I had all sorts of material for this site messing up my head today.

In fact there was too much and I couldn’t decide what subject to tackle, so in line with my new philosophies, I decided I won’t write anything.  Instead I shall reproduce a little brainfart sent to me by the Blocked Dwarf [who else?!] over the weekend.  Maybe it’s old age or the hangover but I couldn’t quite make head nor tail of it, but I will presume that you, dear reader, will have a cleverer set of marbles than myself.

He starts off with his own little note.

–oOo–

Author’s note: I’ve been off the sauce for nearly ten years now. But sometimes I wake up and can remember what it was like when my muse stripped off and bent over the keyboard. Sometimes I find I can still write the sort of alcohol fuelled pieces that would have HST thinking a reduction in ether consumption was called for. Most of the stuff I write for Grandad is easy, ‘something funny happened on the way to the Forum’. This is the sort of stuff I had hoped to write
for him. You probably wouldn’t like it and it should carry more trigger warnings than an Arkansas gun factory.

–oOo–

I let Slimer Wormtongue, congealed on my doorstep, get as far as ‘I hope I can count on…’ before cutting him off at the knees – fucker ought to be grateful this isn’t Texas. I’m not allowed to use ‘terminal force’.

‘BEGONE Filthy Politician, demon of the pit’ I shouted.  ‘Begone, desist and depart. I have no need of your snake oil, nor your cheap tin trays and glass walking sticks! For I am a professional alcoholic and a serious writer!’

He’d caught me at a low point. I’d poured myself downstairs to find Eldest-a little more mad in the methadone- had had another one of his drug fueled wank sessions that night and left my laptop looping Japanese School Girl enema porn and a necrotic toenail in the ashtray because he’d shoved the needle in under it too hard. Give me a fulcrum and a place
to stand.

Instead of Radio4’s body count, I got Reiko Shitmora releasing a colon full of olive oil and water like a fire hose, turning her white school girl knickers fluorescent orange for the 20th time when Slimer Wormtonque knocked wanting to do shit to me that even Reiko couldn’t dream of bent over that school desk.  She’d now dropped her liqui-turd sodden panties, parted her pert arse cheeks and was giving the word ‘expelled’ new meaning directly at the camera man, faking her 10th orgasm.

Verbally kneecapping him hadn’t stopped Slimer.
Doorstep exorcisms, sending them back to The Pit can be tricky.
Wormtongue was still spraying  verbal enema out of his top hole.

‘There’s a mong girl next door who’ll let you arse fuck her for 25g of Silver Slut but I’m not letting you
in to sully my whiskey bottle with your foul lips, and the dog is off sex for Lent‘.

Nope, Slimer was still spraying.

‘Do I look like your catamite? I’ve done more depraved and disgusting things than you or Reiko, my new love interest, can imagine and hope to do more before my liver dissolves but vote for you and your party? I couldn’t drink enough nail varnish remover to sink that low‘

That stopped Slimer mid cramp. Dribbling out of his top hole came:
‘I’m sorry to hear you feel that way‘ (you will be, you Fuck) ‘ May I ask why?’

‘Because you and your fellow nannying cocksuckers have been fellating Astel’s ghost, sucking off his nazi shade, swallowing his antisemitic spectral load. Take IT deeeep, bitch, and tell me it tastes goood. You banned smoking in pubs
because the unemployment figures were too low and no longer getting you off.  Now you want to PROTECT the children in cars so their little bodies aren’t corrupted and diseased before you’ve chance to rape them with your filthy fascist ideologies‘
 
I am a professional smoker, I know these things.

Slimer wiped his shit stained top hole and tried to tell me that the smoking ban in private vehicles wouldn’t
come in this parliament.

I laugh at his dirty lies.