Hey Slapass, What Are You Supposed to Be Doing Right Now? Taint This.

Hey fathead!

What are you doing here, anyway? Are you malingering, procrastinating, wasting your precious gifts, face deep in a laptop when you could be face deep in the lap of a fine young man or woman, ignoring your garden, ignoring your children, ignoring that strange man at the front door with the funny tic in his eye and the metallic smile, wishing you were somewhere else, wishing you could run off and join the circus, wishing that the world would stop and grant you a few more hours, biding your time until the muse comes up and bites you on the perineum, wasting your time until the oceans rise and wash over you and your uncompleted manuscripts?

Go on, get outta here! If I catch you on Twitter later this evening, there will be hell to pay, I assure you.

Are you still here? Do I have to take the switch to you?

Go away. Your naughtiness will be recorded in the annals for all to read and you will be mocked and people will throw potatoes at your head. And maybe bricks and nails.

I'm getting really angry now.

Go and make beautiful art, muttonheaded buffoon! The world is mooning over you, prematurely. The celebrity rags have already prepared their articles.

I am going to get on a plane now and whup the daylights out of your porkchop ass. Get ready, dinkums. When I arrive, I expect to see a first draft. Or hear your fine composition on the peee-a-no. Or taste your cake baked in the shape of the state of Texas. Or see the tree that you have carved into a fine replica of Abraham Lincoln. Or pet the little knitted Zombunny that you have stitched in your spare time.

Go now and do what you are meant to do.