I dreamed I was gay for Gerard Depardieu. What does it mean?

Four Bowls of Granola and Two Wanks

It’s been a good month. Thats what I would say if some ferret with round glasses at a bus stop asked me how I was doing.

Frank T Bird
6 min readJan 26, 2024

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My name is Frank T Bird and I’m a WRITER

Hi Frank

It’s been a month since I last wrote anything of significance.

I’ve been channelling all that gravy into meditating on the 64449th Chakra instead. And after fourteen years of no results, I finally had a vision of the horse (dicked) god, Giganto. I will reveal what he told me gradually over the coming decades.

Since putting down the digital pen I’ve cooked for twenty six people on a week long Trekcho retreat. And it gave me great empathy for those bastards on Masterchef or The Great British Baking Orgy or those microphone headed red soldiers who guard the King of England and who have to stand up all fucking day wearing shiny boots rather than slippers.

I’ve eaten nothing but dead birds and salad for the last month. Some people call it chicken and salad. But chicken is just a made up word. Yer actually eating dead bird. It’s the word, turd. Don’t be a fucking chicken. Admit yer a fucking cannibal bastard. But yeah, it’s easy to digest innit?

And only once a day at that like the Buddha, though not at noon. Tried to get to 4pm most days and even considered goin to sleep with an empty belly just watchin the telly with a can of water n a carbon dioxide sandwich minus the bread n shit.

N I’ve been practicing daily Ashtanga yoga courtesy of this YouTube yoga whore called Meredith Faniwizpera.

N just a side word yer could look like fuckin Jabba’s wife n it wouldnt matter. If yer do enough Vajra work, bastards will wanna fuck ya. They just wont know why.

N I canny get those binds like Meredith yet. But it feels good like I’m gettin O2 to areas that haven’t seen such a fresh wind since 2009 when I took my last ecstacy pill ( A Brown Euro for the connosiuerus) N when yer far fetched cells get filled like that, it makes resting in the sky as effortless as riding a goat backwards at a Justin Beaver concert. Easier actually.

I haven’t ejaculated in a month.

I’ve been meditatin’ twenty six hours per day as previously described. N If this run of wellbeing had continued, I have no doubt it wouldn’t have been long before I dissolved into a microscopic ball of red light and shot me sen fifty million miles per second into the symbolic cock of John Lennon.

But the retreat centre hadn’t been cleaned too well cos we were all too fucked so we left in a hurry and yesterday I had to go back and finish the job.

And it was fine. I’d packed my usual cold bag with organic salad, cans of tuna, vege burgers, Greek yoghurt and various multicultural fruit. On the drive over I was planning how I would arrive, do a session of yoga, eat some clean food and meditate for the rest of the evening.

But I’d forgotten one thing.

Last night was a full

Moon.

And

That bastard moon always gets me.

Do you KNOW what I’m saying?

AYe, yeah, (nods) yo, yeah, for sure. yeah me too etc.

Anyway I arrived and got wrapped up in a phone call with a questionably suicidal friend who seems to think I give a fuck that he has such a hard life with his Porsche and his beach house and blonde wife with the big knockers. And again I know mental illness is serious yeah but have yer ever tried listenin to some one go on about it every day cos apparently they have no one else to talk to? What a fucking drainer. I tell him to call fucking lifeline like a good suicidal person but he wont. He doesnt like speakin to strangers. I’m close to hiring a hitman called Anton to hit this bastard over the head wiv a brick just to see how welcoming he is of it.

Anyway, fuck it. To make matters worse, I was putting away my wholesome organic foods and I ran across my old nemesis:

‘box of unopened granola’

And if you knew me, you’d know that some of the worst episodes of my life have begun with a few bowls of granola.

But it was fine. There was no fucking milk. Without milk granola has no damn power.

Then I opened the fridge. It’s not cow milk but unsweetened almond milk. It’s also unopened.

And yeah in the rankings of milk, it’s down there. BUt that means fuck all to an addict like me.

I know my fate is sealed.

There’s no point discussing it.

I crack open the box and begin.

Two bowls deep I tell myself I’ve had enough. Still, there’s no yoga happening this evening. Not after this stomach stretching session.

So I sit in silence for twenty minutes in a token way then I eat another bowl.

I find a documentary about British military recruits and watch the whole thing. I dont know why. It takes me back to Scotland in 1993 basic fucking training and I feel sorry for the bastards. It’s kind of a purge. Granola and Military.

Vajrasattva wash this turd from my being.

Afterwards I watch some ridiculous video where a wife is giving her husband head like he is Gary Busey.

And I ejaculate, but there’s no bliss. It’s just a dull ache. That’s what happens when you don’t blow for a month.

I celebrate feeling like a pathetic loser by eating another bowl before watching another documentary, this time about trainee pilots in the navy.

AND I Lament that I haven’t touched my cool bag of organic food.

Then I go to bed, think about Mrs Flapsberry and her purple Wednesday g-string .

I ejaculate again. This time there’s bliss. I offer it to the deities in my body. Then I sit in silence for another seven minutes.

I delete the cookies and pass out.

And on a side if yer fuckin so worried about the changin of tense go look in the mirror, smile at yerself with yer shopping bag eyes n golden teeth n say,

‘You’ll be dead soon fucker. Why do you care about tense?’

Be like Frank. Give up tense, spelling, grammar and writing would ya?

Go fuck a goat, drink its urine, then kill it, cook it and offer it to the locals instead, you sad bastards.

Today, I woke up, drunk black coffee, cleaned for six hours and then, after weeks off the gear, I wrote this.

Whether I publish it is another question. I haven’t read it back yet. And it’s probably horseshite.

But even if I don’t publish, know that I wrote it will ya.

My name is Frank T Bird and I’m a writer.

Hi Frank.

It’s been a few weeks since I last wrote until now.

I was doing alright till I read Mike Knittel aka Fag’s story about people mentioning their relatives in the tea room at work.

And I thought, if Mike’s writing then I’m gonna write.

So thanks Fag, you fag.

Anyway fuck it.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Or so we are led to believe.

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