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Profesh
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Profile page for: Profesh, TSR Royalty 
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Name: Lupin Thayn-Redmerle
Gender:
Age: 22
Orientation: self-centred.
Astrology: Sagittarius
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Member Since: 04-11-2004
Location:
Reputation:    
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| last.fm: |
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| Bio: |
You are innovators in the field of idiocy. You are gladiators in an arena of ignorance. You are connoisseurs of competitive intellectual hara-kiri with a blunt instrument. Were sense and reason presented in the form of a tower, you'd be the plane that crashed into it. Your signal-to-noise ratio is a 1.2k modem in a broadband-era. Your insight bears comparison to one of Jade Goody's tumours rendered sentient, post-mortem. You have been known to catch passing frisbees with your teeth, except when chewing gum, whereupon your inability to decide between competing mutually-exclusive mental processes renders you momentarily incapacitated from the feet upwards. You keep your prophylactics pinned to a notice-board for 'convenience'. You voted 'Conservative' at the last election because you like jam - which, incidentally, also happens to be why you voted 'Liberal Democrat' in the one before that. You are medically advised against wearing skinny-jeans for fear of being rendered reproductively de-funct, and socially encouraged to do so for that same reason. You lease-out the unused space within your cranium to a colony of Irish Catholic midgets, who are frequently disposed to complain about ''lack of oxygen''. Your t-shirt demonstrates a larger active vocabulary than you. Pet-medication is tested on you. Toast confuses you.
(Photography courtesy of Laus.) |
| Academic Info: |
Hugh: ''So, to you, language is more than just a means of communication?''
Stephen: ''Oh, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is, of course it is. Language is my mother, my father, my husband, my brother, my sister, my whore, my mistress, my checkout-girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing-square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God. Language is the dew on a fresh apple; it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning light as you pluck from an old bookshelf a half-forgotten book of erotic memoirs. Language is the creak on a stair; it's a spluttering match held to a frosted pane; it's a half-remembered childhood birthday-party; it's the warm, wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy; the hulk of a charred Panzer; the underside of a granite boulder; the first downy growth on the upper-lip of a Mediterranean girl. It's cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.'' |
| Interests: |
| To fill the void between sunrise and sunset I act, write, illustrate, produce music, compose poetry, devise/improvise comedy, and re-draft essays for cash. However, if the sum of my life's accomplishments amounts to nothing more than the cultivation of a Blackadder-style goatee, I shall die fulfilled. |
| Miscellanea: |
Now this may well sound slightly odd considering you are completely unaware of my existence, but would I be correct in assuming you work in Sainsburys on the triangle? If so, I would merely like to mention that I appreciated being served by somebody with such wit. To clarify, I purchased a bottle of diet coke from you at approximately 3.02pm this afternoon. I didn't note that time, I happened to have just missed a bus by two minutes which is why I have recalled such detail. Anyway, I do hope that your day (if it is in actual fact you that I sighted) was managable given the circumstances that those working in retail are often subjected to and that I hope to be served by you again in the near future. Of course if I am mistaken, please ignore this message or perhaps imagine you *do* work in Sainsburys on the triangle, and accept it as a compliment.
Regards,
*******
Warnings are great. Not that I don't know when I'm being offensive, mind: but it's always nice to make doubly certain.
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