21/09/2013 - CRASS MARKETING

Crass marketing is kept aloft by munchkins with cigarettes jammed in their polite little mutter slits. Crass marketing is delivered by a saxophone on the back of a feathery honk that dissipates and shudders whenever it veers left. Crass marketing is received by the king’s men and is usually received well. The king’s men are skilled at detergent cleaning but choose only to talk about the crass marketing they’ve recently taken up for some weekend reading. Not all weekend reading is crass marketing but all crass marketing is weekend reading and not the light stuff either. They make it rough for the pyjama-wearing press to comprehend and pass off as discordant drum solos, they lay it out like a snare. That’s why it’s ‘crass’, no-one else would want to know if they found it out for themselves. Get the right audience in from the off and your golden or so says the now elderly Mr Thank, chief of sponsorship. He’s taking five right now.

The boys in Sasquatch pelt would like to guide you through to the improved buildings via the impoverished hallways just so that you get to see how much better we’re making things here in spite of other things. We’ll lead you around like spaniels then pet you down with various luxuries and perhaps a night or two with Goodly Marsh. I hate to leave you but these boys really do know their shit, you don’t get to be cavemen for doing a half-arsed job here. They love their wives and summarily discard their secret gay lovers just to be here, accepted and recognised. I may be paid more of the warm bucks but these boys are no slackers, yessiree.

Now, as for your fragile band of secretaries, I will need to take them aside and rummage around in their drawers for half an hour, maybe longer. No reason, I’m just a jutting pervert with quick fit fingers. I treat the pussy like a page and scrawl my own underhanded roman a clefs whilst rustling my chains simultaneously. They keep me employed purely because I’m a good judge of character and eternally grateful. Or so I tell the censors. To love another person is to salivate, in my salty case. I climb though, I stumble but I climb with fancy grey t-shirts. This here is the Garden of the Lord, the boys in the Sasquatch pelt will take you down the next turning and maybe leave parts of you there. Nothing too important though: we’ve been sued for that kind of poop before. There you go.

 

Well, there they go. I’ll probably get them back before they leave the premises. They will leave the premises right? They’re not joining the crusade? Jolly good. There is something I have to do tomorrow so they really can’t be staying any longer than that. I know it’s unrealistic that they would but you never know with these people. They have an awful lot of time on their big floppy hands.