God forbid my first article for the year should be related to, er, public morals. I know better than to invite Looshans in Gomorrah to unleash brimstones of hypocrisy upon my unsaintly head. Besides, preaching to this flock about any kind of morality is equal to, as they used to say back in the day, taking coals to Lancaster.
Long before any us ever heard of Duane Tucker, the particular icon had been openly misrepresenting himself to the immigration authorities of at least three countries in the pretend interests of his little victims. Did any of that bother us?
We not only worshipped at the brass feet of the devil deflowerer but we actually found words by which to laud his services to the nation, at any rate to his pieces in the valley. As I say, I am not about to launch into another pointless sermon. This time around I choose to come at your conscience from a more mundane angle. You know, as in leer bab kamawad ou pwis defay, woozer sa woo.
In any event, be careful whom you put down, the next Internet victim could be you. Or your faceless spouse carrying on with a total stranger as you never knew he could! Pointless turning on your TV. Too stressful trying to follow the disjointed Chinese lip-synching. You decide to do what most Looshan-Gomorrahans do postprandially: A piercing scream threatens your eardrums. What a shock to discover it came out of your mouth: Who did that to me?
Is that really me? How can it be? When did I do that? Where did I put that bottle of Touchdown? Your live-in boyfriend rushes out of your bedroom. You open your mouth to speak but the words refuse to come out. Your eyes speak for you. You cover your face with your right hand, while pointing at your laptop with an extended left index finger. I always knew there was something nasty about you. Now your secret is out. I want you outta my house.
