My Honker account has been blocked. And I can no longer post underwear on the Camisole Hour.
I blame the radical centre for this. Not content to set fire to piles of dead leaves in their back yards, they have taken to the new terror tactic of posting slices of watermelon to unsuspecting victims. The Post Office is alert to this after the last outrage and the postal workers are all to be supplied with gloves in the case of old parcels or forks in the case of fresh ones.
Of course becoming an object of pity is the fulfilment of a childhood dream. I can trail myself through the malls and the media dragging a rag doll and asking strangers if they have seen my dead parents. This can also be done in nail salons and places that sell outboard motors. The only risk is if someone says ” Yes ” and then what the hell do I do?
I was briefly contemplating a fake limp, but the episode when I got a real poisoned leg that put me in hospital convinced me that there is too much risk in that. And hospitals are nervous places right now. I shall fake good health instead and hope that that plays upon the sympathy of the crowd.
I wish I still had hair – a shock of rumpled red hair and freckles seems to be sure-fire for looking winsome. I suppose I could get a red Texta and start on the freckles…