That pure Cane Spirit since 1848.

Monday, December 12, 2005

…and there beneath the lamplight I met a Southern Belle…

We all deal with Mondays in our own way. With experience we have developed routines that serve us well till four-ish when we start to come round a bit. Some buckle down, low profile, don’t talk to me I’m having flashbacks from Saturday, some stare out the window till Tuesday, some share with TRUSTED confidants just how much of a tit they’ve been.

What no one wants, is any outward sign of enthusiasm or joy.
This is held universally to be such bad form. It requires no discussion. It’s a, a given (truly, an utterly hateful expression).

Imagine then the damage that a big wholehearted double knit Simon MacCorkindale type can wreak with his gigantic kinematic envelope and huge hands. Why doesn’t he find some other fucking calling? Go and feed the world the cunt? Sink the U-boats with a penknife and an empty Bovril tin anything in fact but get him the fuck away from me! I won’t be responsible I won‘t…what a fuckbag.

Roundup Update: That Hungbunny bloke has done a roundup and all it is, is a picture of a BIG TURD. See here. Is he jealous or coming the cunt?

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