So hey, get me, I'm the Rusko of journalism over here, discovering shit that's already popular in other countries then putting my face in front of it as if that was something to be proud of.
Let's discover that shit.
Just know that one night in the future you will discover Holy shit, I wasn't that dead today.
Meanwhile, back home, it's also hell, with Celebrity Come Dancing on and the rum's run out and so has your cousin Chloe who has just discovered that shit Graeme wasn't miming trying to get a signal on his iPhone, he was trying to get one and he's been texting that bug-eyed Zeppelin-breasted whore all day.
My roommates discovered that shit had been taken from their rooms while I was at work, but still somehow never knew about my pet junkies because of my secluded place on the other side of the house.
So he was shocked, one evening, to walk into a stall and discover a mound of shit on the toilet lid, solid, tapering, centered as though it had been carefully arranged.
Nonetheless, some context is instructive: they weren't discovered scrawled in shit on the cubicle walls of an English Defence League-friendly pub; they were broadcast on CNN last week, when the British writer Arun Kundnani was invited to debate with two very angry American commentators, Scottie Hughes and Kurt Schlicter.
Fascinated by it all, I called around to some circuses to discover some of the craziest shit their people have seen.
As newspapers discover nowadays, when you fire all the copyeditors, shit gets bad.
And you only get those moments of true "holy-shit!" joy when other trees start connecting to yours and you discover whole new branches.
