I should probably tell you a story
today, shouldn't I? My fingers should be itching to type, my brain
bursting with good ideas, my mind thirsty for some stimulating
conversation. I should be sitting here trying to restrain my
excitement at the blank page before me, but I am not. I am sitting
here sifting through the nonsense trying to find something worth your
time, and mine, but all I can think about is the bloody ICC. Do you
know how depressed I have to be to admit that? Do you? I'll tell
you. I'm so depressed I'm contemplating 1000 plus words on a topic
that frankly should have no bearing on my cup of tea tomorrow
morning. I cannot proceed with my usual stream of filth and
narcissist whining until I overcome this most vexing hurdle, and for
what, I ask you? What good shall come of speaking my mind on my
prezzo(s) personal challenges? Shall crime go down, and my
(currently fictional) man go up? Shall my bread be fluffier in the
morning, or my pillow softer this night? Shall I miraculously find
the fortune I seek, or lose everything I own, because I spoke my
mind?
Hang on, given the government's
continued intolerance for all things dissent, I may in fact lose all I
own one of these days, no? But wait, I have an audience of 41, the
odds of my being picked up for sedition, or whatever it's called in
the digital age, are slim to non-existent, yes? Yes. I shall
proceed...
What does it matter that the actions of
my government make me angry enough to slap a sheep?
She then goes off to find the sheep she
has locked in her closet, conveniently, for days like this, and
proceeds to slap it around a bit. Fear not, I'm not being cruel to
an animal, my sheep is about yea tall (forefinger and thumb an inch
apart) and he answers to the name Shaun (if you do not get that
reference, google, he is good TV that sheep, but I digress...).
Ladies and gentlemen, it's December,
which means its my month of sewer (woohoo!), but given that I have
spent a troubling amount of time in the sewer this year, more so at
very troubling depths, I think I'm allowed to throw something else in
this time around, mix up a little, no? No? Come on, I do a good
mix. I'm sensing some reticence on your part, but when has that ever
stopped me? To wit, politics. “Why politics?” you ask. What
better to add into the sewer than the gutter? Fair warning, this
month there shall be little to no fluff, I plan on taking advantage
of the silence you shall inevitably avail me (it's a very slow month,
once you buggers go off on holiday after next week), and have a
couple of good old fashioned rants. I'm talking spitting, foaming at
the mouth wrath, interspersed with the tragic comedy that is our sex. I will be rude, and crude, and most likely I will offend somebody's
mother, possibly mine own. Just thought I should tell you that,
upfront.
So this ICC mess? What kind of crack
are these people smoking?
