A bag of frozen peas...

Is sitting defrosting underneath my bollocks.

It's so hot that there is a grave danger of me losing all the water in my body. A river of sweat is running down my back at a ferocious rate. So much so that there is a puddle gathering on my seat cushion and I fear I may have to hang it out to dry on the line. And this will not be a good thing.

Not because I live in an area where guerilla interior designers roam the streets in search of unguarded seat coverings and throw cushions to decorate their hideout, but because my cushion is in a horrible condition. I'd hate to subject my neighbors to the sight of a semen crusted seat cushion dripping the sweat that has made its way down my back and through my asscheeks.

But, enough of that guff... If I'm ever to make anything on this blog readable I really should stop writing these horrifying scenes involving irrational behavior, masturbation on a grand scale and the use of hard drugs that can make your brain swell up like an infected hemorrhoid and cause aneurysms.

Perhaps I should steer myself in the direction of intelligent journalism. You know, abandon the random jabberings of a crazed loon and write something which has purpose behind it. But then again...

Never mind. Ok, so I'm not the intelligent journalist type. I don't have a bald patch and the only type of pipe I've ever smoked isn't the kind you can light in a gentleman's club without being removed by burly security guards.