Fucketh ye not

This guy owed him upwards of 50k. He gave him every chance, but in the end... man. And you know what he did, he left his squeaky right there as a warning. I swear the cops shit where they stood.

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Table number 666

My attention span shrinks ever further like a wet slug under a salt shaker. Today I've failed to get to the end of two especially interesting and well-written New Yorker articles. There's no hope for me. Especially after I nearly threw something at the telly when an Orange advert presented itself with breathtakingly bad grammar. That sentence, and this one, is probably also equally executed as poorly but, fuck it.

Oh dear, and now I've just failed to read an article about gourmet dog food. But then I have been sitting here twotting about for some hours, and besides there are few things pointlesser than gourmet dog food. BK greets every dry dish of complete food - which I admit I do try and vary the flavour of from giant bag to giant bag - with such unadulterated joy that I can't imagine him being happier with dripping steak. When he's chewing his first mouthful, he turns his head to look at me, and wags his tail as he chomps, then gets back to it. Then when he's finished he comes to find me and thank me with more waggings and smiling. Aw.

Oh dear, and now I've become the thing I hate the most, one of those people who drivel on about their pets. Although actually a) BK is not a pet, he is a tame dependent wolf beast and friendly oaf and b) there are lots of things I hate so much more and so much more vehemently, including people who put gold jewellery on babies, and the Chinese government. (More coming soon.)

Presently I'm harbouring germs. I tend to sort of foster passing germs for a few days, feel pathetically incapable, and then turf them out again. These ones are at least vaguely trippy, which is courteous of them. I must have a decent immune system, which goes nicely with my decent metabolism and muscle tone, all of which I've sorely tested with years of indolence and eclairs and going out without a coat on. I get all cross when germs stop me from doing things, despite the fact that if I had no germs at all I'd blatantly go straight to the sofa for seven straight hours of blissful sloth. Ho hum.

There is never anything worth watching on TV unless it's on More4 which Sky won't give me. Does this mean I'm getting old?

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