Winning The War On Bones.

We win! Australia, the little battler, has won – against insurmountable odds we fought hard to be leading the world in obesity! Yeah, We’re the fattest cunts in the world! Fuck you, USA, you can eat our convict shit, we’re fatter than you bastards! 26% of all Aussies are obese, that’s four million of us – a 33% rise in obesity in the last nine years. Fat Aussies have been gorging their pie-holes for the last nine years to top the USA’s puny 25% obesity rate. Yeah, they’ve got more fatties in total, but per capita we have the most cottage-cheese-arsed, cankled, wheezing behemoths of any nation on the planet! 

 

Doesn’t anybody find any of this remotely offensive? I don’t mean my ruthless attack on the fatties, I mean isn’t anyone offended by the rampant epidemic of bloatedness? We see it everywhere. My two bosses, The Wobblers, are both horrendously obese shit-sacks. Many of the people in the building I work in have Office Body*, you only have to walk down the street to realise that most people are packing some weight, thin people are a serious minority. 

 

But we’re all polite about it – everyone knows the pain of the fatty, Oprah’s made us oh-so aware of the torture it is to be fat. No one wants to point out to their friends or co-workers Hey, you’re becoming a bit of a chunk, should you be eating that? Woe betide the heathen who dared say such a hurtful thing. You insensitive bastard, it’s genetic, his whole family is like that. Um…but he’s eaten two pizzas today…are you sure that’s genetic? 

 

You see, I think that’s part of the problem – it’s politically correct to tell people they’re drinking too much, or that they should quit smoking, but we’re in denial about obesity. You mustn’t tell the fatty they’re fat, they might feel bad about themselves and eat more! Yeah, I know, the fuckin’ fat cunt might eat YOU, you’re just scared! For fuck’s sake, tell her from a distance, the fat fuck won’t be able to chase you for long. 

 

Now before all you fatties out there start sending me death threats, I’d like to point out I’m not advocating everyone need have chiseled abs and cheekbones or plastic surgery themselves to look like Paris Hilton, that’s just another disgusting sickness. What I’m saying is: take physical responsibility for yourself. Be a bit healthy.

  

No-one wants to walk down a street and see a piss-pants drunk sitting there boozing himself into oblivion, nor do you want to see junkies shooting up nor sex addicts jerking themselves off in public. Why not? Because it’s offensive. Obese people are killing themselves with food. I find it offensive to see some filthy, fat pig scoffing into a Big Mac. Most people will walk past keeping their revulsion private but everyone finds it unsettling, even if only on a well-trained, unconscious level. It turns my stomach and I can’t understand why it is no longer acceptable to acknowledge that offensiveness. Even the most compassionate soul has to concede that, on a purely pragmatic level, it’s a massive a waste of resources. On a planet with billions of people barely surviving, these fat turds eat enough each day for a whole family, and in a few years time they’re going to be a massive financial burden on an already strained health system. We all will be paying through the nose to save these fatties from themselves. Maybe they need a dose of reality rather than that second Double Quarter Pounder! YOU’RE FUCKIN’ FAT, FATTY!!! FATTY FAT FAT FAT!!! HAVEN’T YOU HAD ENOUGH FOOD, YOU STINKING FAT CUNT??? What? Chase me, fuckface!   

 

 

*Office Body – a phenomenon where, due to a lack of physical activity, chronic over-eating and a diet of shit, a person becomes overweight or obese and most of their muscles wither away except for a few fingers on the hand that operates their computer mouse. See also Internet Body, Playstation Body or Lazy Fat Cunt.

 

Corporate Freeloaders – Just Turning A Buck & Being Frank

Corporate freeloading is at an all time high, it seems to me that the world is filled with two types of people: the poor who, despite my reasonably comfortable western existence, I consider myself one of; and the rich who, it seems, are all lying, shit-sucking, opportunist arseholes who should all be butchered like pigs.

 

I went for a job interview today, in a desperate effort to improve my life and find some greater level of contentment or even happiness. I realise that might gravely change the complexion of this blog but I’m happy to hazard that, call me selfish.

 

This was an interview for a real job, at a real company, with supposedly real people doing something that possibly might be challenging, interesting and not leave me with a musty residue of self-loathing I need to douse liberally with beer after every shift. I mean, wouldn’t it be great to go to work for people you like, doing something you believe in? That’d be fuckin’ brilliant! So, I was excited and a little nervous as I sat in a plush leather seat in the waiting room. The receptionist had been friendly in a disarmingly genuine way and I felt…at home…for a while.

 

A genial man I’ll call Frank, because that’s his name, greeted me and led me into a meeting room with a panel of four other executives all sat behind a large table at one end of which sat a video camera. Introductions, I sat, all very friendly, hmm…the camera watched silently. Frank handed me a piece of paper,

 

Would you mind filling this out? We’d like to video the interview for training purposes, it’s just a waiver.

 

I stared at the piece of paper for a little while. I was thrown, I wasn’t expecting this and I didn’t know how to react. I looked up at the panel and then back at the waiver. I couldn’t focus clearly with the panel scrutinizing me to read it properly but it said something to the effect that they would be able to use the video in-house pretty much as they saw fit and that I wouldn’t be making any cash out of it. Nah…it just didn’t sit right.

 

Hey look, um…I don’t really feel comfortable with this…

 

I indicated the camera and waiver.

 

That’s fine, that’s fine, let’s just get down to business.

 

I got the feeling it kinda wasn’t fine. I’d ear-marked myself as a trouble maker, I was definitely not a company man, I couldn’t be trusted to toe the line. The rest of the interview went smoothly, I guess, pleasant goodbyes, exit.

 

The further I got from the office, the angrier I got. What the steaming shit sandwich was that all about? In the old days they would get actors – not famous ones – to do corporate training videos, and they’d pay them with money – not much money. These cunts wanted me to provide them with training tools for free without even the guarantee of a job. What the fuck is that about? How much more disgustingly opportunistic could they be? Exploiting people who want jobs for company interviewer training materials. Was it a test? Was that part of the deal, if you don’t agree to be filmed we won’t even consider you for the position? And what the stapled pissflaps else were they going to use the video for? Maybe a mood lightener after lunch at boring seminars: And here’s some of the useless shit-sacks we DIDN”T hire this year! Was I to be part of an Idol-style montage of losers to entertain soulless obese executives. By this stage, I wasn’t just a bit narky about it, I was royally fucked off! I wanted to call that smarmy prick, Frank, and tell him:

 

Hey Frank, I’ve had a think about it and y’know what? You can use the video, that’s fine with me, on one condition. That you and the other members of your panel each eat a full teaspoon of my shit. How’s that sound, Frank? I’ll even bring the spoons! Ya fuckin’ CUNT! GET FUCKED!!!

 

I had the mobile in my hand. I had the number on my screen. I didn’t want their job any more so it wasn’t about not wanting to burn bridges, I just realised that Frank wouldn’t get it. The Franks of the world won’t understand people’s indignation at corporate exploitation and even if they did, The Franks probably wouldn’t care.

 

I have never met an honest rich person. Is that just how it works?

Petrol Price Rise Rage Reality.

Petrol prices are going up. It’s not fuckin’ news. It’s been in the news constantly for the last fuck-knows-how-many years but recently it’s started to really fuck me off. People are up in arms over he rising fuel prices and I understand, I even empathise with them to a point. Certainly, rural Australians and people reliant on petrol for their occupations are really under pressure and the harsh truth is it is not going to get any better. I feel for these people but it is reality. 

The people I don’t feel sorry for are the fucking idiots blaming the government for rising prices. What the nail-gunned ballbags are they thinking? Yes, the government are greedy cunts, they control the various taxes they charge on fuel, but beyond that they have nothing to do with it.

 

I found this little gem today from the UK and was relieved to find that they’re even more stupid than us: 

Two-thirds of motorists said they would vote for a different government if fuel rose to between £1.25 and £1.49 per litre and 63% said they would be willing to protest if the price of petrol and diesel rose to levels they considered unacceptable. 

 

What the grated dick are you fuckheads thinking? It’s supply and demand, the demand’s up and the supply is rapidly going down forever. Protest all the fuck you want, vote for a fucking hedgehog, it’s not going to make more dead dinosaurs! The fact is we’ve nearly burnt them all, we’ve burnt up the dead dinosaurs and the few drips that are left are going to continue to get more and more expensive until some massively rich CUNT goes for the world’s last petrol drag and that will be the end of it, which of course it won’t be because sooner or later, if the polluted environment or global war doesn’t kill us first, we’ll develop sustainable, renewable energy sources and means of transport that run on them.

 

The world is changing, we’re running out of oil, all of us in every single country on the planet, now SHUT THE FUCK UP AND FUCKIN’ WELL DEAL WITH IT!!! The fucking childish mentality of consumers makes me so fucking angry, what the fuck did you think was going to happen you mindless fucksticks? DEAL WITH IT! Especially if you live in the UK – no reasonable person would choose to live in a place with such abominable weather and the miserable island’s small enough you can get your pasty arse on a pushbike and peddle to fucking work!  

 

 

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Afterthought: The CEO of Caltex came out and said people should use less fuel. Doesn’t that indicate something? I mean, what sort of CEO asks you to buy less of his product? People, fuckin’ stupid people, bah!

Eugenic Fantasies Inspired By Vocal Toolishness.

 

Yobbos who yell things out of cars. They are the stupidest creatures on the planet. Aside from the fact that they have nothing to say to anyone ever because their brains have atrophied from a lack of education and an excess of pre-mixed bourbon and cola, they fail to realize that whatever they scream out of the window of their work-in-progress Holden Commodores is unintelligible to anyone other than themselves. The slurred speech of drunken fucktards is bad enough but when flying past at 80km/h it’s completely indecipherable. It might as well be shrieking baboons. In fact, if angry baboons were caning a Commodore up Royal Parade shrieking at cyclists you probably wouldn’t know the difference. I’m pretty sure they weren’t baboons.

 

I find cycling quite a focused experience. There are plenty of things to be watchful for, fuckwits opening car doors without looking, fuckwits changing lanes without looking, fuckwits in trucks, taxis, buses, old fuckwits in hats, fuckwits in Volvos, any fuckwit with a fish sticker anywhere on their car and all manner of other psychopaths. But despite the exhaust fumes and the constant threat of death, there is something free and solitary about cycling that I like. Plus, it keeps me away from the plethora of annoying cunts I might take to task for their various transgressions should I be locked in close quarters with them on public transport. Yes, cycling is wonderful…until some cockbrain screams in your ear as he and his fuckwit mates hoon past. Screaming…for free…just because they’re tools.

 

It had been a quiet ride, so the jolt of random, aggressive toolishness scared the absolute shit out of me, I swerved away from the sudden noise and realised this placed me on a collision course with a very nice parked BMW, still spooked, I think I must have over-corrected and braked at the same time. After that everything is crystalline: the front wheel locked and its tyre gripped the bitumen perfectly pitching the back wheel off the ground and me forward towards a muddy white lane marking on the oily black road. My hands came out in front of me by reflex and I thought for a fragment of a second I might be able to roll out of it. One of my shoe cleats, however, had not disengaged from the pedal so the bike pursued me and, as my body was slowed by its impact with the somewhat unforgiving tarmac, my bike found safe refuge by pounding itself into the yielding softness of MY BALLS!!! Fade to grey.

 

I lay tangled in my bike in a crumpled mess on the road. My face resting against the soothingly cool, filthy bitumen, my knees and hands hurting somewhere vaguely in the distance. I writhed half-heartedly in near silence for a while. The all-consuming grey fog of ball-pain gradually lifted and I kicked myself free of the bike, rolling over to inspect the damage. Torn jeans, minor grazing, some juicy bruises to look forward to – Ah, get fucked! The bike appeared fine so with effort I gathered myself up.

 

The last time I fell off my bike was 1989…hmm, that unique mixture of pain and humiliation never changes. My inner seven year-old wanted to cry but thankfully my inner nine year-old was there to call him a pansy so we all got ourselves on the bike and eased into the tight, uncomfortable ride home you get peddling with unskinned flesh.

 

I’ve always been averse to notions like eugenics but…maybe I’ve been too hasty. Fuck ’em! If we could isolate the gene for a propensity to be a complete fuckhole in a car, and compulsorily sterilise anyone with it, the fuckwits will never pass it on to anyone ever again – the world would be a much better place. Genius, and while we’re in the lab there’s a whole bunch of other fuckers out there who shouldn’t be breeding. Bring it on! We can lay waste to all the world’s fuckwits, sure it’ll take a good 100 years for the current crop to die out, but what a grand day it would be, a world without fuckwits…

 

I think I need to have a lie down. Must take the helmet off.

 

 

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Germophobia, stupidity and poo particles.

Germophobia is stupid, like most phobias I guess. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big fan of hygiene but, fucking hell people, get it in perspective! The world is a dirty place and you yourself, no matter how much you scrub, are dirty. Yes, you, you dirty bastard! You are fucking filthy! Even when you’re clean you’re covered and filled with all manner of bacteria and microbes. So beyond basic cleanliness you might as well just get over it.

 

I had to have a quick slash in a public toilet today and whilst washing my hands I noticed a guy by the door who was pretending to talk on his mobile phone. Actually faking a conversation and occasionally sneaking furtive looks back at me. Weird. Was he there for a sly bummy?  I wasn’t about to ask, I dried my hands and left. He followed me through the door, I mean immediately behind me. I realised the sad fucker just didn’t want to touch the door handle. What a complete ballbag! How long had he been waiting there? Waiting at the door pretending to talk to his fake friends desperately hoping someone would let him out of the toilet.

 

Get a fucking grip! The same germophobic ballbag would touch door handles everywhere else in his life. Door handles, ATMs, shop counters and money that would doubtlessly have been touched by someone who doesn’t wash their hands. Someone with poo on their hands – maybe not big chunks but poo particles, at least. The harsh reality is that there are poo particles everywhere. Everytime someone farts and you smell it  – poo particles – in your lungs! That’s right someone else’s poo in your lungs. Deal with it! Plenty of people don’t wash their hands after going to the loo, fuckin’ bio-terrorists!, whether for a piss, a shit or even a crafty phone-wank. So it may be piss, blood or jizz particles, whatever it’s got germs in it. Everything does, everything you touch, everything you eat, it all has poo in it. Oh for God’s sake, STOP SCREAMING!!! What are you gonna do? Spend your life wrapped in cling film?

 

Before you go completely berko and start spraying everything in sight with anti-bacterial bullshit spray like those maniacs on the ads, here’s another thought: The sprays only kill 99.9% of germs. I’m going to assume most of you have heard of Darwin and his theory of evolution, survival of the fittest and all that. If you kill 99.9% of the germs regularly, what you’re left with is 0.1% of the germs. What do they do? The don’t just hang out in a little corner minding their own business, they breed. Like bastards! They breed and evolve and get nastier because they can’t be killed by your stupid spray. Don’t believe me? Go to hospital, they’ve got the deadliest bugs ever discovered in your local hospital, that’s why the doctors want you to leave. No, it’s not just to free up beds because the health system’s completely fucked, it’s because the longer you’re there, the more chance there is you’ll catch some really bad shit and die.

 

Remember you have an immune system. Its job is to react against threats to your body by surrounding and destroying them. If you insist on circumventing your own immune system like a namby, germophobic nob-end, it won’t work properly when you need it to. So in conclusion, if you want to stay healthy, wash your hands, keep yourself clean but don’t be afraid to eat a bit of poo every now and then, and for fuck’s sake, don’t fake-talk on your mobile in public toilets waiting for some other fucker to open the door for you ‘cause if I see you I’ll fucking sneeze on you – just to make you lose your mind!

 

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Door-to-door Euthanasia – The Business Of The Future!

I had a great idea for a direct marketing business today. It just came to me. Door-to-door Euthanasia. Genius! Think about it:- The planet’s chronically overpopulated, we’re consuming natural resources at a thoroughly unsustainable rate and we’re polluting our environment to an extent that the planet will be uninhabitable by humans within 100 years. The human race is done. Most people are already killing themselves, in a slow, cowardly consumerist way at least: cigarettes, alcohol, junk food, drugs, mobile phones, driving whilst doing any or all of the former. Most of these people recognise the subtly suicidal undertones to these behaviours. Most of these people also wouldn’t be able to give you any decent justification for their continuing existence on the planet. It’s a pretty easy sell.

Huddled into their dingy homes crammed with unused exercise machines and sporting memorabilia, glued to commercial TV banality, stuffing their obese bodies with fatty home delivered death, all the while decaying intellectually and spiritually, and refusing to participate in the affluent democracy that spawned them. All they want is someone to show them a product they can buy, that doesn’t require any effort on their part other than an outlay of cash, and that will solve all their problems – forever.

It’s just an idea at this stage and I realise I’d have to dress it up with some quasi-spiritual promise of wealth, stardom and beauty in some sort of afterlife. Not to mention a serious money-back guarantee, but I’m on to something, that’s for sure.

Oh fuck, I’ve turned into Satan! I gotta start looking for another line of work, I don’t think I’m very well.

The Dehumanising Onset Of Sickness.

Ah, I’m getting sick. It’s absolutely fucked. I could feel the lump starting at the back of my throat and putting just the slightest pressure on my right ear-drum this morning. There was just a hint of a sniffle and I just knew that tomorrow I’ll wake up as sick as a bitch, sore throat, snot factory, hot dry eyes and in a cunt of a mood!

 

I don’t suppose I should be surprised, call centres are breeding grounds for disease. The whole place is a fucking bio-hazard and should be bombed to shit. Sniffling, sneezing, coughing mouth-breathers everywhere. Fuck! I’m an obsessive fucking cleanliness freak at work. We have these alcohol wipes for the headsets, I use about five or six at the beginning of every shift. I sterilize the headset, keyboard, mouse, monitor, desk, everything. Who the fuck knows who was here last? And, fuck, let me tell you there are people who work here who you don’t want to share anything with. I don’t even trust the cups in the kitchen at work. Even if they look clean I hold them under the boiling water tap before using them.

 

But despite my best efforts, flu shots included, I’ve caught something. I fucking felt it all day, it’s like a cloud of retardedness has descended on me. Everything is just a little out of phase, I’m just half a step off normal. I rammed my shin into the corner of the bed while I was getting ready for work this morning. I swore like a bastard. Fuck, it hurt. I poured boiling water on my hand at work while sterilising my cup. It fucking hurt too but wasn’t bad, I put it straight under cold water, it probably won’t even blister. Still, I felt like a tool and it was another sign that something was wrong.

 

I finally decided to go home after I sneezed and everything turned green. Not only did I nearly deafen the guy I was on the phone to, I had viscous green mucous all down my face and in my hand. It was fucking revolting. I excused myself from the call and reached my free hand into a pocket searching for tissue…to no avail, there were none to be found. I started to get up and realised that my headset mic was entirely hidden within an enormous gob of phlegm connected by a green umbilicus to my top lip. The nice goth girl sitting next to me actually dry retched.  I am hideous. I went to the loo, with my headset, cleaned up and left for the day. Ah, kill me!

Idiots Enslaved By Technology.

The life of a market research interviewer is tedious at best. Sitting in a booth phoning people and boring them to death with mundane questions about crap they don’t care about. I’m serious, where the fuck do you find people aged 18-34 who don’t use libraries but do want to spend 15 minutes answering questions about why they don’t use them? Genius! Aren’t you glad you pay tax?

I freely acknowledge that my job is stupid, pointless and on occasions invasive but I’m constantly amazed by the psychotic levels of rage it incites in seemingly ordinary people, and for that matter how stupid most people are. I mean, I don’t sell anything, I’m not asking for money, all I want is time. If you don’t have any or if you’re not interested, no worries. Thanks for your time, see ya – I move on. But, no,  people lose their shit. It seems to me that there are a massive number of people who are so disempowered and shat-upon in their regular lives that they need to cut loose at someone, anyone,  and the lowly, anonymous market research interviewer is a perfect target. Most of them are pretty unimaginative:

Fuck off, ya fuckin’ cunt!

That’s cool. Occasionally, I get mildly more imaginative attempts.

You shouldn’t be phoning me, I’m on the witness protection programme.

Yeah, and you tell people that? Smart. But then there are the people who think we’re deliberately targeting them ‘cause they’re oh so important!

Why do you call at dinner time, everyone’s having their dinner, don’t you people know that?

Oh yeah, that’s right, this is the legally designated, universal, unvarying time when the evening meal is consumed, it can’t ever happen at another time and we’re calling you so yours gets cold. Are you stupid? Fuck off and die!

Dontcha know I’m watchin’ the fuckin’ footy?

Of course I do, I can see you on the camera we put in your lounge room, I’m just ringing to fuck with your puny mind! Would you like to buy some DVDs of you shagging your dog?

Then there’s people who go crazy that they have a silent number and I’ve rung them on it, and they don’t even know me. Angry as piss because they pay for something that doesn’t prevent anyone calling them. I’m polite to these people but Jesus they’re ridiculous because, despite their protestations, they don’t actually want to end the call. They want to crap on and on and make me feel guilty for intruding into their lives – never gonna happen! I’d be happy to leave them in peace but they won’t let me, they want to lecture me on being an evil fucker for wasting their lives. Shit, I’m not wasting it, fuckface, it’s a phone – HANG THE FUCKER UP!!!

For fuck’s sake, do you have to answer your phone? If you don’t want to speak to people, don’t, I don’t make you. Just don’t pick it up. Stop being a slave to your technology! Get the fuck over it! And while we’re at it, if you’re angry at your life don’t expect me to give a fat rat’s clacker – hell, I’ve got my own shit to deal with. Pathetic Pavlovian shit-brains – I have absolutely no cunting sympathy! Don’t answer your phone if you don’t wanna talk to people! Don’t respond to the bell like a dog to a whistle! Remember – YOU HAVE FREE WILL. Well, some of us do.

This is the saddest thing. So many people have become completely enslaved by their means of communication. I’ve called people who have answered the phone while fucking. They don’t usually tell me but it’s pretty obvious what’s going on. Then they have the nerve to get mad at me about it. Hey, I’m not the fucktard who answers his phone mid-root. Damn, isn’t that what voicemail’s for? Ooh, but what if it’s important? If it’s important they’ll ring back. People are stupid. The human race is doomed!

How To Lose Friends & Gross The Fuck Out Of People.

Am I just old? Am I repressed? Am I a prude? I wouldn’t have thought so, but I have been forced to reconsider. Like most people in the world who aren’t being starved to death by western capitalism, I have a Facebook page, and surprising as it may seem, I have friends. Well…I have people who have added me as “friends” and that’s really what it’s all about – the appearance of popularity.

The problem I’ve always found with social groups of any sort is there are people who are your friends, and then there are people who you’re just supposed to accept because they have some space-time connection to the group. They don’t necessarily fit, and they may give everyone the right royal shits but for some reason no-one has the heart to fuck them off. Note well: If your social group doesn’t have a crap friend like this, have a good think because that crap friend may just be you.

Normally groups find ways of containing the unpleasant or embarrassing behaviour of crap friends Shutup Shon! Don’t worry, he’s OK, he’s just a bit of a tool.  But Facebook removes that ability to contain. It allows crap friends free reign to publish their inappropriateness to your whole social network. It allows the crapness to spew forth like a geyser of well…look up tubgirl if you really want to know. Actually, don’t.

I’ll get to the point. I logged into my profile for the first time in a couple of weeks and was shocked to find one of my brother’s crap friends had sent me a big picture of goatse. I wasn’t familiar with goatse and for those of you who also haven’t experienced it, in the name of taming it down, here’s a jack-a-lantern depiction of it.

Let me tell you, I’m not easily unsettled but goatse is fucking gross. But that wasn’t really what shat me. What really fucked me off was that for a week my real friends had been confronted with a hideous goatse on my page that had not been removed…for a week, therefore lending credence to the notion that I found it funny or acceptable or that it was in some sense my taste. I mean, fuck! People I work with, people I respect are checking my profile and one lowbrow fucker I added out of guilt is fucking my relationships up because he has no sense of the appropriate and has no internal censor. Inappropriate shit should be at least contained to personal emails, not broadcast to everyone you know.

So, before I have my entire social life undermined by one sick bastard, I’m getting honest. I’m doing some Facebook pruning and I urge you to do the same. Anyone who offends me or who I don’t genuinely like is going. That’s it, you’re out, get fucked! If you’re more of a liability than an asset, fuck off! It sounds mercenary, nasty and intolerant but I don’t give a fuck. If I embarrass myself that’s one thing, I’ll even cope with friends embarrassing me, but when some random shitstick vandalises my social page with grotesque fetishist wankery it’s time to cut the ties. NO MORE FACEBOOK GUILT FRIENDS!!! Fuck you, crap friends!

Paw Paw Pocket Protection.

 So Nick D’arcy has been banned from the Beijing  Olympic Games once again. Thank fuck for that! The little fucker’s lucky his dad’s a fucking plastic surgeon or he wouldn’t be able to afford all the lawyers, and he’s appealing again. What do the poor violent athletes do? How do they cope? 

My joy at justice actually working was short-lived, however. I had a $2 bet with a co-worker that D’Arcy would be allowed to go. I was glad to lose the bet but I reached into my left trouser pocket where I keep my keys and coins and pulled out a handful of Oh fucking hell! Horror. Both mine and hers as I proffered a fist full of keys and coins clumped together thick with the lip-balm that had evidently suffered a packaging failure in the same pocket. Our eyes met and for a fraction of a second I think she actually believed I was being premeditatedly weird. I exited stage left to the bathroom with all appropriate haste and stealth. Please, don’t let The Wobblers see me with a fist full of lubricated keys!

 

In the bathroom I started using paper towel to soak up, wipe away the lip balm. Fuck! There was so much of it. One little tube of Lucas’ Paw Paw goes a fuck of a long way. After scraping all the excess grease of my hands, keys and change I had to wash them with soap to remove the rest of it. I recommend Lucas’ Paw Paw Ointment for its staying power. Three or four washes got them more or less clean, the keys still feel a little more moisturised than keys should. I looked in the mirror. Cunt, bollocks and shit! The pocket! I remembered I still had a pocket full of warm grease. I remembered it because I saw that it had fucking soaked through to make a vaguely cummy-looking grease stain on the front of my pants. I turned the pocket inside out and scraped as much lip balm as I could out of the fabric. The greasy stain I was stuck with. I couldn’t risk getting busted washing and drying my pants in the bathroom, not at work.

 

I returned to the phone room. I paid my debt with the cleanest coins seen outside the mint and went back to work. I’ve spent the rest of the day trying not to notice the faces of people as they notice my stain. Fuckin’ dirty pants-starers! Looks of disdain and disgust, I’m sure tales of my depravity and perversion will fill my foul workplace for months to come. IT’S NOT CUM, YOU FILTHY-MINDED BASTARDS!!! IT’S ON THE LEFT, HOW WOULD I CUM IN MY OWN POCKET??? IT’S LIP-BALM!!! IT FUCKIN’ BROKE OPEN IN MY CUNTING POCKET! YES, IT’S GROSS! I SHITTING WELL HATE IT TOO!!!

 

I should make clear this is not a sledge on a product and that I will continue to use the same lip-balm, it’s good. The truly fucking horrible  thought is that I might have to invest in a man bag to avert future such misadventures. A cunting man bag – ah, I might as well just cut off my own balls! It’s all cunts! I think I’m getting sick. I hate my life.