UF pundits might be the genuine article, but the reams of puns they Post on a Daily and Weekly basis are enough to make anybody publush? All they do is cause pen; you know I'm write. I realise that everybody deserves hir place in the Sun, but in these Times and Age, you must silence us.
Although you are a moderator, in this case it is better run with the Foxes and stop us, pretending to be the Guardian of the Globe.
As has been CN,Nybody can make jokes, except for us. We are more akin to monkeys behind typewriters, content for our thoughts to be formless. What jokes we do make are broad,cast in crude grunts. Our columns are advancing on the City that is Gutenberg, and we do not appreciate the distinctions between leMSN paragraphs; we must be halted. There is no point to the screams that emerge from us, and we had best be put right. We had best be rectified by a sniper.
Yes, a sniper. Classified. He radioes back to the listening base. Moves his legs to improve circulation. Embeds himself in his position. Inserts a round in his magazine. Looks through the lens. Aims for the head,lines up for the kill. Retracts the trigger.
Then again, perhaps it is better to tie us to an anchor, and throw us in the sea with the pointy-nosed sharks. After all, we are scumscrapers, and have sunk to the lowest depths already.
Admittedly, we have our strengths: we do not beat around the bush but prefer alinea approach, going straight edit; in the process, we may hit one hundred (or, as the French say: cen)sor spots. However, we require constant attention from a BBCter: that's how we get our buzz. Orgasmic, I can feel it between my hypes; my knees are turning to telly, my aerial is extending, and blood is flowing to my public region. Papa Ratzi would not approve.
Do you see where this is going? We rolling, and unless we are stopped, some psychopath is libel to take offence, and carve us up into furniture. Sofa-like. Chair-ish. Tabloid. The police surgeon might hit you write-in the kisser for not protecting us from ourselves, because the sections would not be pretty: some pieces would be very small, and perpetually get lost and found. This would not go down well, and therefore you must be angry with us for our own good. Do not be afraid to use cross words. I must press you to call us to a halt, before we say something not fit to be printed.
I realise some might be disappointed; to reconcile us, you may offer us freedom or sweets. |
