The Welshman Returns


You think you know me from what that American dude wrote about me in his novel, The Ghosts of Nagasaki. Think I’m some slovenly Welsh cunt that just up and rolled out of bed one day and popped into a novel, do you? A bit of comic relief here? A bit of social commentary there? European flavor of the week?


That Florida boy has told some Burger King whoppers in his time, flipped a Big Mac lie here and there, and he has a way of taking the piss out of people that can make you look like the cuntiest cunt that ever cunted up a city. Had me whipping my one-eyed trouser monster at karaoke (never happened) or at least that’s what my mate told me who read the book.


Still, I did have one too many trips, though it wasn’t acid so much as the ecstasy that made Mr. Sparkles appear. Wasn’t no lizard or dragon either. Was my childhood teddy bear that came to life. He was pink, though, and filled with sparkles.


Questioning my manhood, are you? No bother to me, mate. Not sure if this makes a difference. Not sure if any of these fucking words are going cure a genital wart or feed some starving baby in Africa. About as useful as a bag of wank…that’s something my younger self would have said. My older self now works in finance and is creating the biggest fucking turd of a financial instrument that’s going to end the world. Naw, just kidding, but I am trying to find the right kind of ecstasy pill to get me through my dull-as-fuckity-fuck day job.  


*A special thank you to The Welshman from my novel for returning for this blog post. Now piss off, reader, and buy a copy of my book, The Ghosts of Nagasaki, before I starve to death.


Here it is:


Chop. Chop.


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