Were you in the garden of The Met bar in Didsbury today (22nd April 2011) at 5 or 5.30pm? Are you a clumsy lumpen dredge of human waste? Did you lunge into the path of a poor soul carrying a tray of drinks (1 bottle of wild berry cider, one pint of cloudy cider, one pint of Sam Smiths, one lemonade, and one overpriced bag of potato scabs), sending all into the air in a downpour of ice and liquid? Did you arrogantly look the, rightly pissed off, person up and down and then turn back to your friends? Did you apologise?
No you didn’t, did you. You clumsy shite, you spilt all my drinks and didn’t even have the manners to apologise. I poked you in the shoulder and said you’ve just knocked fifteen quids worth of drinks on the floor. Your reply, what do you want me to do about it? What do you think? Have you ever been in a society before? An apology would be nice for starters; a sincere one. If I thought you gave a shit then you might have been able to claw back from arsehole to clumsy thicko. My fiancée said, if that had happened in Ireland you’d have got a sincere apology and twice the drinks bought for you. She’s right as well, and I’d likely have made a new friend.
You could start by buying me some drinks, you prick. “I haven’t got any money.” Really. Really??? You should be ashamed of yourself. Yes it was an accident, but it was clearly your fault, and any decent well-mannered civilised person would be embarrassed and contrite. Apologies at least, and preferably getting a round in are without doubt, the done thing in this situation. You are less than half a human being. Your testicles are peanuts, and your cock is a cross-eyed parasitic worm. Your spine is an old whore’s-bath dish rag, and your breath stinks like one.
I wish the blood vessels in my vengeful eyeballs to lurch out and choke your unapologetic throat. I wish upon you the demon hell spunk of GG Allin to fill you with its poisonous piss disease. May the tips of your fingers burn; you try and try to reach your severed manhood as it sinks below the surface of the deep fat fryer. May the debt for your sins pass on to every generation that you begat, and may your firstborn spurn you from the age it can speak.
You need special medicine to live.