all shit.


By D. Jonas Laurence



It’s all shit. What I write. It’s all shit. This computer is shit. Made from shit. The sky outside is shit. My tea is shit. My fingers are shit. My balls are shit. My eyes are shit my shit is shit. It’s all shit. This shit computer makes all the letters big in all the right places, which is shit. I wanted to write all in small letters but it won’t let me. Which is shit. I wanted it to look like charles bukowski writing on a typewriter drinking a beer or a cheap wine but it won’t let me. And besides I have to go to work. He didn’t. he would quit. Cos he had balls.
My balls are shit. I already told you. My job is shit. It is like I am swimming in a sea of shit and I am breathing in great big gulps of shit and it tastes terrible. Like shit. And what can I write that is not all shit. Bullshit. Horseshit. Flyshit. Birdshit. Dogshit. What can I write? That is real? Not stories about huge tits. Or murdering kebab shop owners. Or giving birth to miniature calves from your ass. That is all shit.
Stories of secret societies controlled by the devil? Shit.
A guy getting his arm cut off and then a leg of lamb gets reattached there by a drunk surgeon? Shit.
Monkeys eating rotten mangoes and getting drunk before being shot into space? Shit.
Men that smoke a special plant and turn into potatoes? What the fuck is that? Shit.
A pizza shop that sells pizzas with human toppings? Shit.
Meeting Kurt Cobain in a pub in Doncaster after he is dead. Being served beer by Janis Joplin? Shit.
A band of vampires who are looking for a drummer? What? Shit.
A man who is afraid to shit when his girlfriend is around? And she won’t leave and he goes mad and shits on her chest? Obviously shit. The story is even called Shit Happens. Cos it is shit.
What else?
A Scottish father trying to impress their son’s friend by catching fish, catches the Loch Ness Monster? What the fuck? Shit.
A talking pimple?
Boils that start to cover a man’s body?
Two demon dogs that can only be seen when you drink a certain patch of home-made whiskey?
A creature made from all the waste that goes down the shower plughole?
A man who goes to Burger King only to be turned into a burger himself?
A man who spits so much that he disappears?
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
What is the point? What are all these stupid things that I write? They are shit. They are imaginary shit, which is even worse. They are not even real shit. They are worthless pieces of fake shit floating around making my eyes water with the stench.
They are nothing.
They are a vacuum.
They are a vacuum cleaner filled with diarrhoea.
They are pieces of a puzzle and the answer is simply shit.
They are all shit.
Like me.
Like you.
Like going to work on an afternoon when you could be sitting at home writing on your shit computer trying to write like bukowski but instead writing stupid stories that are shit like the one about the guy who discovers a website about himself and doesn’t know who is writing it and it starts to tell him the future and then it all goes wrong, of course, and it all turns out shit…
But it is still fun somehow.
It is still okay.
To write shit.
Cos probably no one will read it anyway…



THE SHIT END.