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?