On the way to the pub last night I saw Cunt and his ‘family’. I think he’s feeding off his emaciated partner, she now resembles a skeleton with hair and he’s looking all chubby and shit. The fucking wanker.
He was carrying bags of shopping (mainly pizza boxes and beer the fucking prick) and informed me that he’d been shopping as if I was incapable of identifying Sainsbury’s carrier bags bulging with mainly pizza boxes and beer, and then said ‘we’re food lovers’. No, you’re not a ‘food lover’ you bloated lazy parasite; you’re an insipid worthless cough, a blood clot, a fucking disease that could only benefit humanity with its demise. You eat shit, you love shit, you fucking shit.
I had a quick drink with Frank and slouched home wondering what delights would erupt from under my feet when I returned home. The usual depressing noise levels of GTO 4 (daddy bought the fucking tool a PS3, he deserves it, right kids) as I tried to watch a programme on The Qur’an, which was superb I hasten to add. At 10 I was treated to a barbaric combination of toneless shouting and what sounded like broken church bells being hit with a piano as his kid screamed it’s head off in the next room. I took myself off into the kitchen and opened my heart to the possibility of some sort of divine being that could snuff out the existence of human poo poo.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m in reasonable cheer, cycled in today which was actually rather ‘pleasentish’, busy at work but beyond care and about to eat some fresh sandwiches of my own doing. And I have a bag of Quavers.
And a gun.
Manna from heaven
