Good evening one and all.
Just a quick one here because I don't have anything exciting to say, which is highly unusual, as I'm sure you are by now aware. I've got a little poem for you instead. ENJOY!
Mr P crawled up into his bumhole
and made it a home for himself.
From there he sent out his letters,
asking everyone to act a little nicer.
"If you could all be more like me;
if you could all journey inside yourselves
as I have done,
you could look your spirit right in the face
and the world would be a better place."
When I received my letter from Mr P,
I replied with a brief note scrawled on a napkin:
"Mr P, your spirit is a bolus of turd,
and the eye with which it looks
is a nubbin of stinky corn.
While I agree that corn is probably the answer
to the Third World Starvation crisis,
I think somebody should point out,
you're living in an anus."
A few weeks later, Mr P replied stating that,
"A man's home is his asshole."
"Dear Mr P," I said.
"You're full of shit."