Christian Siva-Jothy? That's a name from the past, isn't it? I haven't written about him for three and a half years, but here he is again, pestering my consciousness for entry into the world of shamans and mystics. Where's he been all this time?
Who cares? Where is he going? That is the question we should be asking. He has hardly made a penny from this SemperMacro nonsense. So if he locked himself away in the attic we wouldn't judge him too harshly, would we?
O Master, what is all this 'we'? I'm sure your readers do not appreciate being dragged into the gutter of your soul like this.
O my child, these readers are not just passing cretins, you know, looking for cheap thrills. Most of them are seekers after truth, and mystic kooks, yes, mystical children like your good self, ones that possess bodies, too. They are more than voices.
Oh. Well, that told me, didn't it? Carry on.
Listen, everyone. If Christian Siva-Jothy locked himself away in the attic (or the cellar) for two, three years, you know what? I wouldn't judge him at all. Only God can judge him. And I'm not God, not by any stretch of the imagination. I know I seem godlike. And I know you all really love me, the way you would love God, if only you had the chance. But I'm just a shaman. And Christian is just a man. He's fragile. He's soft.
Maybe we should do something.
Yeah, let's do something. Let's put on some Glen Campbell. 'I am a lineman for the county and I drive the ...' Obviously, this will not help Christian. We need to put our thinking caps on. We wants to fuck. Don't ask me.
Let's stop it here. That's enough now. Put a Jammie Dodger in your mouth.
I can't! I'm full of Jammie Dodgers!
One more Jammie Dodger for the road, you bastard! Come on!
Oh my God! Why hast thou forsaken me? I feel sick.
Who cares? Where is he going? That is the question we should be asking. He has hardly made a penny from this SemperMacro nonsense. So if he locked himself away in the attic we wouldn't judge him too harshly, would we?
O Master, what is all this 'we'? I'm sure your readers do not appreciate being dragged into the gutter of your soul like this.
O my child, these readers are not just passing cretins, you know, looking for cheap thrills. Most of them are seekers after truth, and mystic kooks, yes, mystical children like your good self, ones that possess bodies, too. They are more than voices.
Oh. Well, that told me, didn't it? Carry on.
Listen, everyone. If Christian Siva-Jothy locked himself away in the attic (or the cellar) for two, three years, you know what? I wouldn't judge him at all. Only God can judge him. And I'm not God, not by any stretch of the imagination. I know I seem godlike. And I know you all really love me, the way you would love God, if only you had the chance. But I'm just a shaman. And Christian is just a man. He's fragile. He's soft.
Maybe we should do something.
Yeah, let's do something. Let's put on some Glen Campbell. 'I am a lineman for the county and I drive the ...' Obviously, this will not help Christian. We need to put our thinking caps on. We wants to fuck. Don't ask me.
Let's stop it here. That's enough now. Put a Jammie Dodger in your mouth.
I can't! I'm full of Jammie Dodgers!
One more Jammie Dodger for the road, you bastard! Come on!
Oh my God! Why hast thou forsaken me? I feel sick.
