Exclusive Guest Post from David Shite

Copyright David Shite, 2008. All Rights Reserved.

David Shite Snoozeletter revisited, March 16th 2008


Rules R Shite!

Pile of stinking shite, that's what it is.

Hello all ...


Inside my head lies a place where, collectively, little bunnies dance and flowers grow to be big and strong, basking in the glow of a golden-baked sky. But enough about my illness, let's talk shite.

What goes in, must come out. Or, shite, as we like to call it over on this side of the World. Not only am I shite, but my son, Gaymie, needs shite.

'You've got your father for that.' A crude little joke.

'If you don't do the potty, the botty will explode,' I told Gaymie. He just looked at me. And, oh, how he adores me. I can feel it in a kind of form that I can only describe as 'vibration'. It's the same feeling I get when I look at pictures of roadkill and the like.

'Oi, bollocks, mate!'

So there we were, me and Gaymie, Gaymie and me, the son and I, sitting in a car, out on the Motorway. When the need for dropping his baggage arose. We pulled off and spent the next 25 minutes searching amid the residential streets of a place called Bogleigh in Hampshire - until there it was, like an erection in the condom of love ... a petrol filling station and shop called 'Blackies' on Shaftfield Avenue.

In we marched, Gaymie with his buttocks ever so tightly clenched. I spied to make sure no one was taking photos from the rear. You got to watch some people, like taking pictures of other peoples' children, they do.

'Oi, bollocks, mate!'

I walked up to the girls serving behind the counter and demanded they find somewhere for my son to drop shite. I asked ever so politely, and all they could do was giggle. If these two had two pieces of rock to strike together, they still couldn't manage a bloody spark between them.

'It's coming out of my bumhole, man!' Gaymie yelled.

'Hey, what've I told you about talking jive, Gaymie!?'

'Sorry dad, but it's coming, as sure as a Hurricane across Louisiana in storm season!'

Just then one of the girls piped up. ' Wot's he on about?' she said, a confused look etched into her sickeningly pale features.

'Oi, bollocks, mate!' I yelled, and smacked her straight in the face. Down she went like the heaviest of all sacks of shit striking the limpid pale. The other girl gasped in horror, and jumped back like I'd just kicked her in the baby hole.

'Man, I need a shit now!' Gaymie cried.

'Don't talk fucking jive!' I screamed at the boy.

Just then, the manageress came strolling out. Looked like she'd just sucked the end of a manky cock.

'What on Earth's going on here?' asked old cock-face.

'My son needs a shite. Do you have a place to let him do it?'

'What?' she said, pretending to have no idea what was going on. Oh, yeah, it's always that way. That's how they're programmed. Don't believe what the eyes see, it's only a deception. Believe what we tell you. Teenage boys wanting to shite aren't really wanting to shite, they're wanting to rob and kill you.

Exterminate! Ex-terminate! Boy wanting shite! Kill! Kill! Kill!

By this point I was getting pretty desperate for a conclusion to this absurd situation.

'He punched Gayle,' the remaining girl said to the manager.

'No I didn't,' I protested.

Her mouth opened as wide as her eyes in surprise. She pointed accusingly at me. 'Yes you did. You punched 'er right in the mouth.'

'She fainted,' I said.

The manager was looking down at the girl. 'But she's got blood all over her face.'

'It was a nosebleed,' I quickly replied. 'She fainted cos of it.'

I felt Gaymie tugging on my arm. 'I've just shit m'self, man.'

'Oh, fucking bollocks!' I screamed. 'What's wrong with you people?! This is a bloody police state! The Nazi's are coming back - they never bloody went away, you mark my words, you jobsworth, you.

'Come on, son.' I grabbed Gaymie, who, by this point was honking louder than the congestion in London streets, midday afternoon. 'We're out of this place. I'll find you a field and give your arse a good wiping with my own two hands. If you want to get something done properly in this World....'




At the weekend, I was out with Gaymie again. He'd just played football and I'd just had a bloody good argument with the referee about taking pictures of other children.

'I like taking pictures of other peoples' kids,' I told him. 'Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.'

'Well, you can't do it here, mate. Piss off!'

Bloody jobsworth.

We pulled into the parking lot of a large Tesco. They're the enemy, of course, but were convenient for me on the day. I decided I needed a little drink after my battles with the state. Being one of the lone martrys for freedom is no easy task, but someone has to gut out all the shite and get the job done.

In I went, bought a case of Super Lager, picked up a 12 pack of Andrex in case Gaymie had another emergency then went to the express checkout.

Oh, but wasn't as simple as that. It never is.

'Can I see some id,' the tall, skinny weed behind the checkout asked.

'Excuse me?' I said, understandably surprised.

'I need some sort of id before I can sell you that alcohol, sir.'

Just then, Gaymie commented, 'Man, that blows.'

'Quit the jive, Gaymie - for fucksake, give it a rest. Who do you think you are? Some big MC Hammer type rap god?'

Gaymie looked a bit puzzled. 'Who's M-?'

'I need id, sir.'

'Persistent little fuck, aren't you?' I said to the lad, pointing at his chest.

'There's a queue forming, sir,' he replied in some kind of robot monotone.

'I know there's a queue forming. I can see that. Heaven forbid establishing freedom should actually take time to establish.'



It's always the way. Take life easy by coasting down the slow lane. It appears to be the fast lane only because it's convenient, but it's really the slow lane. A slow lane for slow-minded people who can't be bothered to take the time to stand up for what's theirs.


"May I have your freedom with that purchase, sir?"

"Will it get me home any quicker?"

"Oh, much quicker." Distracting smile on the face.

"With pleasure!"


'Do you have a form of id, sir? Perhaps your driver's licence?'

'Oi, bollocks, mate!' I yelled, and put the head on him. He went down faster than a 6 pack on Supers on a Saturday night in front of skating on ice. There was blood everywhere. Just looking at it all made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

'Fuckin' A!' Gaymie yelped in excitement.

'Oh, for fucksake!' I screamed, turning on my son. 'Stop talking fucking jive you silly little bastard! Don't you realise all that rap music is mind control? Don't you realise who manufactures it? Why it exists? What the hell's wrong with you? All I want to do is get home, wipe my arse and get pissed! Why the hell is that so difficult?! What the hell is this World coming to - look, there's cameras all over this shop! They're looking at me! Glaring at all of us!'

'You're frightening me dad!' Gaymie squealed.

People were beginning to distance themselves from the spectacle, and I could see someone who looked like the manager, marching across the shop floor. Looked like he had a rake stuffed up his arse.

And then Gaymie shit himself. Out of apparent fear. And it looked like i'd be needing that bumper pack of Andrex after all.

'What on Earth's going on here?' the manager demanded.

'My son's just shit himself in your shop.'

'What?'

'He's just shit himself in your shop and I want to be drunk.'

'Shit himself? ... Drunk?' The manager looked like he'd never fully recovered from being born. I almost pitied him.

'Yes, am I allowed to wipe his arse here, or do I need a form of id?'

What a weekend that was. Thanks for allowing me to share this with you. I needed to get it all of my chest. It's like a form of therapy for me, paid for by you. You should all have a drink on me for this one. Yes, this particular newsletter is free. You can thank me later in the form of donations required to fight my ongoing legal expenses.

Legal expenses? I should laugh it off!

It's a funny old World, this Illusion. Just when you think you've got it licked, up it pops needing its arse wiped.