O! What it is to be Joe Skrebels.
O o! The daily chore of moving this damp bag of offal that houses my corrupted soul. Its only motive, to consume enough of the world’s filth that my wretched form might persist for another foul cycle.
Cast not your gaze upon me! Your radiance shames me.
O! Noble reader! Let me regale you with a sample tale of my squalour, that you might purchase my secret most vile!
Barely a month ago, I was shuffling through a meadow, and a beast of the field fixed me with an impertinent glare. Its eyes burned through me, seeing my sin as easily as the crow spies the cream in a bottle of milk.
Enraged that a cud-chewing pat-spurter might presume to judge me, I ran at it, arms wheeling. The long strips of my tattered shirt, it seems, give the appearance of the fringed jacket of a cowboy. For shortly after, stories began to circulate of an exotic visitor to Canterbury, a transatlantic cattle-wrangler who rode a Fresian steed.
At the same time, people would cross the road to spit on me, Joe Skrebels, in the vain hope that their spittle would dilute my ghastly exoskeleton of faeces.
Their lips still wet from tittle-tattle, their spittle spattered my shit-smeared nose and ripped, tattered clothes.
After hours of tolerating this injustice, it became too much for me to bear: I rose from lake of cow dung, and approached a family as they whispered of this cowboy.
“I am this thrilling fellow! Behold, the exotic fringed jacket of which you whisper!”
I stood, my arms out like Christ of the Sacred Heart, ready to accept my new position in society. The daughter of the family exclaimed, wielding the cruel blade of innocence:
“You’re dripping shit on my chicken burger?”
I turned and flinched, bringing both arms to my forehead, the whipping motion of my fringes sending two wet slices of cow-dung streaking across the mother.
“You whipped two streaks of shit across my amazing tits, you grotty Bernard,” the mother bellowed, and I span away in horror at my unintended spatter.
O! Let me tell you now, that spinning was an ill-advised manouevre. The entire Nandos franchise became beige with a Catherine Wheel of filth. Not a table was spared: not a single meal untainted.
I departed shortly thereafter, noting with sadness how quickly humanity can travel from vomiting and screaming to heckles and boos. I ask you: who is the real monster? Not I.
If you wish to hear another tale of my low antics, stump up the cash, because I’m a mean hurtful man who says bad things.