There are times where you feel like slapping someone. Those pigs in ‘Angry Bird’ that won’t die, drivers in front of you or a minger that talks non stop about how beautiful she is.
This happened to me and my mate Simon while we were at the pub sometime last week. An old friend, I supposed, came uninvited sitting next to us and started yapping and whining about everything wrong in her life; which was everything, while we were happily contributing to the Irish economy by enjoying a couple of pints of Guinness. We were supposed to contribute to the Oxfordshire economy with some ‘Old Speckled Hen’ but as the saying goes, “Beggars Can’t Be Choosers”.
Let me make it clear. It wasn’t her breath that did it. It wasn’t because she wasn’t fit. It wasn’t because she had one too many. It wasn’t because she was criticising Simon & me. It wasn’t because of her mom who called her in the middle of her yabber yabber yap yap. It wasn’t because of her slurring speech. It wasn’t because of her criticising Kuantan. It wasn’t because we were forced to agree to all thing said by her. It wasn’t her fake Australian accent too.
So what was it then?
It was her bloody tits.
She hasn’t got any of it.
It is like a rubber tree been tapped dry for latex.
The only difference is, a rubber tree contributes to the community while her hole in that face don’t.
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