As you can probably tell when I can't think of anything to post I stick a poem up. More often than not this is why:
The ever so slightly morbidly obese gentleman turned in his sleep, dreaming dreams Amarillo as he hugged his turtle shell patterned pouffe. Quite what this gentleman was doing hugging a turtle shell patterned pouffe is known only to his wife – and she died by fire extinguisher in the student riots. A tuft of white hair sat atop the aged and sunken face that had turned ghostly white due to excessive use of moisturisers over the past several hundred years, his nose was long and sharp – quite contrasting to his penis, which was short, fat and somewhat roundish. Bags too numerous to comprehend framed his sallow eyelids that were barely visible under his great and bushy eyebrows, and on this particular occasion his cheeks were slightly red. Santa was pissed. It was Christmas Eve and he'd got hammered in a floating bar off the east coast of Azerbaijan. He'd really outdone himself this time.
Should I take it anywhere? Hopefully a more bloggy blog for tomorrow.