Life with Clot the Misanthrope – asinus ad lyram

So I admit; I’ve had a gnawing urge over the past few months… driven by exasperation and an almost inhuman disbelief in the unmitigated dishonesty and lack of commitment shown by some.

Now I’m well aware of the danger of pointing fingers – what with all those remaining pesky little digits pointing right back at you - but like so many other primates, this particular product of foetal alcohol syndrome just makes it so easy… Mea culpa

I’ve been astounded by the unchecked duplicity I witnessed from this ineffable crank… lies embroidered with reasonless vulgarities of attitude and gesture… lies told only to hurt those I care for and would wish to keep from harm. I would have thought that were you to continuously profess love and commitment you might remember to – once – show an example thereof.

If, as the saying supposedly goes, what we think, know or believe to be of little consequence and the only consequence to be indeed what we do, what should we make of a man that does nothing? A man that knows the truth about as much as a tea leaf knows the history of the East Indian Company. A blithering idiot, having left his poor town bereft of the clown they so lovingly crafted. How shall one adequately and eloquently grasp the flimflam that is – sadly - all this dunce amounts to? A man of so many insipid promises… empty promises that hurt those we as society hold most dear.

So to the pretentious yet crime-ridden and poorly serviced hills of Norrod, fabled rambling spot of Jack (Had to pick a name didn’t I – and for one that considers a family tree to be a reference to communal living, I thought he’d be happy) where I launched a somewhat desperate search for the brain of Jack.

Quite why I thought his brain would be there, I cannot say. Something to do with the balance of probabilities I’d hoped.

For it is nowhere else.

It was certainly not around the barren regions of South America, nor North America where precious gems were lost in the search of an ever higher level of narcissistic indulgence. Alas even Europe - that previously unscathed bastion of culture and thought - were found not to contain the brain.

And there was no sign of it in Norrod, where the gormless Jack flip-flops like a bucket of sardines and, clearly untroubled by any suggestion of intelligence, lamely suggested his mental and pecuniary incompetence.

Unable to help, we wondered? How could this be? Like the brain’s whereabouts, all was a mystery. I then played a game, sticking the claim of utter helplessness into various contexts. Astrology, Biology and the fascinating field of genetic mutation…. But the results were pretty much all the same whether you stuck this muddled twaddle in an architectural context, or a dramatic context, or even a psychological context; there was no doubting Jack’s intention — absenteeism and pathological disinterest as a result of profound selfish self-preservation and his dreams of one day being a big boy with his own allowance.

Unfortunately I have been subjected to Jack’s poorly-ground bumbling – apparently called rationalization - the highest sort of warrior code bullstuff I can think of at the moment. I really don’t want him to be seen to be dithering at this point. You hesitate, you lose face. Fall on the sword, guy, mucho pronto.

But back to the missing brain, which in all likelihood, was cowering in fear somewhere in a gym, clearly dreading the prospect of being put back in the Jack head. And who could blame it? Wouldn’t you be terrified of being thrust into the great maw, that dark chasm between the Jack ears? I would.

And as for the written mire that are his thoughts………….. better the worms to chew upon and spit out than find to yourself inescapably trapped by the sheer momentous balderdash of it all. Having read most of this claptrap, I can only say never mind the punctuation, just feel the crap on that. No wonder the brain is so frightened, poor thing