that when the light was on in a room it meant i could be watching so they stop coming out before 1 am if the lights were on. (i adjusted and got nightvision googles from my uncle in the army)

the bigger mice (not rats, just big ass mice) would send out the little ones to do a “run” as i called it. basically they would run back and forth 3-4 times to draw any fire. if i didnt shoot, they assumed it was safe and then the big ones would come out. if i shot the “little ones” you wouldnt see the “big ones” for a couple of days.

after about 3-4 months of killing on average 15-20 mice a night, they finally got the message or finally all got killed off because i finally had my place rodent free. the first week i would kill about 30-40 a night.

TL/DR: slumlord landlord didnt give a shit about the mice infestation forcing me to go ‘full metal jacket’ on them and thus murdering hundreds of mice over a few months period.”

You May Also Be Interested In…
* Rest In Pieces
* Fucking Beetlejuice

Some Drawings By The 13 Year Old Me…

My Mum unearthed some long lost drawings I did at school when I was 13 and gave them to me today.

Although they’re not very good at all, I remember getting really pissed off at the teacher for writing score marks on the actual drawing itself! Even the thought of it gets to me now and I’m 31! Ha Ha!






Christopher Lee: A Heavy Metal Christmas.

Don’t worry. I was surprised when I first heard that Christopher Lee fronted his own heavy metal band too. Maybe I shouldn’t have been. Maybe it makes PERFECT sense! Maybe he’s 90 years old, and can do whatever the hell he wants!
He is Dracula afterall.

This is his Christmas single:

You May Also Be Interested In…
* Happy 90th Birthday Sir Christopher Lee!
* Dracula And The Necropolis At Night
* Al Cook’s “Necropolis”

“New York City: A True 8th Avenue Tale” By Bob Heaney.

My friend Bob works as a bouncer on the doors of The Tempest, a great little dive bar on New York’s 8th Avenue. A few days ago, Bob had this utterly jaw dropping story to tell…

A true 8th Avenue tale. Apologies in advance for the use of profanity and one particularly offensive term, but the story wouldn’t be nearly as interesting if it wasn’t quoted verbatim and uncensored:

It was a typical Friday night at Tempest and the evening had thus far been uneventful. We were expecting a decent crowd to file out of the Knicks game and into the pub, but until the final buzzer sounded in the Garden we would have to settle for the slow but reliable business from the handful of regulars and the odd passerby that stopped into the pub. Hoping to kill some time, I stepped out front for a smoke. Within moments of me lighting the cigarette, an unusual-looking fellow approached me. His clothes were far too big for his body (although his build was anything but frail) and he had a manic look in his eyes that was unmistakably the gaze of someone who wasn’t, as they say, “all together”. Far younger and more spry than the usual derelicts who mill about on 8th Avenue, I kept at an arm’s length as he made eye contact with me.

“Yo man, I need two dollars and sixteen cents” he announced with the trademark specificity of so many of the beggars and con men that practice their trade around Penn Station.”I don’t have any money” I replied.

Reaching into his pocket, he produced a Discman that had to have dated to the mid-1990s.

“But my motherfucking batteries is dead, man! I need to listen to my jams!”

“I’m very sorry, buddy,” I reiterated, “but I don’t have anything for you”.

At this point his glare went from crazed to menacing. His eyes assumed a steely clarity that was unsettling, to say the least.

“Is that how we going to play it, motherfucker?” he snapped, the inflection of his voice rising and becoming noticeably louder. “I just got out of motherfucking Rikers, asshole,” he continued. “Do you know what that means? Do you know what that makes me, motherfucker?!”

I took a step back and squared my shoulders, keeping my arms to my sides but otherwise assuming a fighter’s stance. I fully expected him to attack me at that point. Although his dress made him appear comical at first glance, he was nonetheless powerfully built. Just when I thought he was about to swing, however, he began gesticulating wildly to himself.

“It makes me a faggot!”

I looked at him with an expression of utter bewilderment.

“I got fucked in the ass every day there, and now I’m a faggot! Yeah! I’m a faggot! I’m a faggot! Whoooooo!”

He repeated the phrase over and over again, each repetition louder and more enthusiastic than the one that preceded it. As quickly as he had approached, he turned around and began walking away from me into 8th Avenue’s perpetual tangle of traffic. He raised his arms triumphantly above his head and continued to repeat his new mantra:

“I’m a faggot! I’m a faggot! I’m a faggot! Yeah!”

Halfway across the street, he approached an off-duty yellow cab that was sitting in traffic. With one abrupt motion, he grabbed the handle to the driver’s door and swung it open violently. The terrified driver cowered in fear as our hero leaned in and screamed into his ear:


Without another word, he calmly walked away from the cab with his arms still raised skyward, sauntering down 30th Street like the heavyweight champion of the world.

You May Also Be Interested In…
* New York Diary: Part IV
* Keep The Meter Running
* The Statue Of Liberty’s Bum

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