Jorge Garcia

Thanks to my blog earlier today, I have now been researching Jorge Garcia for about four hours.

I love Jorge.

I love looking at him, I love reading what he thinks, I love saying his name.

HOR-HE GAR-THIA.

But yeah, I found out he has a blog! Click here to see it.

He also has an old one, from when he was working on Lost, which you can find here.

He is the album cover of my favourite band's new album, and he sang with them. Heroic.

I'm also really sad because I found out his little tiny dog died. Horrible.

I also found another photo of him proving he can do all the things big fat guys shouldn't do;

What would Jorge do? Some pretty awesome shit, I'd guess!

Simple Steps to a Better Britain

I think I should be in charge. Every time something goes wrong, I always think "I could easily fix that". Like global warming and the NHS. I mean, it was some old Welsh guy who came up with the health service, surely a young English girl can sort it all out.

As my duty to the UK, I have decided to make this blog an advice forum for David Cameron's secretary (Nick Clegg) to steal ideas from. However, this advice needn't apply only to the UK; people world-wide can start campaigns to have these simple concepts introduced to their countries*.

My first issue is fat people. Here is a fat guy:

Fat guys are great. They provide a lot of necessary comic relief and ease people's consciences, eg; "I'm eating this donut, but at least I'm not as fat as that guy.

However, sometimes fat guys ruin all the good they do for modern Britain by conducting themselves innappropriately. In order to help them live better, more productive lives I have compiled this list that I like to call; The List of Things Big Fat Guys Shouldn't Do.

Number 1: Big fat guys should not walk incredibly tiny, skinny dogs.

Number 2: Big fat guys should not drive tiny cars that they seem to fill, and which they certainly outweigh.

Number 3: Big fat guys should not sit in weak, plastic garden furniture.

Number 3 and a half: They should especially not sit in weak, plastic garden furniture with their shirt off, showing off their man bosom. Number 4: Big fat guys should not pretend to exercise.

Number 5: Big fat guys should not wear light t-shirts that are a bit too small, meaning you can see their pit stains and the shelf of fat-guy flesh that hangs down beneath it.

Number 6: Big fat guys should also not wear normal-sized jeans because they fit their arse and legs, but makes their arse crack and fat-guy flesh blossom over the top like a big muffin.

See? Simple!

The only exception to these rules is Jorge Garcia, should he ever visit our gentle shores;

The Worst Morning Ever

It had been a very early morning that had started with a miserable appointment at the doctors. His opening gambit was 'Didn't you sleep very well? You look awful' and things generally got worse from there. As I arrived home all I wanted to do was have a cup of tea, get in my sleeping bag and watch E4.
As I opened the door into the kitchen I realised it was cold; I had accidentally left the door to the garden open. Silently telling myself off I looked to my right and saw Darcy looking at me, looking incredibly keen to see me and tell me something... and covered in feathers.

Straight away I was annoyed at myself for leaving her with access to the big, feathery pillows in the conservatory, which she had obviously spent her morning ripping to shreds. I walked to the back of the house to inspect the damage. When I saw what Darcy had done I actually stopped in my tracks and gasped.

The feathers weren't pillow feathers. They were from a bird.

A bird. On the floor. With no head. Feathers everywhere.

It was a bird. A bird. A BIRD. THERE WAS A BIRD AND FEATHERS AND WHY DIDN'T IT HAVE A HEAD??

I realised she hadn't been excited and happy to see me when I came home; she was simply exhilirated and HIGH ON MURDER ENDORPHINS.

I looked at her again and screamed "DARCY WHAT HAVE YOU DONE??"
I shut her in the kitchen which sent her into a panicked frenzy and she started screaming and trying to see me through the hatch, leaping around near the worktops. I tentatively approached the bird which was now squirming on the floor. As it moved I realised it did have a head, it was just out of sight on the other side of the bird. I decided to use my best Famous Five skills and nurse the bird back to health. I started by gently stroking its wing.

I have to say this perked it up a bit. I'm not sure if it was out of fear or out of great gratitude that I had come to save it, the bird struggled to its feet and started to hobble about. That was when I noticed its back.

I don't know why I was so shocked. The feathers had to have come from somewhere. And now I knew where. The birds back. I leapt up and backed away from the hideous zombie bird with it's bloodied skin all over the place and ran to get the phone. With shaking hands, I hysterically called the local vet.

The vets were very kind (or couldn't understand my hysterical howls) and told me to box up birdie and bring him to them. I got a shoe box and cut holes into it before lifting Birdie gently into it wearing a pair of old gloves. As soon as Birdie was in the box he started rattling about and making me panic so I quickly ran to get in the car. I drove the mile to the Vets at two miles per hour, never once taking my eyes off the rattling box on the passenger seat, terrified that Zombirdie would leap out and start flying around.

I crashed into the vets shouting "I'm the one!! I'm the one who called about the bird!! I have the bird in here!" which seemed to alarm the elderly people sat in the waiting room with their asthmatic-looking dog. The receptionists took the box from me with an alarmed look in their eyes, and then I staggered back to my car.

I sat there for about ten minutes trying to get a hold of myself, and then eventually drove home and let Darcy out of the kitchen. I couldn't look her in the eyes as I picked Zombirdie's feathers out of her fur. She seemed suitably abashed.

So that's why I once spent a morning weeping while I hoovered the living room.