Aaaand my big, fat arse has just knocked over another drink.
You see? This is exactly the sort of thing I've been lambasting for the better part of a decade. Trivial, solipsistic blog posts of very little import to anyone. Hang on, I'm going to drag the tech outside so I can have a cigarette. Fucking anti-smoking fascists will inherit a very dull, non-wheezing Earth, and good luck to 'em.
Christ, that's better. So, where were we? Ah, yes. The non-appearance of Grace Kelly. Absolute tragedy, as she's almost made this sojourn at the foothills of insanity bearable for the past week. An affirmer, not a brain-in-chains, sucking-up-to-God "believer", prepared to hold a plasticated card in one hand, and a tatty, printed-in-China copy of the New Testament in the other, and swear a lot of self-righteous bollocks to a room full of tarts. Most admirable. We got to play with a gun last week, so God (who may or may not exist - the jury's definitely still out on that one) knows what trinkets we'll get to fondle tomorrow.
Prisoners of The Pink Room toyed with rebellion this afternoon, after hearing nothing from the court spods since lunchtime, but failed to follow through on their anarchistic threats. Bunch of pussies. It took yours truly to summon the requisite spunk, and bang on the door until something happened. (Some of 'em looked a bit frightened. I sensed the sort of hive minds fairly used to coughing up cash instanta for parking fines, etc. Poor show all round.) Having been declared "leader" (I am not a number, and being pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or jury-numbered holds little appeal), I exercised The Rarest Commodity (common sense), and suggested the intake of food and alcohol. This proved popular. I'm learning, still. Never adopt the arrogance of omniscience unless you can prove it, kiddiewinkles.
Right, we're moving on. Without Grace Kelly, which is a terrible shame.
Christ, that's better. So, where were we? Ah, yes. The non-appearance of Grace Kelly. Absolute tragedy, as she's almost made this sojourn at the foothills of insanity bearable for the past week. An affirmer, not a brain-in-chains, sucking-up-to-God "believer", prepared to hold a plasticated card in one hand, and a tatty, printed-in-China copy of the New Testament in the other, and swear a lot of self-righteous bollocks to a room full of tarts. Most admirable. We got to play with a gun last week, so God (who may or may not exist - the jury's definitely still out on that one) knows what trinkets we'll get to fondle tomorrow.
Prisoners of The Pink Room toyed with rebellion this afternoon, after hearing nothing from the court spods since lunchtime, but failed to follow through on their anarchistic threats. Bunch of pussies. It took yours truly to summon the requisite spunk, and bang on the door until something happened. (Some of 'em looked a bit frightened. I sensed the sort of hive minds fairly used to coughing up cash instanta for parking fines, etc. Poor show all round.) Having been declared "leader" (I am not a number, and being pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or jury-numbered holds little appeal), I exercised The Rarest Commodity (common sense), and suggested the intake of food and alcohol. This proved popular. I'm learning, still. Never adopt the arrogance of omniscience unless you can prove it, kiddiewinkles.
Right, we're moving on. Without Grace Kelly, which is a terrible shame.