Eighth Little Idiom

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John Farnham “You’re The Voice”



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Everyone involved must unify and function together or it will not work out. That’s it in a nutshell. We stand united or fall hopelessly to the wayside. Seems fitting right now as we prepare to embark on the next leg of our grue pilgrimage. As any viable business expands it risks losing its equilibrium. Fact of nature; the more chefs in the kitchen, the more fucked-up flans being presented to the patrons. I’ve witnessed this time after the time after time again with hopeful entrepreneurs being crushed by the wheels of industry because they lose sight of their goal.

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The troops begin to bicker with one another, spread unrest among the ranks, and eventually transform into mutineers. Basically these organizations implode through lack of one thing: human compassion. It all becomes about the almighty buck, another branch opened and another competitor crushed whilst, all the while, there is a cancer spreading like the wildest fire, eating the shit out of the whole operation from the inside. So many chumps in positions of authority care only about collecting their bloated paychecks, whilst deep throating The Man’s rigid dick and gargling his load.

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Keeper ain’t an angry kind of fella, I’m as laid back as a dime store hooker on an orthopedic mattress and like to think of myself as being just as flexible. Ordinarily I will diffuse rather than infuse and, only yesterday, I managed to halt the handbags as a couple of hooded rascals squared up as though their testicles weren’t still all up in their navels. If I had asked them kindly then I’m positive I would have come face to face with the Children of The Damned, so I interjected the only way I knew how. I puffed out my chest and swaggered over to the tune of “You gonna fucking stop that or what?” Instantly, both lads stopped in their tracks and the 10+ onlookers were stunned into total silence. Should I have chosen the wrong tact then I would likely have been shanked with a dirty blade but I adapted accordingly and spoke in a tongue which I knew they would recognize. Crisis averted.

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I continued “… there’s enough messed-up shit going down in the world without you two adding to it”, to which the response was pleasing. I have to come clean as I left the crime scene feeling ever so slightly Clint Eastwood although I was fully aware that it could’ve all gone Stand By Me in an instant. However, I didn’t let to on my consternation for a solitary second to those little bastards. To them I was one bad motherfucker.


I’m digressing but my point was, and still is, that I don’t get ruffled easily, I am here to keep and keep I shall. When confusion reigns, lines blur, and the edges start to close in around us. That is exactly what I have witnessed from certain individuals over the course of the past few weeks. This saddens my soul as the Grueheads are essentially a family. I have said all along that my love is unconditional, with the condition that kindness is used. Sweet, sweet contradiction. If it is true that we are a real brood then I beg you all remember one thing. Families needle and fluster one another on a regular basis. It comes with the territory.

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Businesses turf out anyone not towing the line and that’s what makes them businesses in the first place. Rivers of Grue could be considered as a fledgling business but, far more critically, it is a family. I believe you need an equal degree of both to find the true equilibrium. Let me pose you this Grueheads: do you remember that old lady, you know, the one who lived in a shoe? So many kids and not a clue what to do with the little shits. I’m that old lady, minus the saggy breasts, prolapsed vagina, and faint scent of urine. That’s essentially what I’m looking to achieve here. One gargantuan grue shoe, the likes of which Hugh Heffner would applaud, and full of happy little orphans with one common goal.

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As siblings it is only natural that we’re all going to want to slip a little itching powder into one another’s sleeping bags from time to time but, at no point, should we walk away from the opportunity of being part of the force in horror that Rivers of Grue is fast becoming. It’s time to bust out the velcro, engage in a round or two of naked Twister, and get all mixed up in each others’ appendages. United by the deep red coulis which courses through each of us, we have the same sights locked into our cross-hairs and, should we choose to focus on that, leaving any tertiary bullshit way behind us, then we can stand on the shoulders of giants. As my dear friend Jester Annie once remarked: “what ever is best for your life is best altogether, because the Rivers of Grue do not flow backward. We flow forward and we will hold no one back from their true calling”. A-fucking-men to that.


There is a reason why, when I first birthed this big-boned baby, I named it Rivers of Grue. I could have named it the Tree-House of Cellulite or Sandbox of Puke but, catchy as they are, neither really get to the soul of the matter. Much like sharks, rivers cannot run backwards. They flow regardless and search constantly for new direction and purpose. Here we practice this through all our endeavor and the belief that we can make a difference in a world of indifference. Love is the glue that binds us together, the cum that makes our babies. With it we double our strength, fortify and multiply. Without love we wither up like Starman in a post office queue.

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This brings me, once more, to the old hag in the boot. She may occasionally grow weary and feel as though the laces are closing in on her, but she loves all her little piggies, whether plump and red or bony and blue. Thus when they are required to take a collective step, all her young are alert enough to walk round the dog feces, rather than sliding through it. I love all my piggies too, from the biggest toes to the too-big-for-its-breaches second toe, and even the battered purple cashew at the far end. That affection is like a tap which you can quench from unperturbed, should you see the woods through the trees.


Rivers of Grue is a pimple right now, simply primed for lancing. Not some nonchalant black head capable only of a slither of off-white gunge but an angry bloater which will mess up your mirror if trifled with. Stay upon this galleon and I promise we shall find our hidden treasure. Before I wrap up, I wish to inform you of my five-year plan with Rivers of Grue. Like all successful mission statements it set a distant goal and I work backwards from it. I set the bar high as why the devil wouldn’t I? That pie may be in the sky to some but I am positive I can get me some hot apple chunder on my Johnson like Jim if I thrust high enough. My plan over-arches anything that I have mentioned openly before now. In a fistful of year cycles, I intend to be creating opportunities for young people within areas of deprivation. I wish to empower them to reach for every last slice of that pie, no matter their gender, race or sexuality.

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I actually attempted to do this working for local government but discovered, over time, that threading a needle through a camel would be a more emotionally profitable endeavor. Since being considered too much of a risk and ejected from my asphyxiating position, my goal has remained the same. It’s all about the legacy; fashioning something which will be remembered long after the scythe ultimately drops and I go off to face my judgement. I have a responsibility to protect this precious projection and keep us moving toward our gruetopia. Hold hands, unite, if someone gets your goat, then use that to bleed with conviction and without reactionary slander.


Channel what bubbles up inside you and if your sweaty boss touches you inappropriately in the stockroom cupboard but you’re too scared to challenge him, then place a banana in his tailpipe, come home and scribe a monster. Inside us all are untapped resources, many of which are never recognized. The time has come to recognize Grueheads. Rivers of Grue shall tear out many beating hearts and give them a gentle bloody kiss. I request only that you prepare to march alongside me as I take this forward with every ounce of my conviction. Believe and we shall grant, love and we shall flourish, bleed and we shall perpetually feed. United, our house stands defiantly. Fuck divided. I never much cared for falling anyhoots.



Click here to read Ninth Little Idiom



Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,


Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013




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