The Saltboy Guru

A good guide to debate or lecture should be - the less one has to say, the more people will hear it. For instance I am not a stranger to long words and technical details (the 'scientific ballads' as I like to call them during whims of grandeur) but in many arguments they are useless because ones opponent may not understand them therefore leaving the entire debate floundering in the ashes.
It is all very well having the mind of a god and the tongue of a saint but precious little it will do in a rabid, fists-in-blood battle of words with a livewire, self-depreciating redneck. One must have lighter stones to fall back on and as a wiser man said once, sometimes less is more. Much more.
Fancy talk all you want but it does no good and if someone has a message then they are best keeping it wrapped in every day words because more people will hear it, more people understand and embrace it. And this reasoning is not due to the masses being ignorant but down to instinct, people react better to butter than a stubborn walnut shell that is thrust onto their plate.
A nightingale's song is beautiful but the buzzard mews louder, not through superiority but simply by being bolder. She nails it with a solid, down to earth thrust of a mouthy beak whilst sometimes the smaller bird though big in song, stitches the words getting them trapped in a thorny gullet.
Dainty soliliquays impress but a tin whistle is deafening and will win everytime where numbers are needed to rally for a cause.
This is why the google owls get frustrated by bastards like me hogging the limelight. They try to steal a little attention, (mainly to keep themselves warm on often lonely evenings), but always end up as envious wrecks at the closing of the beer pumps, resorting to spiteful insults in a pitiful attempt to claim back a small bit of dignity. They depise me and all because I can reach into my soul and dig out a piece I am willing to make fun of, something these armchair warriors could never do for fear of their paper thin self esteem shattering into a million snivelling pieces.
This is part of the reason I look at myself in the mirror and allow laughs to tumble out of my cirhosis addled liver. I would be irritated to discover I could be hurt by an idiots ramblings. Those who spout garbage from the pages of philosophy have not learnt from Life and deserve no applause. They rest on carcasses of better men and are content in doing so for they have no mental fabric of their own. Lazy eyes in a world of mirrors and stars.
At least I have felt emotions from the cellar. I have dipped my snout into troughs of addiction and public scorn, and I have learnt in savage lessons how to build an honest and genorous spirit. No lies will fall from my gin bloated tongue, there are no curses inflamed by my self pitying balloon. All is well on Demon Street, I do not find thrills in drunken assaults on weak, unsuspecting wretches sleeping in brackets (the shop doorways of the writing world).
The funniest thing of all of course is the weak in this case are not weak at all, they are bored, tired of the bleating of the gothic herds, who in their words would'nt be called herds but of course they are. Herds of blood being sheparded into trends that the new hits and modern cinema have decided for them.