trouble and strife

What I need is a soul screaming, lava fired, full-on bitchin' mid-life crisis. They are available in numerous colours, but the only good ones are of green pedigree with a black and purple heart. It all stems from not being able to choose one's own crises. Where's the fun in chewing out duodenal stress craters just because we cannot dance the steps demanded by a syncopated lunatic employer who inherited their position of corrupted power by virtue of the rule of continuing ineptitude. And that's just the breakfast cereal. No, I say. No. We must stand up and be counted. Some people are, of course, taller lying down than standing, so they may still participate from the supine position should they choose. The point is: if you must have a truely great crisis to believe in, then you must by your own volition, grasp it about the throat, look it steadily in the eye, and headbutt it until you see more stars than a month of astropod. Fit ya nut n brind im, see yur jimmy. etc. No more than 600cc, you understand, and about half as many wheels as is normally considered safe. The chances of the war office bankrolling this one? Who needs to look for a crisis then? I think I'll have another bowl of cereal.