So you know how sometimes you know the shit is coming down the pipe, but you let yourself smoke it anyway? And now and then you gotta' let some people talk shit even if you know they're full of shit, and ya' simply gotta' try and laugh along when you feel like you've been punched in the gut by a freight train. And sometimes you think that the world is smiling on you, but then you realize that it is having a chuckle at your expense. Well, those times are now, but ya' know what, fellow Litherlanders? I don't give a rat's ass about all of that! You still gotta' get your ass outta' the bed in the morning and face the mid to late afternoon, because, why, if you don't then you are no better than the pile of shit that those fuckers have laid down on your living room floor. Damn it! Ya' gotta' clean it up, and you can't merely use some lame brand of generic detergent that you bought down at the corner store for the same price that you coulda' bought the good stuff at the supermarket for if only you hadn't waited until after midnight to leave your house. So get out there and scrub it up, and clean it out, and wipe it up, because life is too short to get bogged down in other people's messes, especially those little children. Hey, maybe they're not all bad (but I have my doubts), but they are the one's who will keep making messes with all their tantrums and traumas and you think they can clean up after themselves? FUCK NO! Those little pukes will fuck you over seven ways from Sunday, and they don't even know that they're doing it, 'cause they're like little babes mewling in dark and scary woods, but they can't even see the forest for the trees! Yet, we must persevere and recognize that not every cloud has a silver lining, but some only rain on your head as the sky opens up its watersports on you. Of course these days they're puttin' all that LSD into the clouds, at least I thought I recalled reading a report on such matters, and then you really need an umbrella or you're going to end up in section thirteen of your local hospital. And speaking of the transformative powers of death, sometimes you gotta' look that fuckin' smarmy angel right in the eye and say, "no I don't need any change, but thanks for asking!" or better yet, you politely, through the tears of all the widows and windows everywhere, simply ask that death to get the hell out of your house and go back home to the family, 'cause sometimes that bitch doesn't know anything more than the babes in the woods, and you gotta' get in there and clean out the grime so use a really strong chemical that will rinse away all your misery and poison the river so there can be acid in the rain and then we could all go stark raving mad and there would be no standard measure of sanity left by which the children could grow into, and they'd probably all die as still born muffins as they come down the pipe, but you'll smoke it anyway, 'cause, after all, you've taken the shit from your gut and punched it into a freight train to be delivered to the ends of the earth, and then the laughing, mocking world will have a nice mouthful of shit, and that outta’ wipe that shit eating grin right off that face! I'm going down to the corner store now to get myself a bag of crisps...and maybe that is motivation enough to get the hell out of bed even though it felt so good after getting fucked seven ways from a sunny day.
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