He
wakes to the crashing noise from next door. They are going for a picnic,
and it's 0430. The stain from the Chicken Tikka sandwich stays firmly rooted
to the duvet cover, but neither having another duvet cover nor knowing
how one would wash such a thing, our man decides to leave it there for
a while.
Washing
and brushing of teeth would just be a chore today; a mere splash of water
before breakfast will do. Downstairs, the apples have rotted and the bread
is as hard as a pigeon's foot. Today, a peach melba yoghurt will do. It's
only 2 days out of date. Adorning his usual jumper and trousers, together
with an assortment of other traditional western clothes, he hums a popular
tune to himself with a now almost refreshing air of sadness and mourning.
As
he closes the front behind him, his heart sinks. The front door key is
on the floor, near the Shropshire weekly. The services of next door's ladder
will be required.
It's
raining. Again. The people are angry, different today. It is probably NOT
because of the precipitation. Is my fly down?
It
is at this point that our hero decides, presumably in a last-ditch effort
to give people a sense of perspective, actually cuts off his nose
to spite his face.
It is my
first drive without someone to direct me. I know how to drive and I know
where to drive. Rain is beating down on my windscreen and this upsets me.
I switch on my wipers and they make an irritating noise and obstruct my
view.
I give
way, but an elderly, silver haired spinster in a blue fiesta lets
me threw (sic).
I tavel
along at 40 mph as the sign on the left hand side says I can. Upon driving
over the word "Slow" I do just that, but what do I do next? There is not
another 40. I travel along but things get awkward and tiresome wen I find
myself travelling at a snail's pace because the road never says "fast".
I eventually come to a 50p-shaped sign with the word "STOP" on it, and
I dutifully do so, assuming that when it changes I can go at 40 again.
It will change, won't it?
[the sign
never changes but rusts and fades]
percy is a wanker
one day he fucked pat
heathcote, then he buggered dale with an umbrella, it was sore, dale bled
lots, then dale shoved his rasp up percys ass until he squeeled like a
pig. dale then pulled out the shit covered rasp and licked it clean and
put it away. dale decided he liked this strange shitty taste and so proceded
to stick his tongue up percys ass to find some more, then mavis came in,
she saw pat heathcote and decided to give her a good hard fuck. then fleck
came in, he started shagging dale, then his face exploded, it was yucky.
then dale hit flecks head with the rasp until it burst, dale licked the
puss off the rasp before licking flecks face, then percy buggered fleck.
lots.
by mike
any person except percy
and fleck is not real. poetic liscence and that.
listen...i don't even
know who this 'mike' is, so don't get at me!
