Do you wander the Earth in an oblivious bubble, vacantly convinced that every random splatter of incontinent thought that splashes into the empty toilet bowl of your skull is of urgent, critical interest to the rest of humanity?
If I did, surely I would set up a blog.
Precisely.
Anyway, did I ever tell you that after I compose these daft rants I print them off, head up to the High Street and scream them at shoppers and tourists?
I think the printed word lacks the same impact as backing a terrified pedestrian into a corner, jabbing him in the chest with my finger while roaring at the top of my voice.
after I compose these daft rants I print them off, head up to the High Street and scream them at shoppers and tourists?
I noticed that on my last visit to Edinburgh, but I assumed that it was just part of the Festival.
The real street theatre doesn't start until one in the morning, at which point you can witness several impressive displays of interpretive dance, symbolising the human condition through the medium of violence.
every random splatter of incontinent thought that splashes...
One of these days I'm going to equip our bathroom with a toilet-bowl in the shape of a giant human head, its chin resting on the floor. The top of the head will lift up when you want a piss or a core-dump. If the budget allows it, the design will include eyes that roll around during the process.
The Frau Doktorin does not encourage my home-redecoration projects.
the printed word
"printed"?
More to the point, when I receive text messages saying Please come to my house and pound my orifices with your throbbing, insatiable horn, am I right in interpreting this as code for I'm on the bus - bored?
Probably best - I doubt the Frau Doktorin would be happy if you took it any other way. Unless it was a text from her, of course, in which case it would probably be code for When are these fucking slabs getting laid in the back garden?
And no "getting laid" jokes, on pain of death.
it would probably be code for When are these fucking slabs getting laid in the back garden?
I don't actually play the trumpet, so I'll go along with that interpretation.
Where would we be without FR's Guide to Textiquette?
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