Today I wish to talk to you about writers and other artistic idealists.
I hope they rot in the fiery depthes of the hells they call home.
Tell me, have you ever heard someone of artistic intent moan incessantly about the fact that they have to write, that they need to write? Usually they are indolently smoking a fag and engaged in cleaning their rooms when they mention this; sometimes, to be truly perverse, they write about it and then show said writing to the world.
All so that we can appreciate their tortured existence.
Well, no more. The Neo-Catholic Church is currently cleansing itself of writers and other artistic idealists. We have no need of their angst, their whinging, their overt-gothness.
Bugger off, all of you.
Authors we like. Authors are writer-esque people who actually get the job done. Often they were writers who, one felictious (of fallacious (or fellatio-esque)) day, realised that it’s all about putting a manuscript in an envelope, and by jove, if they couldn’t do that then they’d stop whining and go off and get a job as a tax accountant.
(Which, I might add, most failed authors do.)
The Neo-Catholic Church likes people who do things. We mostly like them to keep the fuck away from us, but we still think they are admirable (if kept at a certain distance).
But we can no longer tolerant artistic types who waffle incessantly on needing to write (but hardly ever doing so).
It’s not a need, people, it’s a want. Needs are things you have to; wants are things you would like to do, and this is why you hardly ever do them. Because you don’t have to.
Bah, ’tis a subject that makes His Wholiness quite irrate.
I’m off to give pleasure to a duck.