But that's not the worst of it. I think the FSA has been following me in the astral desert of our love.
Just last night, Bobby Diamond and I were floating over the mystical sands. 'Mikey, who is that there, on the horizon?' A shadowy figure. It looked like Margaret Cole. 'Bobby, is this the promised end? Have they come for us?' We floated off, back towards our favourite cave. Nice and dry. No bats. 'Mikey, it can't be the FSA, can it? Margaret Cole wouldn't dare venture on to the astral plane.' In our cave, we listened. We heard the wild animals of the desert night, and Margaret. 'Bobby, that's her! Listen!' A wailing sound. 'Mikey, she's crying! She obviously has no appetite for the plane. She can't stand the horror.' It can seem like horror, sometimes. But then silence from the shadowy figure. I looked out over the sands. 'Bobby, whatever it was, it's gone now.'
Was it Margaret? Is she that crazy, that bold?
I don't mind them listening to my phone calls, the FSA spies. If they want to enjoy the Lloyd Blankfein Experience, as he screams obscenities down the line, that's fine with me. I could do with the moral support. But I will not tolerate their presence on the astral plane. O my children, what happens in the desert, stays in the desert.
The penalties will be harsh for any snoopers from the cold world. Eternal damnation to anyone from the FSA found anywhere near my subconscious or the subconscious of any of my friends or associates! I will throw them into the pit!
I am not a journalist. I do things my way.
Just last night, Bobby Diamond and I were floating over the mystical sands. 'Mikey, who is that there, on the horizon?' A shadowy figure. It looked like Margaret Cole. 'Bobby, is this the promised end? Have they come for us?' We floated off, back towards our favourite cave. Nice and dry. No bats. 'Mikey, it can't be the FSA, can it? Margaret Cole wouldn't dare venture on to the astral plane.' In our cave, we listened. We heard the wild animals of the desert night, and Margaret. 'Bobby, that's her! Listen!' A wailing sound. 'Mikey, she's crying! She obviously has no appetite for the plane. She can't stand the horror.' It can seem like horror, sometimes. But then silence from the shadowy figure. I looked out over the sands. 'Bobby, whatever it was, it's gone now.'
Was it Margaret? Is she that crazy, that bold?
I don't mind them listening to my phone calls, the FSA spies. If they want to enjoy the Lloyd Blankfein Experience, as he screams obscenities down the line, that's fine with me. I could do with the moral support. But I will not tolerate their presence on the astral plane. O my children, what happens in the desert, stays in the desert.
The penalties will be harsh for any snoopers from the cold world. Eternal damnation to anyone from the FSA found anywhere near my subconscious or the subconscious of any of my friends or associates! I will throw them into the pit!
I am not a journalist. I do things my way.
