In those days there was a great philosopher and scribe who composed many brilliant and enlightening discourses which left the multitudes rolling upon the ground in the company of their livestock. Even the kings of the land invited him into their houses and bade him perform his art for their commission.
In the beginning through til the time of the last Great Plebiscite, this writer did invent from various inspiration and what seemed to be the very Ether hilarious and insightful works that were generally revered as highest quality.
Then after the time of the Plebiscite there fell a silence upon the mind of this writer, and his contributions to the Guild of Writers came slower and slower as his inspiration fell away. No one could divine the reason or cause. The writer thought he would come out of this soon enough, but as the moons came and went, he did not.
This grew until the writer could naught but think of random obscenities like “douchebag, ass, and bitch-ass” when trying to reinvigorate the source of his old inspiration.
What then happened was this writer bade himself to write about his narrative in the person of a historian from two millenia past, the object of which was to both document his experience and call out to the other Guild Journeymen who appeared to be suffering from the same affliction. What, thought the writer, was the cause of his stagnation. How could he finish his documentation with a joke? “Bitch, ass, douchbag ass bitch” was all that came to mind.
