Shit

After my last post I seemed to be the butt of a bit of toilet humour but the deepest wound was inflicted by a prolific author and altruist I admire who suggested that my effort was not only long, it was shit. Milder wounds were inflicted by a meerkat who used American literary precedence to suggest that not only was I talking shit, I was shit. An antipodean commentator admitted that he had lost interest half way through this alleged verbal shit of mine but for them, when it comes to literature, anything longer than the instructions necessary to inject coins into a vending machine and get a cold tinny out are superfluous and, therefore, shit. And if you ask the maid who had to chuck water down my non flushing dunny, there was nothing fucking alleged about that shit.

I put my heart and soul and just about everything else I could expel through my shredded arsehole into that post and you lot are taking the piss. I mean the shit.

Now I could bleat and whine about how Bloggers are supposed to encourage other bloggers.

But you know that’s not my style.

So, Gentlemen, I hope your next shit is a hedgehog. No need to name you, you'll know who you are in the morning.

Thinking about it, you have been such nice guys so I wouldn't want you to suffer terribly. So stick the band aids and the toilet paper in the fridge. It'll make it easier. Trust me.