All life is a series of putting forward shite theories, including this one, which lie in various stages of shite development. This one came to fruition, coincidentally, while sitting on the bowl but bear with me. I recommend you take what I’m about to tell you with a pinch of shite, but also to go away reflect pensively on a world of shittiness.
A case in point: On the television this morning there were four people on the BBC breakfast programme. Two were the presenters who worked like diligent scientists in politely extracting the shite from their two guests who sat, predictably, on opposite sides of the shite spectrum. One believed that shite was a positive thing and thus was an instrumental part of life that existed in many different forms. Both creamy and turgid. Whereas the other took a negative view, saying that not only was shite non-existent, but was rather a propaganda piece from the government who sought to erect a shite smokescreen to detract from their failed, shitty economic policies.
The presenters, at pains to remain objective, inadvertently stirred further the cauldron of shite that was their debate; and as humans inevitably couldn’t refrain from holding back even smidgeons of their own shite opinions. ‘But don’t you think…’ was a common deflective phrase, which ostensibly gave rise to devil’s advocate, but in reality represented what the common man, a person who shites regularly, might think as the viewer.
Eventually after their frenzy of shite, where shite was batted back and forth like a tennis rally, the presenters through their skill and experience came to a shitty compromise which left you, the audience, to either accept the shite which was just spewed, or brew your own shite based on a combination of other, eclectic shittiness. `
When I teach my son, I seek to pass on the baton of shite like the Olympic torch so that he can develop out of what is admittedly a simplistic view of shite. Despite my efforts, I imagine as he develops into a teenager he will do an angst-ridden shite while contemplating his shitty, pointless existence. I will direct him towards people like Nietschze and Stephen King who are prolific shitters, but he will still be confused about shite—like we all were at one point as pesky teenagers, right? Right? You know that persistent feeling as though he just fell into a slurry tank and were swiftly approaching a death due to a mixture of the poisonous, shitty gasses and lack of shit-free oxygen? Of course you do.
As an adult he will go to his job and live, breath and talk shite to his fellow peers who will thus reciprocate their own peculiar shite in the form of talking about the weather (Which predicts a shitty couple of days), the shite football match which was played at the weekend, and the shitty state of politics. For now though I want him to block out the cacophony of shite until he is better equipped to deal with the shite onslaught; so this weekend I will take him to the cinema to see a film about shite which I will, I expect, decide is shittier than the last shite film that I took my son to see.
If you disagree, feel free to impart your own shitty theory which I’m sure will amuse me
(By the way my son, who is non-existent, is a convenient purveyor of my ideas)
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