The act of wielding even a virtual pen can be cathartic, for sure. The act of discharging it like a weapon – a greasegun – might even be exhilirating.
But. We all pay allegiance to a nominal form of self-censorship at the very least. I falter with a foot in both camps; less is more, undoubtably, and sometimes less is worse than nothing at all.
I constantly hover – like the best of us – on the dial. I am as prone to prevaricate as a motherf@cker.
And still. It is that act of wavering which lets the worm off the hook even as the net hoovers up the innocent. I have had a bellyful of the sanctimonius – anonymous – in recent weeks, let me just say; enough third form juvenile chest-beating to tempt one to pick up a cosh. Where the f@ck do these c*nts find the nerve ? Between choosing to stand up in the stirrups and mouthing off a liturgy ?
F@ck \’em and the pristine white horse they rode in on.
I didn\’t get to my age – pardon my rat\’s whiskers – without confronting arch self-righteousness when it raises its contorted head. Dress yourself up like Sid Vicious and I might just kick you in the f@cking face. Clad yourself in robes and I might piss all over your sackcloth.
The high ground is not secured through weekend free minutes. You don\’t fortuitously land on it by leaping to conclusions; you don\’t f@cking scale the perimeter by playing go-between. And I don\’t relish being sermonised at, 2nd or 3rd hand, by an ill informed novice stuffed full of certitudes.
Don\’t be too hasty in raising the blade. In the end even Robespierre jawed off his head.
Go f@cking hug a tree the next time you want to get off. I\’ve hugged several, we all think that we\’re the first, and I\’m still waiting for the grass to grow. Over my hooves. Under my shoes. To summarize – in the clearing, after burning – suck my crushed white chalk.