The universe is fucking me.

It is a bank holiday here, that means legions of my fellow countryfolk are hungover and lying about eating toast and not working.
Not so for this Fatcat. One of the joys of working for one's self is that you get to work all the bloody time. I woke up at half six this morning thinking about work, I fell back asleep and dreamed about work, and now, here I sit, befleeced and befuddled about to roll up my sleeves and work for the next five hours or so. Bah.
But before I do, I just want to take the opportunity to thank the good chumley who sent me the following link. You know who you are you rat fink.
This chumlies is a dream detective.
Words fail me.
I cannot even work up the suitable rage I normally reserve for this kind of charlatan. Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe this is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Maybe now I can stop fretting about the rise of hokum and the proliferation of complete frauds and hucksters. Maybe I can now wander through life not sneering and being aghast at these bottom feeders of the feeble minded.
Or mayby-throughout my busy day today- I will stop work to shout ' A FUCKING Dream Detective?' scaring Puddy and the Paramour both. Maybe I will snort laughter and shake my head at random intervals.
I don't know what I'll do. I feel very strange.
You vile/beloved chumley, sender of this one, are a complete wizard's sleeve.