I was just duking out a loaf there and… Sorry? You didn’t want to know that? Too late now. Now you already now it. You know I just crimped a dump. From my bum. Like you do. LIKE YOU DO TOO. King of the world. Queen of the Empire. You expunge all your waste from a small opening in your buttcakes. You do. You do. You’re Tom Cruise and you still have to make shit biscuits. Loser.
It’s a funny one, reading something that you didn’t want to know but isn’t it also potentially exciting? Everyday life can be like American Psycho. One minute, taking about Huey Lewis and the News, and the next moment describing in ‘Iron’ Mike Tyson uppercut circa 1990 brutality as a malnourished gutter dweller is released into the love cavern of the most unfortunate woman in literary history.
(Contains lots of F-bombs and S-bombs)
Well, perhaps she was the second most unfortunate woman, after Bridget Jones of course. God, wasn’t that awful when her big knickers were showing and she dropped a cream bun on her cream skirt and had spinach in her teeth when she kissed Hugh Grant!
I don’t know. I’ve not seen it/read it/however it is you ingest such a thing. I’ll push a copy into one of my many orifices and see what effect it has.
Where was I…
Yup. Taking a plop, reading the Home section of The Sunday Times, the actual PAPER version no less and… Can you believe it? Me. A man. Under 30 (just about). Reading things printed on paper like the Romans probably/definitely/might have done/did on the steps/stairs of the Colosseum/stadium in Rome/Roma.
The laptop and plop combo is tricky, with immense risk of: leg burnage; stinky keys; and slippage onto a tiled floor, resulting in an inexplainable “My Macbook broke under normal conditions and I have Apple Care so fix it you “Genius”, go on, “Genius”… No that’s not toilet paper stuck to the bottom…” type situation.
Sure, printed media is yesterday’s news at tomorrow’s prices but it doesn’t break, plus there’s always a chance Sarah Beeney will crop up with a page of tips to sell the house you probably don’t have, while wearing an H&M top that’s 3 times too small for her bilious, though strangely alluring body which makes me think:
“I am depraved and wouldn’t mind seeing those chebs and she’s way older than me and had loads of kids and I know it’s wrong to think these thoughts but I deal with it and you – ‘you’ being other people who aren’t me and I therefore project all my failings onto without meeting face to face as I hide in a blog – just pretend that you’re not like me because you have a job and a house and shoes not trainers but you’re way more fucked up than me and if anyone was to go on a killing spree I’d be straight down Paddy Power to put a tenner on you. You Idiot licker.”
Here, Beeny utilizes her complete lack of Further Education to check the structural integrity of a window:
I only read the Times when I poo. I’m not entirely sure why that’s the case but after the serious poundage of a Sunday dinner, I find AA Gill’s restaurant reviews help me crap. He’s my favourite laxative.
Jesus, this is going nowhere. Concentrate… Concentrating….
Yeah. Got it. So in the Home section of the Sunday Times, there’s an article about HONEY and apparently this HONEY made from manuka nectar is “said to have therapeutic qualities.”
What? How does that work? The sweat from my testicles is “said to have” the exact medicinal properties that would have stopped Marilyn Monroe dying from an overdose if she’d added 5mls if it to 6 litres of pulped wombat hearts and had Michael Jackson’s doctor inject the concoction between her toes:
And that’s why, ladies and gentlemen, I don’t trust people who smile a lot.