Catherine Zeta Shut-the-fuck-up!

You sho think you got problems, mos def? You ain't seen Michael's bags of delight. They of the hook

You sho think you got problems, mos def? You ain’t seen Michael’s bags of delight. They off the hook, bitch. OFF. THE. HOOK.

Stretch here…headache

So, am in work, in hell, in distress and all this munki can think about is a nice big bubble bath, wine, some quaaludes and a plastic bag for cheap thrills, when some dumb Catherine Zeta Jones movie comes on the work TV. I ignore it for a while wondering why nobody in hell turns it down…

Previously today: Went to sit on toilet. Toilet seat up. Fell into toilet. Sore.

Working away and I can hear her horrible American accent tinged with Welsh banging out of the television. No one seems bothered. There is some band in the park across the road playing “THE MUSIC OF 1974.” It’s grating. Each song starts with a dumb bu-doom-doom-doom bassline and I feel like I’m stuck in some circle of hell, namely the one that involves Irish weddings. I knew then that if Sweet Carolina came on, I would throw my munki ass through the window and fall three storeys to my tragic mild injuries.

Previously today: Driving down road. Car pulls out and almost wings me. I brake and scowl the munki scowl. Some form of pubescent with enough silver on their teeth to bring down a werewolf smiles apologetically. THEY ALLOW BRACED HUMANS TO DRIVE. FUCK ME!

My knuckles were white hot, typing, moving shit, fixing things, checking to see if the internet was still there, sending pointless emails, when the TV sound spiked. My little munki hands automatically flew to my ears in some nature versus evil impulse. Nature was losing and my mind started to bleed. What in the name of Charlton Heston’s nipples is that?

Previously today: Realised lately that my munki eyebrows have developed a few white hairs, not abnormal for the elders of my breed. Tried to pluck one out. No joy. Tried again. No joy. Frustrated, I did one of those screaming concentration faces and went for it. Result, big fucking hole in my eyebrow. White hair still there. Crap.

I unsquinted my boiling eyes and managed to spy CATHERINE FUCKING ZETA JONES jauntily singing “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover” by Meredith Baxter, while driving her car. WILL SOMEBODY TURN THAT SHITE OFF? was screamed to no one in particular by my mouth and three others simultaneously. The double effect of Baxter and a slightly off-sync, slightly off key Catherine Zeta Shut-the-fuck-up made up my mind. I jumped up and in a shrill voice, said “Fuck this Catherine Zeta Shit, I fucking Quit.”

I walked down to my car, feeling relieved. I took deep breaths, listened to the birds, listened to the trees, but most of all, listened to me.

The last thing I heard as the plastic bag went over my head was a horrible Welsh voice screaming,

“I’m a bitch I’m a lover
I’m a child, I’m a mother
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I’m your hell, I’m your dream
I’m nothing in between
You know you wouldn’t want it any other way”

Fuck it, I thought. Dying’s gotta be better off than hearing the next verse.
as my eyeballs popped and my veins reached the maximum width they’re allowed under munki medical law, this lovely song came into my head.

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