Obviously, in order to continue my Duplo work in the absence of any money, it is necessary to take the initiative to rescue papers, stationery, and miscellaneous concepts (either physically embodied or mentally suggested) from those fonts of inspiration - trade waste bins. Plucky sirs and ma'ams - and yes, these respectful titles DESERVEDLY apply to any foragers of consumerist overspill - routinely pick through the containers (and I've met many such personages) bravely rescuing, recycling or reselling goods destined for landfill. Motives may differ, but the overall arc of intent tends towards the ethically brilliant, the admirably thrifty and the heroically inventive. My own motives are fused with occult experiments in dismantling acts of modern day witchcraft (particularly prevalent with charity shop volunteers) as described previously. It seems strange, but witchcraft - or some modern variant of divination - is often the only way to account for some of the desecrations I've seen: objects still loaded with use-value placed alongside other such objects, interspersed with needless and gratuitous muck.
Today, somebody decided to call the police... Some low-life "pillar-of-the-community" scum-sucking cradle of dysentery, no doubt. Evidently their vision had been offended. Or perhaps they peevishly saw their own cauldron of consumer witchcraft being picked apart, and their petty spells diffused into nothingness. Ha ha! So much the better. Next, on the scene arrives two policemen - in two separate cars - duty bound to interrogate me, whereupon I dispensed all personal details ranging from the exact duration of my earthly existence so far, to the direction of the 'grain' on my scrotum. The scene dragged on for an unseemly long time, ruining the bin-diving schedule. I do not yet know what the outcome of this encounter will be, but if further criminations follow, I can only up the ante and state that my responsibilities as arbitrator between the thought-world and reality (that is, the essence of Duplo and its doodle skirmishes, now often sculptural too) outweigh any obligations to be shepherded by manifest evil. The ethical aspects of interrupting the stream of wastage must also surely demolish any such statutory laws, absurd by-laws, and sickening, insulting travesties of interpretations of the Public Order Act.
Again, I can only decry the good-for-nothing, moronic, haughty yokel who, in his/her tiny brain thought that calling the police was an acceptable act when presented with such blatant (yet tragically unregistered) heroism. I'm employed by both Duplo and the Nod Gods to scour the lands for the conceptual nourishment of this doodlecraft continuation. My rewards are mental. At the same time, I observe, counteract and deconstruct obvious acts of witchcraft - the fruits of my labours here will be of benefit to future generations (hopefully).
After informing the policemen that I possess a document from the management of the particular squandering effusionists in question giving me express permission to continue my work, I now realise that this document relates to another shop, and also addresses me by one of several pseudonyms I use, and is thus legally valueless. I have mislaid it anyway. "We'll be in contact," they said. I wonder what on earth they can do? The location in question is on a public right-of-way. The wastage is some of the worst I've ever seen. I hereby call upon the Nod Gods themselves and other thought-forces within the arc of common-sense to demolish this preposterous apparatus of bovine wrath that has leaked its toxic dribble upon me today.
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