Now is the winter of our discontrevor.

It was very important that I took a break from this blog, as you would understand if you were a Trevor. I'm sorry if I haven't provided the guidance you've needed but I had to give you some time on your own, kid. You've got a lot of potential and I didn't want to scare you off with the harsh realities of the world before you were ready.



I've tried to keep it to food, but there needs to be more than that. I have gone into a deep introspection and I truly believe that I can represent Trevordom again. I still need your help, but I recognise that I haven't provided you with specific instructions. I was hoping I wouldn't have to, but I'm not feeling the love right now.


As I slowly watched my legs develop bedsores, I wondered how chairs had been ruled out of the equation. I began my journey to find some answers.

Many of the answers I found were predictable cliches - "Get out of my shop", "I only work the counter here", and "Why don't you upsize your meal for only 50 cents?". I was particularly upset with the last response. I have issues with people who answer my questions with questions. Deep-seated issues.

As I slurped my ninth can of mountain dew I considered my options. I could either collapse where I was and throw it all in or I could try to get home, but there was no returning home without the answer to it all.

The little man inside me was insisting that I eat a pie floater before I continued, but I resisted the urge, such was my want to discover the truths I was yet to discover.

I threw my cognac to the ground and stubbed my cigar out on the nearest coke whore. The screams and abuse from my close friends were completely inconsequential save for the extra drive to continue that they gave me. I suddenly knew what was needed.

A swimming pool full of rotting minced beef.

I need your money to fund this, so instead of donating to your favourite charity, give me the money instead. More money will go to the people that need it - 100% of your cash will go to filling a swimming pool with minced beef, unless I can fill an olympic pool. If it goes beyond that I'm keeping the rest. Don't try and question my actions or my motives. You'd be forgetting who is teaching who. Get out of my dojo.

I can never, never, never be a Trevor.

Here's my dilemma:



I had a stark realisation today that left me truly humbled. As I chewed through this engaging yet obnoxious attempt at meat, I realised that I just don't have it in me any more. I just don't have the drive these days - it's as though I just shat Trevor out of me one early morning after eating a deep fried lasagne.

Maybe attempted meat has reached its saturation point and is about to collapse and destroy Trevordom (and itself) in the same way that a big ball of mould left to expand unchecked would. Maybe that ball of mould contained a cure for AIDS. Maybe Trevor could have saved your soul for eternity.

Trevor has the answers, but he never gets the questions. This is the ultimate tragedy - no one can ever formulate a question that will get a direct answer from a Trevor. Actually, a grunt is a direct answer. Trevor WILL grunt at you. He'll probably shit your bed by telekinesis too. This is considered to be a blessing in many cultures and is usually a good sign that Trevor likes you.

Trevor likes YOU. Each and every one of you. Don't let Trevor die.

Modern society is slowly killing off so many things that are essential to the human condition: Compassion, trust and the desire to take risks to name a few. Don't let Trevordom be a part of this travesty. Trevor can save us all. Just a few days ago I was stepping to 8000 year old Trevor, and now I just want him to give me some advice. I'm so confused right now.

I'll get back to you when I've worked out how you can help. Maybe you can send me money or something.

The quirk of fate that will bring me through this

A few weeks ago, I bought these chips out of curiosity:


I ate a few, couldn't really work out the flavour, so I ate a few more. By my third handful, all I could taste was onions. I put the rest of the bag away and forgot about them until now.

Buy these chips, open the bag then fold the end over and leave it in a cupboard for three weeks. When they become a little bit chewy you'll understand. You'll eat three of them and throw the bag out.

THIS IS BECAUSE YOU CAN'T BE A REAL TREVOR.

You wouldn't know the difference between biting into a sausage roll in a bun that's been kept in a hamper overnight versus a fresh roll.

YOU DO NOT WANT THE FRESH ROLL.

The fresh roll will cut the roof of your mouth with it's delightful crispy freshness. The chewy roll will assist the heavily spiced offal with generic bottled sauce by encouraging mastication.

NEVER FORGET THIS.

If you haven't yelled your personal equivalent of "HAI SENSEI!" at your computer yet, you should consider going somewhere else. You're either too much of a Trevor, in which case this site will crush your soul, or you aren't enough of a Trevor, in which case you'll only be looking at this site 'ironically' even though it isn't technically ironic if I try to be funny at any point. I'll put special ***IRONY SPOILER*** tags around anything if it comes up for you folk but only if you make the effort to be a Trevor, even in an ironic sense. It will help the cause.

From reading my posts so far, you might think that Trevor is a derogatory term. It is neither a compliment nor an insult. It is nothing to be desired, yet nothing to be ashamed of. You can fuck off if your name is Trevor even if you've been alive for 8000 years. Especially if you've been around for 8000 years. You'd obviously be inferior and in need for replacement. I am here to replace you, 8000 year old Trevor. Progress is a bitch.

This is absolutely amazing.

The other day I found a hair in my nose that may have changed my life.



This thing was so thick that I could punch a hole through a piece of paper. I started doing it to prove a point to myself when it struck me.

I am a Trevor.

It doesn't matter what my real name is, or even if I know anyone called Trevor. Being a Trevor isn't even a state of mind - it's a way of life. Some people are born Trevors, some have Trevordom thrust upon them, while others achieve the status of Trevor through their deeds. I am all three.

Do I care? Yes. Do I mind? A little bit, but I've got bigger fish to fry. In the meantime, I've got the word Trevor stamped on my forehead. Prepare to have it thrust upon you.