Day 47, one thirrty-noine am in a very annoying Sunderland accent.
"Hey Marcus, play up the most annoying aspects of the way you speak. People sure won't want to beat you to death, no way Jose". I differ...
How quickly a social experiment to see how much money TV production companies could make from a brain-dead population turned into a parade of huge, naked tits in the hot tub. Sounds like the only artistic progression that show could hope for and keep the porn industry stocked with fresh cast members.
The only thing that's happening in the house right now...make that the house next door by the sounds of it. Doors slamming sounded like a west-end farce being filmed. Then came the sounds of headboard banging against wall and woman moaning. Listening to people fucking is not a good way to sleep. That's why I'm here, not asleep or fucking. I don't mind the noise at all, it's the incompetence that keeps me awake. You listen to students fucking and you can't help think how rubbish the bloke probably is at it and how'd you do a much better job. Yeah, if it was me I'd give her an education! The fact that I can teach her more in ten minutes than she will ever learn in three years of lectures shows how much education has gone down the pan in this country.
Peruse your way around a woman's body, show her the full sensual force she never knew existed. Suppose it seems rude to interrupt them, you know, saying everything you're doing is wrong. The fact they have now gone quiet means they realised it too. A rare moment of teenage enlightenment, everybody is due one.
I'll put my hands up to say that circumstance forces this post. There's nothing else to do and the world is too cold to be inspired. A nice bonus of nihilism having said that.
On the streets below they crawl home, head imbibed and mood crashed depressingly due to alcohol and a failure to secure fucking. The cold dispenses into a night mist that penetrates the bones and causes nothing but pain as they trudge. Home is but another mile, may as well be another city away, it seems. In their despair they find themselves invisible enemies to make their quarry...well, wheelie bins anyway.
Guaranteed at some point a wheelie bin will get kicked over. Probably some conspiracy of which the world is thankfully oblivious, the foiling of which requires wheelie bins to be kicked over. I wouldn't mind but in the world of student versus wheelie bin, the latter usually wins. Do you think any of these fuckers could cream a wheelie bin? If they struggle with the female form, get sozzled on tasteless, piss-like liquor and are of agricultural origins of course a trash receptacle is going to get the better of them!
This bears in mind a fear I have, crystallised when there is snowfall and brought to mind when I saw the result of a bin having beaten up a student, then being burnt down by said student into a rubberized liquid mess on the pavement. What happens is you watch guys in their early twenties run out when the snow has fallen and start snowball fights and they're all students. And you know, you just know, in ten years time you're going to be on an operating table and the surgeon comes in. You squint at the eyes above the mask:
"W-wait. Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"Yeah I did. Ten years ago. You liked in Wally Street, Norn Iron. You started a fucking snowball fight with your culchie housemates!"
"Ahh youthful hi-jinx...I am Dr Gareth Guano MBE, surgeon, now."
"Hi-jinx my ass! If you think I'm letting some fucking dope who threw snowballs at parked cars near me with a scapel, you've got another think coming!"
Yeah, every dipshit student you see chucking snowballs at pedestrians and missing or trying to ninja-kick a dustbin will in ten years try to cure you, farm your cereal and try to teach your kids. You are totally right in telling them to go fuck themselves. Would you let these half-wits near you after seeing that? No fucking way!
Ehh. Twoo-fif-teeen. This post has taken me 36 minutes to write. How about that for pointlessness of existence?
Bisson
No comments:
Post a Comment