help

i'm shit out of luck. i've taken my case to the minister of the eradication of colonial sports and apparently badminton is indeed illegal in poppystan (unless played with the balls of a virgin morco polo ram). so, i've packed up my belongings: one monocle bling-string, seven pairs of afghan wedding shoes, two wives, a seven volume set of w. churchill's "confessions of a shuttlecock salesman", 450 cases of cheap gin, and the beginnings of my forthcoming manifesto: "bring it on: make your shuttlecock hit like a shuttlebus". i'm selling my warehouse to a poppypusher and moving across town.

a new line of work is to be found.

options include: the world's first rapping afghan, burqa exporter (for that significant other you just can't bear to look at any longer), a contributing member of society, the new stud on the oc, dental assistant, leach, creep, canadian, televangelist, republican columnist pushing the administration's latest error in judgement, believer, old or new, drinker, sitter, liar, alyssa milano, shuttlecock salesman, loser, fuck, help me.