Mad Shouty Bastard has been quiet for a few days. It is peaceful without his voice inside my head, as he comes out with all sorts of Mad Shouty Bastard rubbish.
Of course, he’s not a real Mad Shouty Bastard, any more than watching a sunset is real, or singing a song is real; he is a metaphorical Mad Shouty Bastard.
One can’t surgically remove metaphorical Mad Shouty Bastards and then kill them and have a Mad Shouty Bastard funeral where I give an insincere eulogy in a church about all of Mad Shouty Bastard’s many achievements and how we will all miss Mad Shouty Bastard, even though no-one knew of his existence until a few lines ago.
For some reason, Mad Shouty Bastards always live in heads; I suppose that’s why some people shoot themselves in the head (a good way to silence the Mad Shouty Bastard). They don’t live in feet, or else some people would go around shooting themselves in the foot (literally, not figuratively).