Stock-Taker

by brightonsauce

[Crazed Sunday morning write series, one shot, no edit, sniff] 

Looking through my back catalogue of great blog posts, I notice how nearly all of the writes are  completely brilliant – an outstanding and unique prose system projects a perfect sense of humour for all peoples at every occasion of theirs, incredible to think how it was humble  I who wrote such wonderful things.  Really impossible for me to select a single entertaining story for you, today, not that I am bitter how the great post entry of yesterday, Marris Chips, my porno received only one single like in the entire Wormpress hemisphere, you shits can’t even read, even after I posted into  the sex and erotica sections.  There should be a book for proper people, book readers not the internet fluffers, you, and there will be once I am overwhelmed in fan literature, once these two short stories of mine hit the book shops, the book shop.  Anthology publication date is March 10th, this year,  and from that day I am an official author of the club sacred, listed uniquely on GoodReads as I told my mother fan.

Also my son, the musician, beloved sofa parasite, read the proofs for only one of these, the two great short stories:

‘Okay Dad, almost entertained me, a couple of spots where you miss conjunction, prepositions might help occasionally,’ he said.

‘How dare you criticise father’s incredible brain,’ said my wife from her shackles, the dishwasher steam waters rose to her enormous twin breasts, breasts partially covered only by  a gingham fabric, I selected myself, part of her chore uniform.

‘Don’t worry honey I can defend myself,’ I said,  ‘carry on‘ I said and ran up the stairs, tears bucketed down my chins, I dragged belly up steps, one at a time, the author lifestyle you see, thinking and puddings for me.  Yet the message for today concerns how  important it is for  all great writers like me to take criticism of his product face, and on without injury to the ego, the writer’s unique stock that bubbles in its case, a brain so very unlike your little brains.  And as seemingly I am at the threshold of a leap forward in my career, this is a junction where I must take this stock, anticipate celebrity and  humiliate, assassinate, cleanse those who have ever criticised anything I writed or said..

Online of course one is vulnerable to school bullies of yesteryear.  I have suffered two such drive-bys, if I might paraphrase

‘You prick, and always were a prick, and you are a prick still,’ said the message in my comments section.

Also,

‘Call this writing, I could shit better,’

however, using google satellite I was able to pinpoint this second comment to the laptop of Bluto, my great rival for the assistant management role down at the farm, so I can readily dismiss opinions of this insect chap, although he is quite cuddly.  He doesn’t like it when I cuddle him, not so much, but then, such is employment.

Well, that’s about it  really.  Couple of barbs from the United States ‘what are you talking about?’ and ‘nice words, but wrong order,’  those kind of things are inevitable.

What was I talking about?  Finally I must announce the closure of my Guardian reader’s account.  I got wine-carried on, away last night, read all the thousands of rugger-related comments after England’s victory over the Irish nation, and posted my own jingoistic account of face-paints , lager, rendition of Jerusalem,  a celebration in the household as I rode the widescreen television wearing house-chaps.  This received several hundred hate posts in reply so now I shall now only read the Daily Mail online.

Thank you

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