Remember, remember, way back in December
According to one of my Polish (no-longer-considered-a-Pretty-due-to-aspersions-upon-my-lack-of-trustworthyness-and-therefore-cast-out-of-Xym's-imaginary-harem), Friends deemed The Xym somewhat shady.
"I don't trust YOU, " quoth the Raven haired temptress, "No offense Xym, but I simply don't... you loathsome vile lecherous sloth!"
Seems the jobbing jobber who put up my shelf of trust forgot his spirit level, and it's on the wonk¹, and all the trust has slid off said shelving. As has the level of me spirit, also. Oh doom and gloom and waily waily.
What's a poor old short fat gothboy with preposterous hair (sans ludicrous shades, but with ridiculous 'tache and occasional unfeasable headwear and assorted other improbable accoutréments) to do, now his one remaining redeeming feature is revealed to be a sham?
A shammy leather, that is.
In stagnant water in a rusty bucket.
Left for three months after being used to wipe liquid fecal effluent from the mens bog floor.
In a nightclub.
After a bout of curried kebab vomiting upon it.
And soaked in rivers of mis-aimed streams of piss
DO NOT TRUST THIS MAN.
That man being The Xym.
"And lo, all in despair, The Xym cast himself from his ærie, to smash into the craggy jagged rocks below...
...well, poorly laid paving slabs that trip up the unwary and serious damage fringes.
And not even that, for it would be a tad too hurty, so he must goeth home and cast himself down upon the sofa and sulk"
Or something.
¹ I SAID WONK!
