An Open Letter To Green Plants

Depending on who you are you may have read this on facebook, but I want it up here in the big show. So deal with it!

Dear green plants,


I am writing to propose a partnership of sorts. As you may have realized yourself, green is making big waves in the scene right now and I was hoping I might get a piece of it. For an exchange of your endorsement (like maybe you can tell girls about me), I am willing to make certain concessions:

a. I will no longer partake in the eating of green vegetables, my diet will consist purely of carrotts, eggplants, radish, red, yellow an orange peppers and meat (you don't care about animals do you?). I also will indulge in fruit from time to time, when my mom makes me.

b. I will water you, when I can remember. I will, just for you, replace the Newfoundland screech in my flask with lemon flavoured cod liver oil, this should boost my memory enough for you not to die. Also, I have been getting at least four percent more responsible each year, so please disregard those dead spider plants from a few years back. I promise I'll clean up their remains one of these days.

c. I will try to get my friends to stop smoking so much pot. In exchange perhaps you could tell your coloured friends to produce some really awesome purple chronic. Then they could "toke" on that "s" instead, and call it purple haze and it would make Bugs Bunny cartoons at least four percent better.

d. I will still pick pretty flowers, as they help me befriend poet types; however, I will not pick the stem. I will instead browse through my large collection of taped Art Attack until I learn how to make a stem out of green construction paper and PVA glue, and maybe some loo roll. Hopefully this use of your image will not offend you.

e. For eating trees, all giraffes will be beheaded. A very long guillotine is in production.

Please get back to me as soon as possible as I feel my popularity is wavering each day this union is not realized.


Yours truly,


Tom Henry

An Excerpt

This is an excerpt from my upcoming British psychadelic novel entitled; "Pining In The Sand". It's not being published here, the powers that be thought you wouldn't be able to understand the "Britishisms". If you think it's stupid that's because it is.


-“How ‘bout we boycott boycotts”, said the cleverest boy . “But if we boycott boycotts we can’t boycott boycotts; thus boycotting boycotting boycotts”, said the dumbest boy. The problem lay in what was clearly a very large and ostentatious gap in the two intelligences of the two boys. Then, they both committed suicide, intellectual suicide, and began to float to one place, which at one point was another place, as was the nature of all places. Once there, among the clouds, palm trees and fertile, yet fake growths of things such as grass, they sipped virgin mai tais and regaled one another with most or any thoughts they could remember. They mustered many thoughts, though cloudy, one of which not being the previously remarkable gap in grand intellect, and so bliss was in reach. For once, out of their school uniforms Penny and Bright were just two boys enjoying a cocktail and chatting like English boys should.
“T’was a great number of boys in school last year wasn’t it Penny?”, said Bright. “Well mate, I’ve got to level with you, that’s one thing I certainly can’t remember” “Just as well” said Bright, “Bunch of gits anyway, weren’t they?” “Well, I’m really not sure.” Said Penny. “Just as well, Penny.” And so they sat among the birds and the brush and watched musicals without the sound on, after all they didn’t need it anymore. After a great deal of crackers and the finest graskaas, the boys settled for a nap. Bright lay in the shade of the great palm tree whilst Penny sleep atop the giant plastic leaves. Both were equipped with blankets, yet neither used them as the temperature was as still as Penny whom never moved even one inch while partaking in his regular afternoon naps. At night however, he flailed furiously. Bright knew why this was, but never was willing to say, as was his reputation.


- Pining In The Sand, British Accent Publishing, 2008

Colours & Q-Tips

The contents of this rectangle will move and become a short video I made.

The Story Of My Death

I once went to school with a guy and a girl who called everything brutal. One day they called biology class brutal, and I said to myself; you know what would be brutal for you? Mirror class. Subsequently, I dropped out of high school. 

In high school, I never was popular or unpopular,  I just was quiet. I wish now that everyone could have heard gems like mirror class, I probably would have been voted most best and non-brutal. In grade seven, the girls would vote for the cutest boys in class, then announce their findings when the teacher left the classroom. I finished second and third a couple of times. This has become a recurring theme in my life, as I have chosen to align myself only with people who are better than me in an attempt to steal all their best moves. My plan is to become the Wes Anderson of humans, taking all the best shots from all the best movies to create something that a lot of assholes will try to dress like.  Remember when everyone bought red toques after The Life Aquatic? I was gonna get one, but I couldn't find the right shade of shit head. My ultimate plan will be to befriend Jack Nicholson, so I can still look really cool when my hairline recedes. 

Once I am an eclectic mess of other people's most endearing traits, I will partake in credit card fraud and live in Edinburgh under the alias Powder Williams. I will rise to fame as a dj and  travel Eastern Europe playing electronic remixes of Anne Murray songs. All will come to a halt when I am gunned down in Zagreb for publicly humiliating the Croatian national handball team. Ivano Balic* will condemn the assasination and perform an acapella version of Float On at my funeral, but it will be too late, the children will cry.  

*Ivano Balic is arguably the greatest handball player in the world, hailing from Croatia. 

Source: an encyclopedia which may or my not be Wikipedia.