I had, of late not recovered my mirth. I was half-aware of what unsmiling form my face had taken in it's leathering years. Fuck Shakespeare, he would get down on his hands and knees and let herpies-ridden sailors fuck him until dawn so they could say they would pass on his crutty plays to some fuckwit or know-nothing.
Fuck English literature I thought as I sat abiding.
I'd joined facebook some years back and got fucked over royally every time I went on it. You were on for the pune, the pussy y'know. But they weren't having it. Getting de-friended to fuck. They shouldn't give the cunts a de-friending button til they were old enough to use it. It was like giving a biscuit its own sense of being while it was dangled over the precipice of a hot mug o' char.
But I thought less of it anyway. They would meet real assholes in life and then come crying back to me. The door would be fucking closed then, for good.
I watched Hollyoaks a while and laughed my ass off. Some bloke was getting raped on his expensive car by a bad actor who had a tall, skin head mate who said nothing. Maybe he paid to watch. They then had a male rape helpline on the end of the show. Being Channel 4 they then played the genuine calls of males who had been raped. Traumatised men where thus acclaimed as Channel 4's new reality television output.
On Sky, David Cameron was found fisting Justin Bieber in a Hounslow council flat. The news crew were so shocked and horrified they gunned them both down there and then whilst puking all the while. For the next four hours they showed in slow motion the corpses of 'Dave' and the Bieber incubus doing the dance macabre, as they leapt with the impact of each bullet and sprayed more of their elitist blood about the room.
For once seeing scumfucks gunned down in cold blood, it actually seemed a land of hope and glory.
But fuck the UK, who needs it? My thoughts turned to dinner but I was fucked if I knew what to have. You can be good at sex and making shit up but never turn it to any money that's worthwhile.
On facebook they put out lists of people who were not trendy enough and so you'd be best getting put down. Well, fuck 'em, because my mate told me you get three great ones in your life and if they fuck you over, they're not one of the great ones. You can fuck the minnows, it's only the big three you need to care about.
So many unimportant women, of course. My thoughts returned to Channel 4 as they showed their comedy remit. Four posh pricks recently sent down from Cambridge had tied up some people at a bus stop and were getting an Aids-infected rottweiler to shit in their mouths. As the victims vomited up a combination of turd and breakfast, the Channel 4 executives were parachuted in and commissioned the show there and then.
I grew tied of such things and picked up a book where the horrors of the human world could do nothing to intrude. Outside the rain began to fall and it looked like the beginnings of a wednesday.