London's Commute

There was a cunt in the tube who bumped into me, so I punched him until my knuckles turned his nose into scarlet mashed potatoes. And when I got to work my boss told me -with one of those smiles that would make a child molester sitting behind a cheerlader blush- he told me: ‘Oh, so sorry, but you’re gonna have to do some overtime this weekend. So sorry. You know how it is, yeah?’ Yeah, I bloody well know how it bloody is and I right showed him by kneeing him in the groin so hard I heard a cracking sound, like peanut shells getting cracked in an old drunkard’s hands.

Then I break for lunch and I queue up for ten minutes because some fat cunt in front of me doesn’t know if he wants extra cheese or not and I’m pinching my thighs through my pockets, wishing I had a fucking Uzi so I could mow down these cunts and do the world a favour, because you’ve gotta give credit to the Israeli: they know how to make weapons to kill lots of people quickly and efficiently. So then it’s my turn and I ask for a tuna sandwich, but they’re all out of tuna so the overweight slag behind the counter, who’s obviously over-compensating for looking like a dog’s fanny by smiling her yellow-toothed grin at me, asks me if I’d like a BLT instead and I feel my brains leakin’ out of my nose because what the fucking fuck, you bleeping cunt? How is a BLT even remotely like tuna? So I grab a plastic fork and shove it into her neck and the satisfying warm red geyser truly makes my day, like no wank’s ever made it before.

Then it’s back to work and Kathy from accounting keeps rambling on about some kinda form I gotta sign before some time in the near future and my ears bleed pus and I just scream like a Banshee and grab her head between my hands and, like some demented Asian hard cunt in a demented Asian flick, I squeeze her skull with all my might and I feel it cave in under my palms and I sceam a scream of satisfaction, because, frankly, my underpants feel a bit moister than they should feel -not that I’m complaining, mind you- and her eyes pop out and her tongue sticks out and her brains splatter my second-hand Saville Row suit and why the fuck not? I well fucking deserve it, don’t I?

Then I go for a pint all on my lonesome, as per usual, because fuck my mates and their mates and all the mates in the motherfucking world fucking their motherfucking mates. Anyway, I order a pint of lager and light a fag and some posh bent cunt tells me I can’t be smokin’ in here and I don’t even flinch, I smash my glass on his head and, somehow, a shard finds its way in his jugular and there’s some more warm arterial spray showering yours truly and oh, well. It beats a fucking Guiness, at the end of the day.

I’m such a fucking hard cunt. Yeah.

Yeah.

And my imagination is worth a fucking billion pounds, as I stare at my shoes that need shinin’ while some skinhead wankers ramble on in the tube, and I smile at my boss and show him my pearly whites and go: ‘Yes, of course Mr. Parker, sir!’ and skamper off to my desk to type some report. And who cares if I don’t have tuna, as long as I’m fed. I mean, it’s not their fault if they’re out of tuna. Bacon and lettuce will be just fine. Hold the tomatoes, though, please. Oh, you can’t? Well, haha: That’s ok. I’ll just take them out myself, no worries. My pleasure, really. And, oh, sorry Mary, I thought I’d signed that report yesterday, but if you say I haven’t, then obviously you must be right because, obviously, I am never right and so I’ll be happy to sign my name next to the signature I clearly signed yesterday. Haha. What’s the point of arguing anyway?

Don’t mind me. I’ll just go on home and feed my cat and watch the Inbetweeners and empty a bottle of cheap red, then I’ll probably have a wank thinking about Will’s mum and turn in. And I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.
As always.