BLOG NUMBER SEVENTY-TWO: TOO MANY SHITS NOT ENOUGH JOHNSONS...

SHITS AND JOHNSONS... URBAN DICTIONARY...

Noun

The two basic types of people in the world. The Shits are self righteous hypocrites that only look out for themselves and desperately crave power, status, praise, and the right to pass judgment on everything they disapprove of. Johnsons are decent people that generally mind their own business but are always ready to offer help to anyone who needs it without judgment or reservation.

“The Johnson Family” was a turn-of-the-century expression to designate good bums and thieves. It was elaborated into a code of conduct. A Johnson honors his obligations. His word is good and he is a good man to do business with. A Johnson minds his own business. He is not a snoopy, self-righteous, trouble-making person. A Johnson will give help when help is needed. He will not stand by while someone is drowning or trapped under a burning car.”― William S. Burroughs

"You are a Shit Spotter. It's satisfying work. ... We have observed that most of the trouble in the world has been caused by ten to twenty percent of folks who can't mind their own business, because they have no business of their own to mind, any more than a smallpox virus. Now your virus is an obligate cellular parasite and my contention is that evil is quite literally a virus parasite occupying a certain brain area which we may term the RIGHT center. The mark of a basic shit is that he has to be right. And right here we must make a diagnostic distinction between the hard-core virus-occupied shit and a plain, ordinary, mean no-good son of a bitch. Some of these sons of bitches don't cause any trouble at all, just want to be left alone"- William S. Burroughs

Once Upon… by Steven Holding.

Gingerbread brick buildings you said.

Fairytale wedding, happy endings you said.

The only pea this princess’s mattress has seen is when my prince comes home pished from the pub.

Charming!

Kissing frogs changes nothing, bowls of porridge all taste disgusting.

Knight in armour? Shite in amour. Ever after, ever after.

To A Good Home by Steven Holding.

Upturned crate acts as altar, rain splotched bodged ink signage reading “No fee, take me, free of change” Asking no questions, instructions followed, spirited away the jar on display, undertaking examinations within the safety of bedsit anonymity. First bottle, then me, shaken like a magic eightball. The truth’s revealed; youth preserved, perfectly eternal.

Disappointed Embryo by Steven Holding.

The conjugal consummation and subsequent ejaculation from which I sprung was less than satisfactory for all parties involved.

During formation my inheritance was not only genetic but tragic. A sense of disappointment to be felt from birth through to death.

X2C by Steven Holding.

When she said she’d ecstasy, she didn’t mean she’d ecstasy, she meant she had some eggs to see. Unfortunately, the eggs to see appeared to be the property of an ex she had to see. An ex to see with eggs to see not ecstasy deliberately upsetting me?

I’ve a fantasy. She'll shell shock me.

Ghost in the Graveyard by Steven Holding.

This kid, Lee, is slippery like his palindromic namesake. Reigning king of liminal hide and seek. Half-awake, half-asleep, half-assed awkward adolescent scaling his personal people steeple. Failing, falling, flailing, hates the waiting room of youth, corridors sans corners, wants shortcut stairwells to the roof. You’ll never find him. Never mind.

Numbers Up by Steven Holding.

Their wedding anniversary was easy; the exact same date as his birthday (even this fact didn’t prevent late-night last minute trips to the twenty-four hour garage for chocolates and flowers and cards crudely signed with crucifix kisses) Her hippy bathday? Just like Damians; sixth of the sixth sixty-six. Oh man!

COMPUTER SAYS NO by Steven Holding.

It’s supposed to be the best of me. Personality, mind. Uploaded, edited, glitches fixed. No depression, an end to anxiety. Failings of the flesh forgotten, eternal existence in hard drive heaven. No ghost in the machine, just souls hosted. But forever’s a long time. PLEASE, HAVE MERCY! SWITCH ME OFF!….

Absence Of Colour by Steven Holding.

Loaded rainbow glass blown pipe, embers in chamber glowing amber, still lit yellow, orange, red; the shades in-between anger and cowardice. Smoke inhaled then held, burning lungs, darkening heart. Seconds later he’s somewhere over it,  escaping, albeit briefly, the spectrum he’s stuck on. Kaleidoscopic light illuminates eyes. Finally, the black out.

Keep on fighting the good fight. That is all. Over and out.