Sometimes the world can seem a very cold and lonely place.
There's nothing there for us. Things are fucked. We're like flies on the billiard table of existence.
Sometimes it's the piss that comes out of a willy, the shit that comes out of a bum, the spunk that arcs and loops onto your mum's painfully saggy tits, that somehow makes everything, even if just for that passing moment, seem OK. There is something in these moments resembling joy, however inexplicable or minuscule, but undeniably something that perks us up, puts us in touch with our selves in a way that calls for a degree of celebration.
It's a fart in the bath, a piss in the woods, a big, compact, satisfying shit, a vague orgasm from a wank over pictures of your mum being fucked in the arse by loads of blokes, a memory of seeing your father being urinated on by a drunk, raucous German Biker Gang.
These things carry us though, guide us like beacons in an unknown land, reach out and hold us in the darkness of our existence.
Yep...
Clockfuckers.