27/11/2013 - HE WON'T BE ABLE TO GO SOMEWHERE

            He won't be able to go somewhere over the bar set by his own paternal humorist. What the hell happens to yelling when you've done with it? Does it recede into its own hairline, make a fracture there and grow some wives and babies to pass the time? If so then I'm part of the wrong species, I want to get into the same jar as that guy before it's too late. It's probably too late.

            Congratulations by the way.

            I have heard all about the scripture that your heart beats out in exchange for a rhythm. It's like Morse code only without all the bull hockey and transgressing attitudes towards cross-dressing superstars. Let's all go out into the field together make the corn husks our mealy-mouthed bitches! I'm contractually obliged to say this in front of forty people or less but not too much of less. The lesson is that gyration can get you into a lot of trouble with the embarrassment law, it can wind you up something unlikely and cuff you whilst your doing its suggestive dance. It echoes with wipes and screen edicts that don't stop until the bearded cynic climbs down from on top of the TV or movie screen to wank in a cup of cola.

            It's a deal to be made lightly. It's a wayward deaf person exemplifying the rage of a plaintive generation.

            Going on and on and on and on and on about handbags is a sure fire way to cancel all your subscriptions to porn magazines. That particular community takes a harsh approach to whining and kicking back without an oestrogen permit.

            Mother will tell all. The things she will tell aren't in fact tales but expensive clerk harvest stories. The black and green interlude will leave you wanting more from the coughs and the sneezes that occasionally happen behind you whilst this terrible event is happening directly to your creepy eyes. And pencils can't make much of it, not without a gliding death sentence being tagged to your back the next time you let hang off a cliff. The item doesn't really matter unless you make it so.

            As for you. As for you indeed.

            I've been busy washing things for years now, I've been retiring bit by bit everyday for the past lifetime or so. The ink is still firmly inside my pen nib and it won't be let out until peace is declared between you and all your ex-lovers, the ones who really hated you after you threw their racist undertones out onto the streets below. Many are of the opinion that you can really pick 'em and that your hat should forevermore read BUTT OF THE JAPE BALL. The strolls you'll take will be so distracting but adequately wonderful. Make them a quarter of the time while you still can credit your own skills.

            For the fortieth time, let the chaos reign. It's pent up and ready to burst like any old ejaculation. Run riot afterwards. I won't tell.