The first in an occasional series regarding the petty reality-turds that have been squatting on My Tits in recent times. Behold, mindless scum: colonic irrigation for the soul.
I know your game, ASIAN NURSE and PLUMP WHITE-CHICK IN SHORTSHORTS. I understand how your sick need to be WATCHED by the fat shadowpeople (with the venetian blinds further up the street) has prevented you from buying curtains like normal people, in order to cover your stupid windows with their stupid cutout paper hearts. I know you race home every day to switch on every light in the flat so the whole 2nd and 3rd floor west-side-of-the-street community is FORCED to watch you slobbed out on your student-reject sofa like wolfmothers with no hairless pups to suckle. Yes.
But don't you SEE how you RUIN my day? Don't you understand that my desk of BRAINWORKINGS is poised at this window right here to stave-off the mewling sunlessness of The Nocturnal Instinct? Don't you GET IT that your refusal to conceal your own HORRIBLENESS cripples my ability to stare upon MY STREET without Getting All Flustered about the risk of being mistaken for a voyeur? Have you no consideration for my British Reservedness? My inner awk? This is view-sabotage! This is window-blackmail!
But I'll have the last laugh you dirty shitters, oh-ho-yes. Every night when you're drinking cheap wine and watching Eastenders I'm giving you psychic cancer with my T.V. aerial aimed at your eyes. HA.
HATING OUT OF TEN: 6.5/10
2) HANGOVERS (See also: Getting Old).
Eight beers max-i-mum, Honest. No mixing. Going slow, yes, yes. No chugging, downing, quaffing or snorting. Big glass of water upon arrival home. Preventative paracetamol administered with same. Easy-peasy. Yes, yes, yes.
No. Half a day written-off with the braincinders. Morning arseraped by Hot Coal Eyeballs and horizontal tendencies. TV too loud, shower too hot, breakfast too vomit-inducing.
I miss the Old Days.
HATING OUT OF TEN: 4/10.
Feathered shitbombing rats of the air. Look at them from head-on and you'll notice their eyes move in different directions at the same time, like chameleons. Who knew? They have magnets in their brain! It's been PROVED with NUMBERS and GRAPHS that pigeons who lose a foot do not find it any harder to find fuckmates, food and shitbombing targets than the ones with a full appendage complement!
To summarise: a species with superior surveillance equipment, sophisticated inbuilt navigational tools and the kind of hardiness we can only dream of - a clear and present THREAT to our dominance - which little old ladies FEED IN THE FUCKING PARK so they get BRAVE and FAT and PISSY and EAT MY FUCKING SUSHI right off the FUCKING TABLE while I'm trying to relax.
(Special HATING EXCEPTION goes to the two males who've set-up shop on the roof opposite my window - above the No Curtain People, in fact - like an avian bordello, where they spend all day strutting, puffing, cooing, and violently raping the one-footed female who keeps landing on the window-spikes because she hasn't learned her fucking lesson. HA!)
HATING OUT OF TEN: 4/10
4) BUSINESS CARDS.
Stylish or clear? Dark or light? One-sided or doublebacked? Standard horizontal ho-hummery or pretentious vertical smuggism? And oh, oh, oh: The fonts and fonts and fonts. The arranging elements and pithy puns and, look: WHAT single classy beautifully-defined image reveals in a turd-nugget of clarity everything about me? What gradient-filled border-pattern best reflects my political views? What colour scheme CUTS TO THE CORE of my TRUE and SECRET SOUL, unknown to any other but the floating red cube-goblin who used to hover over my bed at night when I was 6 (with the black stockings on his arms and the goggly orange eyes), which will reveal in a single visual EXPLOSION my obvious qualities to the clients/editors/cute chicks in bars back when I was single but not any more no no no/respected peers to whom I'll be distributing these bloody buggering bollocking slices of 87X49mm HATE?
And then it prints wrong. COCKPORRIDGE.
HATING OUT OF TEN: 7/10