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).
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