Shat Quotes

I’d be happier on a horse,” Makin said. “I’d be happier on a giant mountain goat,” I said. “One that shat diamonds. Until we find some, we’re walking.

Sunset found her squatting in the grass, groaning. Every stool was looser than the one before, and smelled fouler. By the time the moon came up, she was shitting brown water. The more she drank the more she shat, but the more she shat, the thirstier she grew.

He will spit you and roast you with rosemary, and we will all sample your flesh tonight. Tomorrow you will be shat out into the snow. Your diplomacy is bold and edgy, sir.

Flidais clapped her hands in delight. "Oh, I bet he nearly shat kine!" That made me laugh - I hadn't heard that expression in a long, long time. I refrained from telling her that the modern expression would be "he had a cow", because I liked the original better. "Yes, the kine he nearly shat would have fed several clans.

Fuckin failures in a country of failures. Its nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. Ah don't hate the English. They're just wankers. We are colonised by wankers. We can't even pick a decent, vibrant healthy society to be colonised by. No..we are ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? The lowest of the low, the scum of the earth. The most wretched servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation. Ah don't hate the English. They just git oan wis the shite thev got. Ah hate the Scots.

One of my da's tragedies was always the fact that he was bright enough to understand just how comprehensively he had shat all over his life.

I almost shat my pants. Literally, the floor was almost covered in my shat.

Amen,' I exclaim, accidentally spitting out a Raisinet. I pick up the chocolate with a Kleenex and stuff it in my purse. Ten bucks says a month from now I'll have forgotten about it and will finally have said heart attack when I assume a rat shat in there.

So yes, I, Adolin Kholin--cousin to the king, heir to the Kholin princedom--have shat myself in my Shardplate. Three times, all on purpose.

I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen, and so I swung into action and wrote a poem, and it was miserable, for that's how I thought poetry worked: you digested experience and shat literature. [from "Mingus at the Showplace"]

Scatology was strictly out, as nowhere in my psyche do I harbor the desire to shit on someone and even less do I have the inclination to be shat upon. And if I a a snob for not participating in films that involve sex with animals, then so be it; I am a snob.

All right, everyone. Fess up. Who just shat in their pants? C’mon. Admit it. I know I did and I’m wolf enough to own it.” – Sasha

All right, everyone. Fess up. Who just shat in their pants? C'mon. Admit it." He raised his hand. I know I did and I'm wolf enough to own it." Jess ignored him. "Are you all right?" he asked Abigail. She was still a little too pale for his tastes. "I think I'm going to own Sasha's question. Definitely put me on your list.

Gillette--The best a man can get." I stared at the screen. What happened to me? I was meant to be one of those guys, vigorous and athletic and successful and, most of all, American. I was going to walk on the moon, be a movie star or a rock got or a comedian. I was going to have an amazing life and kids with Helen and die like Chaplin a thousand years from now in my Beverly Hills mansion surrounded by my adoring family, with the grieving world media standing by. Instead, I was just another show-business mediocrity. A drunk who shat his pants and ran for help. My life had been careless and selfish. Pleasure in the moment was my only thought, my solitary motivation. I had disappointed whoever had been foolish enough to love me, and left them scarred. I was a very long way from being the best a man can get.

I'll tell you a secret. A raven created the world. When Noah sent him out to find land, he couldn't find any. It had all been washed away. So he created it. He shat the dry land and he pissed the the fresh water. Then he flew off, laughing fit to burst. So the world eas there for the dove to find. Really? They don't admit to it, of course. Who wants to be blamed for creating the world?

Fuck me", Bat gasped, "It’s like an angel shat ice cream coffee rainbows in my mouth.

I feel like shit that has come to life, eaten some other shit, then shat out more shit.

And at precisely that moment a sparrow in the tree above Thomas shat in his.

I will not eat Craster’s food, he decided suddenly. “I broke my fast with the men, my lord.” Jon shooed the raven off Longclaw. The bird hopped back to Mormont’s shoulder, where it promptly shat. “You might have done that on Snow instead of saving it for me,” the Old Bear grumbled. The raven quorked.

Because the sky is so high and the crow shat in your left eye. I could tell you a lie but I don’t see why. The world is a game and the game is a tie. The tie is around your neck and they’ll string you high.

He did not recognize himself either. He was a totally new being, bald, covered with grease and blood, pink and blue eyed: he was his own baby...He was a great fat chuckling baby, and he shat and peed in his filthy trousers and kept driving.

I think I just shat myself,” Ridoc says, and my laughter only pitches higher as we move through the field.

We arrived someplace where the ground was as blue as the sky. Startled by our sudden appearance, blue pheasants erupted out of the blue grass and shat blue shit.

If it’s a choice between being shat on and pissed on and used and being a bastard, I’ll choose being a bastard any time.

And Lord did I push, for thee more hours I pushed, I pushed so hard I shat, Pushed so hard blood vessels burst in my neck and in my chest, pushed so hard my asshole turned inside-out like a rosebud.

His last words heard on earth came after he'd let off a louder noise from his easiest channel of communication: 'Oh my! I think I've shit myself.' For all I know, he did. He certainly shat on everything else.

There where it smells of shit it smells of being. Man could just as well not have shat, not have opened the anal pouch, but he chose to shit as he would have chosen to live instead of consenting to live dead.

Against the far wall was a wire cage holding a pack of unblinking bunnies. World’s dumbest pet, I thought. Who would want an animal that sat, quivered, and shat everywhere? They say you can litter-box train them, but they lie.

TRACKER: It was the year your most excellent King shat his most excellent life out in the most excellent shit pit. INQUEST: Speaking ill of the King is punishable by death in the South Kingdom. TRACKER: He’s a corpse, not a king.

Why did my mother, a grown woman, get to talk like all her hopes and dreams had been shat on, kicked, and set on fire, all the while pushing me, a mere girl, a child, to do better, to accomplish more, to face down all the odds and become a legend? When was I supposed to complain the way they did? To be validated the way they validated each other?

This land was brought up from the depths of the ocean by a diver,” said the fire. “It was spun from its own substance by a spider. It was shat by a raven. It is the body of a fallen father, whose bones are mountains, whose eyes are lakes.

Shit and piss and trash were thrown from windows to the distant street until rain came to wash them away, and like plants in rich soil, the unstable, unreliable buildings rose, driven by the deep human desire to be the one least shat upon.

His sudden and utterly overwhelming panic was over almost before it began; but not quickly enough. In the midst of his brief yet total terror, the King of Pontus shat himself. It went everywhere, solid faeces mixed with what seemed an incredible amount of more liquid bowel contents, a stinking brown mess all over the gold-encrusted purple cloth of his cushion, trickling down the legs of his throne, running down his own legs into the manes of the golden lions upon the flaps of his boots, pooling and plopping on the deck around his feet when he jumped up. And there was nowhere to go! He could not conceal it from the amazed eyes of his attendants and officers, he could not conceal it from the sailors below amidships who had looked up instinctively to make sure their King was safe.

and like plants in rich soil, the unstable, unreliable buildings rose, driven by the deep human desire to be the one least shat upon.

Felix f*****g Finch! That c*** who shat on my book in his poncy f*****g mag?” “It wasn’t your best review, but—” “It was my only f*****g review!

No, I was mauled by a rabid pigeon.” “And you were so scared that you shat your pants?

The body of Our Saviour shat but Our Saviour shat not.

[. . .] a super-rat. I nailed it across the eyes once with a lucky shot with the butt of my gun, but it got up again and shat in my telephone.

Have you shat yourself, by the way?” she inquired casually, pushing her spectacles back up her nose.

I've been spat on and shat on And raped and abused.

He'd given that a lot of thought, he said, and then it suddenly came to him, out of the blue, like (his own smile) being shat on by a seagull.

The tracks of a fox raised out of the snow intaglio like little mushrooms and berrystains where birds shat crimson mutes upon the snow like blood.

Blessed are the insulted and the shat upon,’ Barbie said. ‘For they shall inherit the kingdom of Heaven, which is currently under offer with vacant possession.

Oh, he loved his joke, my fadder! This is a joke, miss, if you enjoy them: my fadder bore me rather than my mutter. He shat me from his asshole! Hee! Hee! Hee!

Persimmius. He is your man. You can find him in the old temple district, close to Shat Swamp.

Eugene turned the key. A sound like a two-story house being shat out the asshole of a zebra ripped through the dashboard.

I’m so sorry, I forget to introduce m’self. Cleo, shat for Cleopaitra, cause m’ daddy always said I look like an Egyptian princess. And ya are?” “Not as happy to meet you,” he said.

One of my da’s tragedies was always the fact that he was bright enough to understand just how comprehensively he had shat all over his life. He would have been a lot better off thick as a plank.

Then I pulled down my pants, squatted, and shat on the floor. I wiped myself and shuffled across the gallery with my pants around my ankles and stuffed the shitty Kleenex into the mouth of that bitchy poodle.

These were the idiots shat out by West Point, turds in starched uniforms and glistening high-and-tight haircuts, shiny-foreheaded future corporate executives who used words like envisionment instead of vision.

Mark nodded. “And you should take Hugo. Get some sea air in his lungs. Get shat on by some seagulls.” “Bloody seagulls.” “Sandy beaches, open spaces. Who needs shit like that?” “Nobody,” I agreed. “Fucking nobody.

...syn bio tech had come on stream, springing full-grown from the bench like the Incredible Hulk bursting his lab coat, a great green monster that sucked carbon dioxide from the air and sprouted wood, pissed oil, and shat diamonds.

When you return, we'll take armfuls of books out to the unmown lawn and lie on a blanket with them spread about us. We will read to each other and watch the gulls wheeling above. If we are shat upon, you will teach me to swear in Norwegian.

Pragmatic, I have always preferred to be in the background, unobserved; I preferred to play the role of the detached observer/receiver, the way one would live if one lived and spoke and shat inside a puffy white cloud floating along above the world harmlessly like a balloon.

Love is a tricky business, just like I told Dakota Poe. It’s the most hellish, unforgiving, ass-biting business I know with razor-sharp teeth designed to kill. Some people who get bit wind up torn to pieces, digested, and shat out with all the care of an owl swallowing a mouse.

And learning any fact, he was annoyed not to have known it already, because whenever anything happened, the conversation around it had already trended and backlashed and been reexamined and swalloed and shat and reswallowed and reshat in a thousand places onlines, until all thinking felt redundant

They ate earth and shat out poison, leaving behind a lifeless wasteland. The alien intelligence that had created them had mastered space travel and learned to send information through time. Now they were taking our world and turning it into a facsimile of their own, every last tree, flower, insect, animal, and human be damned.

Ah hate cunts like that. Cunts like Begbie. Cunts that are intae baseball-batting every fucker that's different; pakis, poofs n what huv ye. Fucking failures in a country ay failures. It's nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. Ah don't hate the English. They're just wankers. We can't even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. No. We're ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? The lowest of the fuckin low, the scum of the earth. The most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation. Ah don't hate the English. They just git oan wit the shite thuv goat. Ah hate the Scots.

The monstrous wolf was the size of a Cascar plow horse, and Clay had just begun composing his death scream – he was thinking something high-pitched, sort of, er, 'falling from a great height' meets, 'I just shat my pants' with a touch of, 'petulant little girl doesn't get her way' thrown in to spice things up – when he heard a deep growling behind him.

With him were Marshal Patrice MacMahon, a hero of the Crimean War, and 100,000 troops.* MacMahon was promptly wounded in the leg by Prussian gunfire. He turned over his command to Général Ducrot, who, realizing that the hills surrounding Sedan would make excellent emplacements for the deadly Prussian cannons, uttered the memorable words: "We're in a chamberpot and about to be shat upon."29 It was a statement displaying a foresight thitherto alien to the French military command.

It’s nae good blamin it oan the English fir colonising us. Ah don’t hate the English. They’re just wankers. We are colonised by wankers. We can’t even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. No. We’re ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? The lowest of the fuckin low, the scum of the earth. The most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation. Ah don’t hate the English. They just git oan wi the shite thuv goat. Ah hate the Scots.

A foreign nation to which the witch and the sorcerer gave their whole allegiance, where every common human act and feeling was reversed and made into its opposite: where the Savior of mankind was despised and His Cross trampled and shat upon, and the Devil’s fundament worshipped; where persons surrendered their natural dominion over the animals and instead took on animal form themselves; where coupling was done openly in groups and not in the dark alone; where children were not nurtured but aborted and slain, not fed but eaten. Children killed and eaten: not in fable, not to be released unharmed from the wolf’s belly or resurrected from their own boiled bones, but truly killed and eaten like fowl by our neighbors in secret. The ultimate crime, the crime the Roman magistrates once charged the first Christians with, and the Christians their Gnostic rivals and later the Jews who lived among them. When we hear of children killed and eaten we have entered the counterworld, Hell on earth, and it is usual for some, or many, to be hunted down and slain before it is closed and forgotten again.

Real scratching is superior to masturbation, in my opinion. One can masturbate up to the age of seventy, and even beyond, but in the end it becomes a mere habit. Whereas to scratch myself properly I would have needed a dozen hands. I itched all over, on the privates, in the bush up to the navel, under the arms, in the arse, and then patches of eczema and psoriasis that I could set raging merely by thinking of them. It was in the arse I had the most pleasure, I stuck in my forefinger up to the knuckle. Later, if I had to shit, the pain was atrocious. But I hardly shat any more.

She took one careful, expert step out onto the tightrope. He closed his eyes to avoid seeing the inevitable: the loss of balance, unbearable teetering, nightmare wingless descent. Surely no one survived this. A rope with no safety net and cobblestones beneath; he could already see the conspiracy unfolding between the rope and the cobblestones and the siren call of gravity, blood pooling outward from the shat tered skull. His hands were clenched fists in his pockets. He wanted to leave and spare himself the vision. But no one, Zed had scrawled once in a letter from Africa several years ago, should have to die without a witness. Eli forced himself to look at her.

Cleaning up the breakfast mess may only take ten minutes, but in that time my oldest has taken her pajamas off on the kitchen floor, pulled out a box of LEGOs, and fallen and scraped her knee. Cleaning up breakfast, picking up floor pj’s, tidying LEGOs, and getting a Band-Aid cannot physically happen all at once. Just as I get done kissing boo-boos and putting clothes on the oldest, the youngest has asked for more milk and shat her pants. The list of things that needs to be cleaned simply grows faster than any one person can move. Not to mention I must get these children out the door in the next five minutes or we won’t have time to go to the park before nap time.

Together it was a life, and it might not be a perfect life, but she had built it and she thought: I cannot do this. All love eventually flamed out, didn't it? Was anything permanent? Wouldn't she find herself lying next to Owen and feel the same way she felt about Charlie? Oh yes, she thought, shat she had with Charlie might not be exciting, but there was something to be said for the quiet love of two people who had been together forever, the ease they shared, where she did not ever worry about him, where she took him for granted, not as that sounded, but in a positive sense, in the way you come to rely on the snow of winter and the heat of summer, on the solid warmth of a great meal.

She had been an untamed mestiza of the so-called shopkeeper aristocracy: seductive, rapacious, brazen, with a hunger in her womb that could have satisfied an entire barracks. In a few short years, however, she had been erased from the world by her abuse of fermented honey and cacao tablets. Her Gypsy eyes were extinguished and her wits dulled, she shat blood and vomited bile, her sirens body became as bloated and coppery as a three-day-old corpse, and she broke wind in pestilential explosions that startled the mastiffs. She almost never left her bedroom, and when she did she was nude or wearing a silk tunic with nothing underneath, which made her seem more naked than if she wore nothing at all.

In April, he perched on a witch hazel branch, shivering, one eye closed, waiting for the sun to warm his wings. The night had been particularly cold, the winter long, the fishing scarce. He'd been alone all the time. When the sun appeared, the warmth felt good on his wings. he lifted from his perch, wheeled, then cackled over the river, studying the surface for the slightest flash: a trout, a small shad, a frog. He lit on a willow snag downriver and sunned himself, raised his tail, shat, and called again. The days were growing longer now, the alewives ascending the streams. The year before, he'd built his nest near the estuary in a seam of clay, and soon - if she returned - the time would come for a new nest along the bank. The kingfisher fished all morning. He returned to the willow snag at noon; slept, then woke shortly after, startled by the call. Was it she? They hadn't seen each other since the summer before. He dropped from the branch, called, winged downriver, his image doubled in the water. He heard the call again, closer now. If she returned, he'd dive into the river, greet her with a fish, fly around her, feed her beak to beak. If she returned, he'd begin to exxcavate a new nest, claw clay out of the earth, arrange the perfect pile of fish bones to lay their eggs upon. He pumped his wings harder now. He heard the cackle closer, louder more insistent. he recognized her voice. She was hurling her way upriver. Any moment now: she'd fly into his vision.

The truth is that I'd gain nothing by being a saint after being dead, an artist is what I am, and the only thing I want is to be alive so I can keep going along at donkey level in this six-cylinder touring car I bought from the marines' consul, with this Trinidadian chauffeur who was a baritone in the New Orleans pirates' opera, with my genuine silk shirts, my Oriental lotions, my topaz teeth, my flat straw hat, and my bicolored buttons, sleeping without an alarm clock, dancing with beauty queens, and leaving them hallucinated with my dictionary rhetoric, and with no flutter in my spleen if some Ash Wednesday my faculties wither away, because in order to go on with this life of a minister, all I need is my idiot face, and I have more than enough with the string of shops I own from here to beyond the sunset, where the same tourists who used to go around collecting from us through the admiral, now go stumbling after my autographed pictures, almanacs with my love poetry, medals with my profile, bits of my clothing, and all of that without the glorious plague of spending all day and all night sculpted in equestrian marble and shat on by swallows like the fathers of our country.

What has he shat out on this page?

People coded while they shat and needed to be provided toothbrushes at work. They had my attention.

shat

HERE I SIT BROKEN HEARTED; THOUGHT I’D POOP BUTT ONLY FARTED. LAST TIME WHEN I HAD THIS CHANCE; I WENT TO FART AND SHAT MY PANTS.

And not once, not in the hundreds of deployments I’ve been on, not the years of brawls and beatings growing up, or even in the nights I crammed myself and Ryan into the tiny bathroom of our double-wide, shaking, as Mom screamed and shattered and shat on every single thing we owned, not once did I ever feel fear like this. He’s going to kill her in front of me. My Eden. Mine.

My father not only broke her heart, he pretty much shat all over her pride and self-worth.

Shit or Get Off the Pot "Shit or get off the pot," was the ultimatum of my lover. Knowing not what to do, my ass stood frozen in a hover. I guess to 'shit' meant to marry her, and 'get off the pot', meant no more pussy. I was too tired to find new strange to purr, I'd grown fat and become a wussy. And so, I shat and I did marry her, when I could've gotten off the pot. Now we no time to bullshit of ships or sealing-wax with two kids in tow and income tax. Has my life all has been for naught? Perhaps, I should've got off the pot.

Have you shat, my child, I said gently.

Reality took forever — the underwater way people walked and sent their voices wobbling through the air, how printed words lay inert like bugsplat, all manifesting the basic DUH of the physical plane. By the time he decided to go anywhere he wondered why he wasn't there already. As soon as he sent an email he felt he should already have the reply. And learning any fact, he was annoyed not to have known it already, because whenever anything happened, the conversation around it had already trended and backlashed and been reexamined and swallowed and shat and reswallowed and reshat in a thousand places online, until all thinking felt redundant. We needed brain-to-brain; only then would we catch up to real time. Right now everything progressed so slowly that by the time we arrived at the future it was the present again.

Why are we down here?” “To stock up on weapons.” Uncle Mort crossed to the far wall. “We need lots of ’em. Driggs, pick that up, it’s not going to kill you—” Driggs gave him a look. “Okay, it won’t further kill you. Take a couple of these, too.” He handed Lex and Driggs a few thin vials of Amnesia each. “What are these for?” “Weapons. Aren’t you paying attention?” He walked to yet another wall and began to load up on items that were, at long last, recognizable as instruments of death. “Guns?” she asked, surprised for some reason. “Not, like, Amnesia blow darts?” “Oh, which reminds me.” He took something else off the shelf. “What’s that?” “Amnesia blow darts.” Lex shook her head. “But why guns, if we have all of this other cool stuff?” “Because despite our best efforts to use Amnesia as much as we can instead of lethal force, we’ll probably need to kill some people, and guns kill people.” He moved on to the next wall and began rifling through more gadgets. “Or people kill people. I forget how the hippies say it. Now, this one’s for you, Lex. I’m going to need you to guard this with every meager iota of attention span you have left. Okay? I’m trusting you with this. Don’t lose it.” Lex got all her hopes up—even though she’d gotten to know Uncle Mort pretty well by now and should have known better than to get even a small percentage of her hopes up. And sure enough, the item he gave her caused the smile to evaporate right off her face. “Don’t lose it,” he repeated. Her eye twitched. “What is it?” “What does it look like?” “An oversize hole punch.” “Exactly.” “What?” she boomed as he went back to his papers. “You get guns, and Driggs gets the deadly Heisman, and all I get is an office supply?” “Yes. Don’t lose it.” It took every ounce of Lex’s strength to not kick the bubonic football into his face. Noticing this, Driggs swooped in and wrapped her in a calming, solid embrace. “Relax, spaz,” he said. “But he—” “—wouldn’t give you a bazooka. Oh, the unbearable trials and tribulations of the living.” Lex deflated. Nothing put things in perspective like remembering that your boyfriend had been killed not a few hours earlier and was now stuck in some hellish existence halfway between life and death. “Sorry,” she said, giving his arms a squeeze, happy that she could even do that. “That’s okay. Human problems are hard. Hangnails and tricky toothpaste tubes and getting shat on by birds and the like.” “Mondays suck too,” she mumbled into his chest. “Oh, Mondays are the worst

Many Scots welcome people who actively choose to live in Scotland, who made a conscious decision to come north. Others resent those known as incomers, white settlers, interlopers and a row of other denigrating terms. In his novel Trainspotting, Irvine Welsh put these paradoxical thoughts in the mind of his hero, Renton: It’s nae good blaming it oan the English for colonising us. Ah don’t hate the English. They’re just wankers. We are colonised by wankers. We can’t even pick a decent, vibrant, healthy culture to be colonised by. No. We’re ruled by effete arseholes. What does that make us? … The most wretched, servile, miserable, pathetic trash that was ever shat intae creation.

Some time later, I sat in the wine cellar, staring at the walls while cradling a wineskin in my lap like a child, murmuring over and over as if lulling the child to sleep, 'I am shat upon. I am shat upon'.

When she had looked at Dad she had seen the baby, the child, the adolescent, the young man; the whole of his character and all of his qualities were contained in that one look, and if he was in such a drunken state that he shat his pants while lying on her sofa, the moment was so brief and she so old that it would not, compared with all the immense span of time together that she had stored, have had enough weight to become the image that counted.

He shat on her feet in panic.

But love isn't rational. it's a fucking mess, that's what love is. You can't control the way you feel. Love was a different entity altogether. It picked and chose what it wanted. It disregarded logic. Hell, it shat on logic and then it buried away the pain and embraced the heart with feelings so euphoric you'd forget all the bad just to feel it, even for a minute.

Then Darth Vader emerged,” Fierlinger recalled, three and a half decades and dozens of viewings of Star Wars later. “I simultaneously shat my pants and got a boner.

KHAAAAAAN!

How are you feeling now?” “Like Lucifer himself slowly devoured me feet-first then shat me out of his Satanic arsehole,

In his words, Gruff’s a chumped-up windbag who wouldn’t recognize natural leadership ability if it squatted down and shat on his head.

Being young and beautiful felt like a lot sometimes, felt like it translated to real-world power, but money shat all over it every time.

I don’t want your life story, dickhead. I couldn’t care less if you were shat out of a donkey’s ass. It’s been a long day, and I’m pretty keen to find the most comfortable position in this shithole and tuck down for some shut-eye.

shat?

Nate wouldn't say he panicked. Nate would not say he shat his metaphorical pants. Nate would not say those things, but they were still true.

We had climate change, we had Black people being murdered by police officers, we had our usual national menu of violence against women, we had all kinds of discrimination happening, and if you're still here with me for part 3, then you know the list: all the societal evils that blossom at the bottom of the barrel in a population and fester and spread the cankers of hate and fear and greed. The qualities in humanity against which some of us strive to progress, and thereby improve, in the hopes that one day nobody will have to endure being systemically shat upon. Accordingly, and accurately, this relative stance causes us to be labeled "progressives," but it doesn't stop at that, apparently. We are also radical, socialist, communist, Marxist, leftist libtards whom our detractors love to see cry.

I will bottle your blood and sip on it from time to time. A way to remember you after I have shat you out.

Commentators query why, according to the midrash, Yosef was punished for conveying accurate – albeit negative – information for the limited purpose of helping correct his brothers’ wrongful ways.19 Although a number of answers have been offered,20 on both a human level and a p’shat level21 Yosef’s error is obvious. As Sforno and Maharal observe, in telling his father about his brothers’ misconduct, Yosef acted like a na’ar, a young child who, because of his inexperience, is unable to anticipate the ramifications of his actions.22 Surely, Yosef should have realized that telling on his brothers would only antagonize them further, exacerbate his alienation from them,23 and possibly even result in danger to himself. Indeed, the brothers’ hatred toward Yosef continues to grow until they ultimately throw him in a pit and sell him.24 In this context, the midrash understandably correlates Yosef’s accusations about his brothers with the violence they would later perpetrate against him.

So yes, I, Adolin Kholin—cousin to the king, heir to the Kholin princedom—have shat myself in my Shardplate. Three times, all on purpose.” He downed the rest of his wine. “You are a very strange woman.

This is exceptional stew,” the priest said. “What’s in it?” The woman told him. Cabbage. Turnips. Mushrooms. Pork belly. And a few pinches of real pepper. And at precisely that moment a sparrow in the tree above Thomas shat in his.

That’s what you used to bind the other activation cap to my tooth?” She nods. “Spangle shit?” “I rinsed the actual feces off, then sterilized the ore. But yes. It had been … shat.” Creators.

We were banned from Canterbury Art College because our roadie, Mongo Tom, drank our after-show beer and wine, got on stage and people thought he was the support act. He stripped naked to the background music, put Billy’s drum sticks up his arse, and began to gyrate while balancing our last bottle of wine on his head. You should have seen the faces of the punters as they walked in. After this hilarity, he disappeared. He got in the back of his van, passed out and shat himself! Very runny it was too; he rolled around in it for a few hours until we had finished our set. All was going well until I went to find him. When I opened the van doors, the smell was bad; he staggered out crying, ‘Help me, Lee!’ I ran a mile. “As we were packing up the gear he went back in – no one would go near him – and removed all the fag machines from the walls! These were hidden in his van. Then he turned up at the after-show party at one of the student union houses. He got in every bed to clean himself up, stole all of the girls’ underwear and generally made an arse of himself. That was the only gig that he did with us. He eventually ended up in nick for drug smuggling!

He smiled, and the look was so terrifying, I nearly shat myself. Sharp teeth lined his mouth, and there was no doubt I faced a predator. I preferred him frowning.