Fuck me Stretch-wise
I have been crazed all goddam day. Not once today has my brain locked into a normal pattern of behaviour. Ask my loved ones. Pure unadulterated insanity. Bow-wow.
Turned on the Pat Kenny dog and cat wormer show. Very odd. It’s like the missing link between Questions and Answers and the fucking Jeremy Kyle show. There were these banker people who all had 14 chins each. It made me vomit into my paella-ella-ella. Vermin. Since no one is accountable for anything anymore in this country, I am proposing a radical solution: Punch a Banker day!
I’m not talking about low-level shirt’n’tie-wearing prairie dogs. I’m talkin pure pig. The double-triple-chinned ones, with their ill-fitting suits hiding the globulous fat of a thousand lunches paid for by my Henry the fucking Hippo account. Sneering at people who can’t afford their ridiculous mortgages, yet willing to lend these suckers the money in the first place. MONEY that these bastards didn’t even have to lend. No, no kudos dudos!
Someone’s gotta pay and with all the durthy priesteys, the bankers know you and I and my jobbing plumber Golden Retriever will have to give more of our wages to sort this shit out. Fair enough. I can do that. The economy comes first. I get that. However, when Mr or Mrs Pig Pigulous gets off working their way through our pockets, let them be reminded who bailed them out. Punch them. That’s right. In the face. No anger, just a quick bruising punch. Maybe have a quota, so they won’t y’know all be killed the very first day. Although, knowing this silly country, that’s what would happen. Great Irlanda, thanks for ruining another fine fucking idea. Not for the first time, you have ruined my day with your aggressive ways and poor grammar. I’m going to bed. Shag off!
Jesus, the eighties were deranged. That goes for you too Judd Nelson!