The other day was our illustrious leader’s birthday. Though in fact it was not. He lied. He (or she, ok let’s be politically correct here) was after gratuity, to fund the rental of an office for us to work. It wanted you to give It birthday presents so It could sell on eBay to stop us living under bridges with our Macbooks and Laptops. There was outrage in the writer’s community, many a “tut” and “Meh” were mentioned and I also heard an eyebrow being raised. This, within such a hardcore class of writing talent is akin to a nuclear bomb being let off.
While I balance this laptop on top of this homeless person with a solar panel angled toward the setting sun, wishing for a desk (and a power outlet), our leader is deceiving his loyal fan-base with such charlatan nonsense. I hope for all those that saw this counterfeit post were not fooled into giving us these gifts, whilst I sit in this gutter next to my rat kebab being warmed up on an “under motorway” made barbecue. I hope that we can earn your dedication to our works, your attention to our news, your subscription fee to our banks. Wait, ignore that last bit.
Whilst the other day was not It’s birthday, It does indeed have a genuine one at some point this year. The same time as last year in fact. Or so It says. Whilst I sit here upon my throne of used car tyres, shivering in this frigid 18 degrees Celsius when I could be in the south of France somewhere getting a tan, being able to produce some interesting kind of exposition for you to read, when instead you have this. I even feel sorry for you having got this far. So if you forgive It’s attempt of emotional blackmail, we might be able to move on forward to pastures anew and come up with a decent business proposal and actually be able to afford a photocopier. I am really starting to feel guilty for our replication artist after the last office party. Shouldn’t have happened. Poor girl.
A moment’s silence…
Where was I? Oh yes, should It try any of these money grabbing, begging, guitar in the street shenanigans ever again, I will personally see to it that he be formally dismissed, immediately defenestrated and instantly dismembered. All as a service to you, our loyal viewers.
I feel as if I should start to finish this rant now, as the wind coming across the Severn is starting to make my desk shiver. But, before the cessation of this masterpiece, before my power source disappears, I must actually get around to saying what I travelled to this sunny spot to say.
Got 50p m8?
Mr S.C. Flonk