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“Ram it up yer farter, Constable.
“I pumpt yer gran.”
“It’s luxuriant and full-bodied, like yer maw.”
winced the way one always does when a moment’s passed and you suddenly wish you could go back and say or do the perfect thing you thought of twenty minutes too late.
“Call it magic or call it science. It’s all information.”
There was no way to predict how people would take news that required them to shift their paradigms. Most of the time such news just bounced off them, the way horrific shite about a candidate bounces off a party’s faithful because they can’t face the fact that they voted for a monster and they may in fact be monsters themselves. Easier to just deny it all, call it fake news. No introspection required.
ya gormless bastard.
Dugs are beings of pure love and devotion and broadcast hope to those of us who have only memories of such things, for they demonstrate by their existence that love and devotion still walk abroad in the world, and therefore it’s worthwhile to live in it.
Whenever someone shoulders past me or cuts me off, I feel like rooting for them instead of getting angry, and I hope they’re able to make it to the toilet before disaster strikes. I cheer for the steadfastness of their sphincters and wish them long life and clean underwear. People think I am patient, but not really; I just get it. We are ruled by our bladders and bowels.
that’s about as cheerful as a pair of bollocks on a biscuit.
it’s darker than a king snake’s arsehole.”
