Fuck You Very Much

Neither are you the only person in the fucking world. No, really. Sorry to break this shit to you.

So maybe, when you emerge onto the tube/train platform in the middle of rush hour, you might want to move along a bit. See there are probably people behind you who also want to get onto the fucking platform.

Or do you maybe get some little sexual pleasure from people bumping into the back of you, as you stop dead, head rotating like a fucking lighthouse gawping at all the pretty lights.

GET OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY, CUNT.

Sorry, what exactly was soooo funny about a man in a coat running? The coat? Or the running?

If you can find such hearty amusement in someone nipping back to their desk to retrieve something quickly so as not to annoy those who are holding the lift for them, then I truly don’t know whether to pity you for your utter and complete lack of wit, or to envy you in that you must be in an almost permanent state of near fucking hysteria.

Fuck me.

Look, cunts, it’s really simple. Really REALLY simple. So simple a fucking TV chef should be able to understand it.

When you walk away from your desk, either:

1. Take your fucking phone with you, or
2. Put the fucking thing on silent.

That’s it.

I mean… there are indigenous tribes deep in the Congo who have independently arrived at this conclusion. It’s not just common sense, it’s… well. Words, for once, fail me.

Basically if you haven’t figured this out yet, then everyone around you thinks you’re a cunt.

Just fucking shoot the fucker, someone.

“PAUL McCartney was killed in a car crash more than 40 years ago and replaced with a hypnotised doppelganger, his former wife claimed last night.”

And that’s one of the saner bits of “news” surrounding the whole spunkslinging match.

A wanker he might well be, but this fucking loopy nutjob bitch is just plain dangerous. Take back some of that money and build an airtight fucking box around her. Oh, and best stake her through the heart before you lob her in.