Diarrhoea for your dining pleasure.

RSJS writes:

“Write me some more filth”. Lovely turn of phrase, the go forth and multiply of my tenure in Brain Stab. Vulgarity recently attributed to the base of my brain where arachnophobia dwells alongside the bodily waste and libido. Someday they will combine to form an unhealthy interest in a coprophiliac spiderwoman with lipstick-red poison sacs, eight arms to hold me and an obsessive seat-sniffing fascination with hairy faeces. Hope she’s got a nice rack… These people are wrong, of course, those who suggest my inspiration is a muscle-twitch little better than a spinal cord spasm to write “cock” at random intervals in some typing-Tourette’s syndrome. Actually it’s a filter hewn from the shattered code of Diarybot 3000, fed like geese on a cram-tastic diet of mulched Fear and Loathing and vitriolic Indian ink and let loose upon my purple prose to fill in spaces with semen like some sexual mortar, coincidentally my nickname for my pocket Howitzer which is in essence my editor, or at least-co-author, pissing aforementioned Indian ink like some acidic “essence of Ghandi” only more pissed off at the world. Something to singe the nib (knob?) and sear the brain (brain?), in concentrated doses. Alas concentration is beyond me (requiring a summer camp refresher perhaps), so a sensible discourse on the origins of my love of expressions like “gouge my gash with your barbed meatstick of infinite justice” will trigger some aside about salamis versus bockwurst versus some kind of IUD-headed Teletubbie critter with the “eh-oh” and Nu-nu Metal the Vivian of Vacuum Cleaner and next thing you know I’m missing my candy fix and thinking about orifices that slaver. Damn that fat slag who once said of a woman “She makes me drip” which is on record as the most noxious idea to date, especially given slag’s tendency to eschew underpants to ventilate her rancid minge. Which might be a bit gynophobic but then I’d probably be less tolerant of my kiddie-humping friends if they modified their language from the harmless “that toddler gives me wood” to “That bawling bass-mouthed baby makes my pee-hole dribble”. Um… not that I tolerate them now, heavens to Betsy no, scourge of the earth, harrumph, harrumph. Scourge, now that’s a good word to tack onto something. Such as a dribbling knob. Basher McGurk, Scourge of the Leaking Luncheon-truncheon. Tie a knot in it… Of course it’d be more fun to knot it while flaccid then watch it split its side like a frankfurter in a pot of boiling water while the poor subject’s arse gets tickled but my patented “Hello sir, I’m doing a survey for Greenpeace – might I tie your John Thomas in a sheepshank then lick your rectum?” stunt has fallen by the wayside since I lost my clip-board, which is a sign of authority and fear. Moreso than the glue-huffing stargazers on Queen Street, the top-knotters or the garish sticker-selling charity zombies, the clip-boarding earnest huggy types make me pray for death. None of them believe I’m a member of Greenpeace, either. No, they think, he’s lying to make me go away, false smile, false smile, shrug-move-on-hassle-another-stiff. Pricks. Heh, stiff pricks. I’d like to clip their boards, whatever that means. Clip their wings anyway. Then board them? Avast ye Rainbow warriors, have ye seen me mizzen mast? Swab me poop deck and don’t spare the grog. Arrrrr, booty. Christ what was my point? Ah, the Vulgatron 90210 and its ability to insert “dick” into any context. And hole, damp or not. Hah, see, inserting dick is funny, even I get that one. Literally. I get dick. Not dick as in “dick dick dick dick how many Quentin Tarantino quotes is that? A lot” but dick as in bugger-all. Not to say I bugger all with my dick buggering all in sundry or in the arse or in case of emergency like some Cockbot Emperor of the Outer Labia. Okay? Right. What?

Fuck it. Pulsating tentacle rape or some such, stick that in your search engine and smoke it. G’night…