Here's something to skeeve you out to the very depths of your soul: I can see you. Oh yes. I know you're reading this, and I know where you're from, and I know how you got here. Sing it:
# I travelled the world and the seven seas
I am watching you through a camera! #
OK, not quite. But thanks to the counting robots hiding underneath the little green and white box at the bottom of this page, I can go to a website and see which internet providers (or something) have been accessing this palace of wonderment, how long they stayed (mostly around a paragraph's worth) and most importantly, how they found it. And yes, I am shallow enough to be affected the browsing habits of complete strangers. Hey, man! I'm only human! And I need some comfort, after I was roundly slagged off for being anti-social on a comment thread on Andrew Collin's blog, which I used to think was the politest place on the internet. Politest place on the internet, my deep blue eyes! I tell you, they may be woolly liberals, but they have tongues of steel. Steel wool, yeah? Ah, I'm wasted on you people.
So, trawling through the admittedly tiny amounts of data puked out by the counting robots, two glaring points were just waiting to be made. Point the first. For the people, possibly person, who is desperately searching for a "just resting my eyes t-shirt" - is this what you're looking for? Though to be honest, dude, sling me 15 bucks and I'll make you one that's far, far cooler. Why, just look at the imaginative and radical design on this page! Wow kaleidoscope woo woo woo oh OK fine.
Point the second - to the poor searcher who happened upon here while searching for "nubile wench" - I apologise deeply. There is really not a hollow enough laugh in all the world to represent the error of your click. When the hell did I ever write "nubile wench" anyway? But look, I've just written it twice again, so with any luck someone else might make the same mistake. And to them I say again: I'm very sorry. Unfortunately, I'm thinking of subscribing to Word magazine, so the last paltry vestiges of femininity that have been hanging desperately around my shoulders, pathetically evoking honeyed dreams of mascara and skirt lengths and chicken-literature, have finally dissipated in a puff of 45-year-old man stench.
Pint of Large, barkeep.