"Dear Sir or Madam
would you read my blog
It took 5 mins to write
would you take a look?
It's based on the ramblings of a bloke called Xym
Coz he'll need a job
so he's gonna be a media writer
Without a typewriter!"
Last night I missed both Elektra and Tenebræ due to late night converse with one of the Prettiest of my Pretties.
Which was nice. Perked me right up that has! No longer the self-pitying woe-is-me I's losing me job depressional miseryness - someone's put a huge smile on Xym's face!
Anyhoo, the topic turned to probability of Xym being turfed out on his ear from IT insurancing, and having to go and sex all them unemployed chavsluts like what's profiled on Jeremy Kyle.
(apparently, I need to Bang A Slaaaag, and then all the other slaaaags will come a-running to The Xym, and I'll be knee-deep in minge in no time!)
But no - Escorting be not the career for Xym. Oh no. Professional writing!
Crikey o'Trousers! You would not believe how many people tell me this.
"Xym - you should be a professional writer. You're dead good at writing words and stuff. You should start writing astrological horriblescopes as part of your blog." etc etc.
And now one of my hottest of hotties suggests the same. Except rather than inform about lunar conjunctions in trine with Pluto as cancer rises on the cusp of uranus causing someone to have a tall, dark stanger spill some coffee down their blouse, I should try somewhere like Archant.
And they do that there Norwich Evening Nudes! I could be the next Stacia Briggs!!
"Ooooh, that Nobby Styles out of 1D - I'd cougar his cock and rape him to death, so his spirit can go all Incubus on Yvette Fielding's ass (coz the busty Ghostbuster is scared he'll nob her when they 'go green' with his phantasmagorical penis and fill her v'jayjay with ectoplasmic ejaculate and impregnate her with a poultrygoose baby)!"
(That's Stacia Briggs latest article, that is!)
Although my style of writing may not go down with that there readership of those who favour factual Daily News of holes in roads and oompa-loompas denying duffing up partygoers.
"Xym - cover them there Go Go Gorillas"
Righty-ho then! I suspect it would start off somewhere along these lines...:
I am most disapponted with these so-called go-go gorillas. As I remember The Go-Go's, it was Belinda Carlisle making piss-flavoured ice cubes, and I've yet to see one of these painted gorillas micturating into a freezer.
But even worse than that, is that none of these go-go gorillas are go-go dancing!
Where are the dancing
And that's just during the high kicks, if you know what I mean, and I'm sure that you do! And if you don't, obviously I mean the unshaven havens of furry flanged simian statuettes gashflashing left, right and centre.
No wonder them yobbos in Chav'llThieve Ladygardens have been drawing cocks on the heads of motionless monkeys.
Ah - so that's what they meant by cover the gorillas - cover them in sheets to hide cranial phallic representation, in case it attracts them Morrissey Men, waving about their flowers as part of their fertility rites, before bopping charming men on the head before retiring to the hostelry to quaff copious amounts of cider, which is a depressant, so heaven knows they're miserable cunts.
or something.
Has that given me a column (fnarr fnarr)? I know Stacia Piggs certainly hasn't.
Journalism? JournaliXym, more like!
