User:Everyotherusernamewastaken/UnBooks:A Tale of Two Shities

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“This really is a steaming pile of shit.”

Chapter 1: The Cubicle

It was the best of times,
It was the worst of times.
It was the age of consistency,
It was the age of cholera.
It was the epoch of tenderness,
It was the epoch of the dog.

There were a king with a chippie aroma and a queen with liver problems "on the throne" of England;
There were a king with a garlic aroma and a moderately hot queen "on the throne" of France.

It was the year of Our Jobby one thousand seven hundred and shitsty five. Relations between those who believed in bagging and binning it and those who couldn't be bothered had conceded. The English were still rebelling over the volume of shit being flung around on the streets; but the French were quite contented. Mr. Crapper had spent the past five hours squatting upon the chamber pot of his fashionable city apartment in Southern England after a particularly bad case of the green apple splatters. His wife; however, was producing near-perfect exemplars of such virtues as firmness and fortitude in precise sheep-dropping moulds.

Chapter 2: The Paper

It was the trail of faeces that lay on the Dover road, as to him, as with whom history is concerned, was concerned about the crap-tossing vandals who came from France on the 11-o-clock ferry. He thought back to that ferry—to the rough, approximately 250gsm brown paste that smeared its windows, once clear to the "muddied" water down below. And he became sad.

Thomas Crapper the Elder reminisced upon his days as a young lad: to his meagre tenement up Shit Creek, past The Bull's Shit: the Rectun village of East London's local watering-hole and social rendez-vous. Through this brown-tinted vision he remembered the joys and innocences of the simple, humble life he once shared in his closely knit community: such lives cannot be lived after the blessed Excremential Revolution. Rectun had been flushed of life, and all that remained of The Bull's Shit was some public lavatory. "Things", he lamented, "have really gone to Shit."

The Fecal War between the French and the Britons was still fresh in the minds of The People: all remembered the day when the Geneva Convention intervened, accusing both sides of biological warfare. And so there was still much hatred on either side of the Channel.

Chapter 3: The Bit that you Don't Bother Reading

Tellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and shitsty five. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted no elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but Tellson's, thank Heaven!<insert dumb shit-related joke here and perhaps a few other places>

Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much on a par with the SHIT! HAHA! I'm NOT lazy; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable.

Chapters 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 16 & 17: The Other Bits that you Don't Bother Reading

Lorem ipsum dolor shit amet, consectetuer adipissing elit. Aenean commodo ligula excret dolor. Aenean massa. Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis shitis dis parturient montes, nascrapur ridiculus mus. Donec quam felis, ultricies nec, pellentesque eu, pretium quis, sem. Nulla consequat massa quis enim. Donec pede justo, fringilla vel, aliquet nec, vulputate eget, arcu. In enim justo, shitus ut, imperdiet a, venenatis vitae, justo. Nullam dictum feces eu pede mollis pretium. Integer poop.

Chapter 42: The Tearful and Satisfying End

On this day, rays of light shone in on Diarhoson's Court House as the custody battle between the two Shities raged on; Jarvis felt it right that Louis XVI shouldn't have been using the poor peasants under his reign for a nationwide shit experiment the size and scale of the Manhattan Project.

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