As a Writer, Your Job is to Push Out a Shit

And push out a shit you will, no matter how drunk you are, you fucker.

N, yeah I drank a few strong ales, but as the great writer Frank T Bird once said, 

Ya got paid subscribers now, so ya gotta start somewhere, mothfucker.

So here I am, starting somewhere.

It’s located between here and there.

And no, I do not want to be that guy—the guy who is trying to write something desperately that will make you want to fuck him in some hairy bikers truck on the weekend outside some fucking diner in America while yer on tour with the Rolling Stones in 1971 on their Steel Gonads tour. 

I’ve been there. I lived that gonad life, shagging underage goats and getting blow jobs from greasy pole dancers after dark. And I’d say I quit because it’s just not for me or because I’m just some old bastard that needs glasses to watch porn these days. But that’s not true. I mean, the porn thing is, but the fact that it's not for me isn't true.

I want that life. 

I want to shag underage goats and get blowjobs off teenage dirtbags. 

We all do, but we pretend we don't because we don't want to look like disgusting bastards to the rest of the general public. Even then, we don't care about that too much. We just don't want to go to jail and get fucked by Nigel with the giant bellend because we said the wrong thing and got made into an example by some rainbow judge with no genitals. 

So we don’t. And to some degree, it proves that jail fucking works. And it's probably the same reason that Iraq worked under Saddam. Nobody would doubt that the guy was a brutal dicktator. But when you have a population of wild geese, ya need a fucking fearless bastard farmer. Otherwise, the odd brutal hanging turns into the slaughter of four hundred babies a month.

Do you know what Im saying? No, neither do I. But it doesn't matter. It's meant to be Christmas in July here. And that means Santa should have cum by now. And yeah, he should have cum down the chimney and mixed his spunk with that black soot to make some kind of rich black spunk that naturopaths will tell you is rad to brush yer teeth with cos of the charcoal n B vitamins n shit if ya can ignore the mildly burnt bleached flavour.

But that’s how factory farms come about, right?

One minute, ya got a grown man in a fat suit with a grey beard masturbating on strangers' roofs. The next, some anorexic monkey is getting Christmas spunk rubbed into his fucking eyes in the name of modern science. Poor bastard.

And it’s not that I’m against factory farms, Percy. 

To do so would be to take a one-sided view. And one-sided views never end well, my friend. I consider myself a spiritual guy, which is fucking embarrassing at the best of times.

But I’ve said it now. So I can’t do that. Take one side, that is. I've got to somehow let go of this dualistic judgement into that state beyond thoughts that experiences everything as the play of dharmakaya, innit?

But, what the fuck is dharmakaya? you say, like you’re some fucking drunk hedgehog that just wandered in off the street. 

And honestly, if I had forty thousand years, I might take the time to explain it, but we just don't have time, so there's no point practising Mahayana. Practice Vajrayana, and yeah, there's that damn snake thing where ya either go up the tube like Hugh Grant’s cock into the fabulous nirvanic peace of Divine Brown’s gob on Hollywood Boulevard or there’s the down the tube thing, like a decent sized shit moving slowly through snoop’s intestine after a night on the Northern Lights and some kind of decent LA based pizza and into that damn hell where they boil ya bollock/s in Carolina Reaper juice and fuck yer anus with one of those cucumbers that’s been soaking in the fuckin wasabi juice for the last sixteen million years ya know?

But life is about takin a damn risk here and there, right?

Fuck you. 

And yeah, this is the point where I stand up on the end of the ship like Leonardo grinding Winslet’s nice fatt ass cos I’m so fucking blocked, and I apologise to my paid subscribers and just say, 

Look, I’ll fly to the location of ya choice and give ya the reacharound where I smear ya cock or vag or whatever in smooth or crunchy peanut butter, depending on your preference and wank ya off with the slightly thick brown nutty lube until ya shoot spunk or fanny juice into the ether as a way of saying sorry for not offering yer anything that’s gonna improve yer testosterone or fertility or grip strength or erectile endurance*

I’m sorry, okay. 

To claim this once-off offer, all ya gotta do is go to the end of yer street, take off yer damn clothes, do at least four damn rounds of that fuckin Macarena and sing the first four lines of ‘What is Love’ by Haddaway with a

 genuine erection or wet clitoris. 

At that point, the purple ghost ‘Terry Daniels’ will appear with one of those giant fourteen-foot dildos that will keep going into your anus past the anal cervix and into the centre of your very being where the guru Shanshek dwells with Shantarakshita on his head, constantly chanting the fourteen hundred syllable mantra.

And if he doesn't, I’ll give you yer damn money back, okay.

Stop yer fucking moaning, alright?

*To the value of your current subscription

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