Monday, January 17, 2005

I feel that this should be included in Careers leaflets in schools.

I left the popularist author in his hotel room, crying and masturbating over the despoiled manuscript of his Greco-Italian romantic opus. In the breast pocket of my new Tory-leather jacket, the liver of the editor of the Daily Mail slowly cools. The street is filled with mediocrity on legs, trotting along to their careers. Binky, the Dog-Faced Corporate Stooge, only in stereo. I was given the power to shatter policemen with the power of my genitals only last week, by a Tantric sage on a bus. Only by excercising the greatest restraint does the plod who accosts me as a vagrant survive a splintery and jism-spattered death. I do, however, steal his helmet.
Met some pro-life protesters in Oxford Street. Must remember to have new steel toecaps fitted. These ones are almost worn out. I pause to pick up a discarded newspaper, which reluctantly informs me that I am no longer considered a citizen of this country; I have been reclassified as a Public Order Problem. This pleases me, and I accelerate joyously towards a fundamentalist with a megaphone. I wrest the item from him and batter him about the head and chest until he shits himself in terror, and then take his "Queers are God's special firewood"badge, pin it to his forehead, and toss him in the general direction of the West End.
A little along the street, a small and unkempt child has managed to ensnare an officer of the law with an impromptu bear-trap and is solemnly reciting "The Jabberwocky" into his infuriated ear. Running forward, besmirched with the juices of fallen nuns, clad in the stolen finery of and unfortunate Beefeater, and with the severed head of Ronald McDonald in
a bag, I heft my pen and clap the infant on the shoulder. "You, too, can be a writer", I tell him.


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