Bitshitdad doesn't mind the odd kick around in the park, but wonders whether its necessary for it to become slalom course as one has to weave in and out of huge dog turds, shouting to a seven year every couple of minutes, pass the ball, mind the crap, over here, mind the shit, on the head my son...Noooooooo!
My advice to locals is for god sake don't go into that park after dark, the size of the craps on show are truly stupendous and must come from some son of The Hound of the Baskervilles, or being St Leonards Hound of the Basket Meals. Still is it anyworse than the strange site of blue bags of shit hanging in the trees and shrubs, like some strange offering to the Gods 'Lord take this poodle poo as a potent sign of my love and devotion'. Dear God dog owners is it really that hard to put your crap in the bin and not leave it lying either in the grass or in a tree. If I ever find out who is doing this I am personally going to visit and crap on your drive, steps and door and just for good measure I will leave a little blue bag of my poo hanging from the nearest tree.
Or should we be allowed to hunt dogs, not with dogs, but I don't know, foxes maybe. I can see a whole new era of reverse class hunting with hippy's and greebos on chopper bikes, packs of foxes running through urban streets and parks chasing after whatever pug faced child killer is now all the rage in drug selling dog circles. A friend of mine told me how the other day down at the beach huts one of her neighbours asked a passing piece of white trash (is that right wing of me?) to pick up the dog turd his dog had just left behind, which he duly did, before lobbing it at her door. Mmmm nice. But really its not the dog its the owners I hear you cry, fare enough, lets clay pigeon shoot with peasants not pheasants or place a can of diamond white cider on the nearest live rail sit back and watch the night light up with flashes of little death... the children will love it and you can have a barbecue whilst you're at it to disguise the smell of burning flesh, mmmm pass me a spare rib.
Night night all and remember a Shitsu is for life not just Christmas
Saturday, 23 July 2011
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Bitshitdad has many strings to his bow but as we know the bow doesn't necessarily play the right tunes as dear Mr Morecambe said 'I'm playing all the right notes, but not necessarily in the right order'. Poetry has been for sometime a strange companion, lets face it it has a certain kudos, saying your a poet does suggest a certain leaning towards the left bank as they say (who, who says that?). Unfortunately it can also disguise a horrible lack of any real talent and a large degree of mental health problems. Take Littlehampton, I wish you would it deserves a better home, is it unusually full of nutters or does poetry just act like a magnet to them.
Take dear Miss L, I'm being kind and anyway she has my email address and might haunt me later, quite casually she dropped into an otherwise only mildly insane conversation, that she had that very morning 'solved the problem of the Big Bang'. There was I not even aware that day that we had a problem with it, imagine the call out charge for solving that one "Oh yeah it's your Big Bang I'm afraid, you're going to need a whole new theory, I'll have to go back to the depot'. Nope apparently the Big Bang isn't a series of concentric circles for ever building outwards, but began (do pay attention) began as a tiny tiny central mass which is now expanding outward. Hey I hear you say, isn't that like actually the Big Bang theory... I mean it is isn't it. Yes. It is. I informed the pleasantly beguiling Miss L that 'I think that is the Big Bang theory, the one we already know, to which she replied and I love this... 'Well; I'm not an expert or anything!' Really, do you think, I mean really, are you sure cause I was convinced there that that morning you had over a bowl of Meusli solved the problem of like the universe and everything, damn, damn, damn.
Still next to Mr D, she was a positive ray of sanity, were she was merely tilting at windmills he was designing new windmills, putting in a planning application and then making his own objections to his own plans. To say his bridge didn't go all the way would be an under-estimation, a bit like turning up to the Grand Canyon with a ladder in the hope of bridging the gap. Mr D, was a poetry nut, that's to say he knew a lot about poetry, and was a nut. Running a workshop with him was strangely frightening I kept looking at the bleak landscape around me and realising just how isolated I was and how a notebook and pencil would make for a very poor method of defence (I'm sure Bear Grills could kill you with an eraser and a kumquat, but as he already has me nearly bored to death anyway he has I think an unfair advantage). Mr D did one wonderful trick though, as he slunk out for the seventh time to relight his sodden fag, he set me an exercise, yes me the tutor, he set me an exercise. My ghasted was so flabbered that I failed to fully grasp the situation as he left, but on his return I was still sitting open mouthed when he suddenly launched into 'like a freeform poem, I just made it up, fizzz pop whizz'.
Alone on the edge of Littehampton, the municipal toilet closed and the train station 20 minutes walk away down a bleak lane which was tunneling the force ten gale into murderous intent, I pondered whether really and truly one couldn't find more poetry in life, working at McDonalds, were at least the lights were bright and the customers behind a counter and too fat too leap over and kill you. Oh an dear dear poetry lovers a Haiku is just what really really lazy poets do, whilst in Japan it has an artful and meaningful form in Europe it just says, I am a poet look I can write17 Syllables it says in short that I can't really be fucked doing too much and look how funny I am trashing this ancient artform (don't worry its not ours its another culture we can trash away) personally the next wanker who shows me a Haiku I'm going to hand over to Bear Grylls (see I knew it really) and I'm going to ask him to skin them and turn them into a canoe a Haikanoe.
Take dear Miss L, I'm being kind and anyway she has my email address and might haunt me later, quite casually she dropped into an otherwise only mildly insane conversation, that she had that very morning 'solved the problem of the Big Bang'. There was I not even aware that day that we had a problem with it, imagine the call out charge for solving that one "Oh yeah it's your Big Bang I'm afraid, you're going to need a whole new theory, I'll have to go back to the depot'. Nope apparently the Big Bang isn't a series of concentric circles for ever building outwards, but began (do pay attention) began as a tiny tiny central mass which is now expanding outward. Hey I hear you say, isn't that like actually the Big Bang theory... I mean it is isn't it. Yes. It is. I informed the pleasantly beguiling Miss L that 'I think that is the Big Bang theory, the one we already know, to which she replied and I love this... 'Well; I'm not an expert or anything!' Really, do you think, I mean really, are you sure cause I was convinced there that that morning you had over a bowl of Meusli solved the problem of like the universe and everything, damn, damn, damn.
Still next to Mr D, she was a positive ray of sanity, were she was merely tilting at windmills he was designing new windmills, putting in a planning application and then making his own objections to his own plans. To say his bridge didn't go all the way would be an under-estimation, a bit like turning up to the Grand Canyon with a ladder in the hope of bridging the gap. Mr D, was a poetry nut, that's to say he knew a lot about poetry, and was a nut. Running a workshop with him was strangely frightening I kept looking at the bleak landscape around me and realising just how isolated I was and how a notebook and pencil would make for a very poor method of defence (I'm sure Bear Grills could kill you with an eraser and a kumquat, but as he already has me nearly bored to death anyway he has I think an unfair advantage). Mr D did one wonderful trick though, as he slunk out for the seventh time to relight his sodden fag, he set me an exercise, yes me the tutor, he set me an exercise. My ghasted was so flabbered that I failed to fully grasp the situation as he left, but on his return I was still sitting open mouthed when he suddenly launched into 'like a freeform poem, I just made it up, fizzz pop whizz'.
Alone on the edge of Littehampton, the municipal toilet closed and the train station 20 minutes walk away down a bleak lane which was tunneling the force ten gale into murderous intent, I pondered whether really and truly one couldn't find more poetry in life, working at McDonalds, were at least the lights were bright and the customers behind a counter and too fat too leap over and kill you. Oh an dear dear poetry lovers a Haiku is just what really really lazy poets do, whilst in Japan it has an artful and meaningful form in Europe it just says, I am a poet look I can write17 Syllables it says in short that I can't really be fucked doing too much and look how funny I am trashing this ancient artform (don't worry its not ours its another culture we can trash away) personally the next wanker who shows me a Haiku I'm going to hand over to Bear Grylls (see I knew it really) and I'm going to ask him to skin them and turn them into a canoe a Haikanoe.
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