Family Values #3
It’s a well-known fact [amongst everybody that I talk to] that my boyfriend’s niece lives with us.
She’s lived with us for quite a while and I hate the bitch.
It’s not that she’s a huge great big fat mingger [20 ½ stone] or the fact that she’s a dirty, sluttish, lazy whore.
It’s just that you cannot shop for, prepare, cook or serve up food without her being there. [None of the above, or what follows is an exaggeration].
If he [David, the B/F], I, or we go to Morrisons she either gets wind of it and wants to come too. Or, upon returning from Morrisons, she will wait until we have lugged the whole lot of stuff up to the flat before emerging from her lair to investigate what we’ve bought. She will then give us the benefit of her knowledge telling us what we should or shouldn’t have bought [in this, she is like her Father [David’s brother, Eamon.] He’s a fukin expert in what other people should and shouldn’t do, that’s why he’s now living hand to mouth back in Northern Ireland. Best place for him, I say!].
If either of us is throwing together a meal, the moment the fridge or freezer door is opened, again she appears.
Although we’ve checked and can’t find anything, we recon that she has the doors wired up to a buzzer in her room, such is the turn of speed of her arrival.
She tries to cover this spying with some contrived pretext; getting a drink of water etc. More often than not, she will start to cook as well.
[History] On the two occasions she has lived with us before, [when she was at Uni] the first time in the pub at Harrow, she had a habit of putting things in the oven, laying down [she never sits, she’s like Jabba The Hut] to watch the TV and then falling asleep with the result that the house was generally full of smoke with the fire alarm going like hell. On the last occasion she did this she didn’t wake up when the alarm went off and only came to when I threw the TV remote at her. Shortly after, she moved into a flat with two of her mates.
The second time was, some two years later, when we had the bar in Covent Garden. Although she was still at Uni, she didn’t seem to attend many lectures, just laid around watching the TV and poking King Size Chunky KitKats into her face [well you don’t get that fat eating Ryvita!].
At the time, I had a couple of weeks on the sick [the bitten ear lark] so had the opportunity to observe her…. Close up, so to speak.
She would deign to rise at around midday and head for Tesco Metro [Notice the lack of shit, shower etc.]. One thing I will say in her favour is that she cooks, none of your ready-made stuff, she’ll buy the ingredients and rattle grub up from scratch.
Well having returned and rattled it all together using every pot and pan in the bloody house, she would scoff it down and then follow it up with a nice lay down more often than not, complimented with a little nap.
Not that she would ever zizz for long, within a couple of hours the house would be shuddering to the sound of her belly rumbling and of she would be to Tesco and a repeat of the whole cycle.
Anyway being able to see the whole daily cycle of this, it was obvious that she was eating four, sometimes five times a day.
Well, after we left Covent Garden, David went to run a pub in Victoria and I went to do the same in Hove [next to Brighton. Reminds me of the portaloos at gay pride, two shithouses next-door to each other, both full of fags!].
Having done that for a couple of years I jacked it in and came back to London and my beloved Dave who by then had moved from Victoria to our present locale, Regents Park[ish]
Fat Bird had by now left Uni having passed her 11+ in being a lawyer and was back living with Dave. Difference being, that now she’s working, she pays rent.
Not enough rent for my liking but it covers the fact that she’s too fat to get in the bath so when she showers, her saddlebags hang over the edge of the bath and the floor gets piss wet through.
She must have a cunt like a bucket and an arse hole like a pail coz she goes through a jumbo, pub sized loo role every two days [you should see the size of the tag-nuts she leaves on the floor. Don’t ask how…..].
She has to have the top shelf in the fridge and freezer coz she can’t bend down [they’re the big American type things so one shelf is like two in a normal fridge]. And that brings us neatly back to food and cooking.
Last night David was making the tea, or had intended doing so, when, no sooner had he turned the oven on and she shows up.
This was about 6.30. When she had arrived home an hour earlier she had made herself a sandwich [½ a loaf, not your common or garden couple of slices].
He asked her if she couldn’t wait for half an hour and she lost the plot, shouting, swearing, the full issue.
Well, I’ve been waiting for years to have a real shout at her and saw this as my chance!
Out came all the years of pent up frustrations, like having a good wank just without that microsecond of self-loathing.
I had the ultimate pleasure of telling her that she would be one of those morbidly obese horrors one reads about, the thirty stone monster who burns to death in their own home having fallen asleep with the chip pan on the go and being so fat couldn’t stand on a stool to put a new battery in the smoke alarm.Bring it on!!!!!!!!!
She’s lived with us for quite a while and I hate the bitch.
It’s not that she’s a huge great big fat mingger [20 ½ stone] or the fact that she’s a dirty, sluttish, lazy whore.
It’s just that you cannot shop for, prepare, cook or serve up food without her being there. [None of the above, or what follows is an exaggeration].
If he [David, the B/F], I, or we go to Morrisons she either gets wind of it and wants to come too. Or, upon returning from Morrisons, she will wait until we have lugged the whole lot of stuff up to the flat before emerging from her lair to investigate what we’ve bought. She will then give us the benefit of her knowledge telling us what we should or shouldn’t have bought [in this, she is like her Father [David’s brother, Eamon.] He’s a fukin expert in what other people should and shouldn’t do, that’s why he’s now living hand to mouth back in Northern Ireland. Best place for him, I say!].
If either of us is throwing together a meal, the moment the fridge or freezer door is opened, again she appears.
Although we’ve checked and can’t find anything, we recon that she has the doors wired up to a buzzer in her room, such is the turn of speed of her arrival.
She tries to cover this spying with some contrived pretext; getting a drink of water etc. More often than not, she will start to cook as well.
[History] On the two occasions she has lived with us before, [when she was at Uni] the first time in the pub at Harrow, she had a habit of putting things in the oven, laying down [she never sits, she’s like Jabba The Hut] to watch the TV and then falling asleep with the result that the house was generally full of smoke with the fire alarm going like hell. On the last occasion she did this she didn’t wake up when the alarm went off and only came to when I threw the TV remote at her. Shortly after, she moved into a flat with two of her mates.
The second time was, some two years later, when we had the bar in Covent Garden. Although she was still at Uni, she didn’t seem to attend many lectures, just laid around watching the TV and poking King Size Chunky KitKats into her face [well you don’t get that fat eating Ryvita!].
At the time, I had a couple of weeks on the sick [the bitten ear lark] so had the opportunity to observe her…. Close up, so to speak.
She would deign to rise at around midday and head for Tesco Metro [Notice the lack of shit, shower etc.]. One thing I will say in her favour is that she cooks, none of your ready-made stuff, she’ll buy the ingredients and rattle grub up from scratch.
Well having returned and rattled it all together using every pot and pan in the bloody house, she would scoff it down and then follow it up with a nice lay down more often than not, complimented with a little nap.
Not that she would ever zizz for long, within a couple of hours the house would be shuddering to the sound of her belly rumbling and of she would be to Tesco and a repeat of the whole cycle.
Anyway being able to see the whole daily cycle of this, it was obvious that she was eating four, sometimes five times a day.
Well, after we left Covent Garden, David went to run a pub in Victoria and I went to do the same in Hove [next to Brighton. Reminds me of the portaloos at gay pride, two shithouses next-door to each other, both full of fags!].
Having done that for a couple of years I jacked it in and came back to London and my beloved Dave who by then had moved from Victoria to our present locale, Regents Park[ish]
Fat Bird had by now left Uni having passed her 11+ in being a lawyer and was back living with Dave. Difference being, that now she’s working, she pays rent.
Not enough rent for my liking but it covers the fact that she’s too fat to get in the bath so when she showers, her saddlebags hang over the edge of the bath and the floor gets piss wet through.
She must have a cunt like a bucket and an arse hole like a pail coz she goes through a jumbo, pub sized loo role every two days [you should see the size of the tag-nuts she leaves on the floor. Don’t ask how…..].
She has to have the top shelf in the fridge and freezer coz she can’t bend down [they’re the big American type things so one shelf is like two in a normal fridge]. And that brings us neatly back to food and cooking.
Last night David was making the tea, or had intended doing so, when, no sooner had he turned the oven on and she shows up.
This was about 6.30. When she had arrived home an hour earlier she had made herself a sandwich [½ a loaf, not your common or garden couple of slices].
He asked her if she couldn’t wait for half an hour and she lost the plot, shouting, swearing, the full issue.
Well, I’ve been waiting for years to have a real shout at her and saw this as my chance!
Out came all the years of pent up frustrations, like having a good wank just without that microsecond of self-loathing.
I had the ultimate pleasure of telling her that she would be one of those morbidly obese horrors one reads about, the thirty stone monster who burns to death in their own home having fallen asleep with the chip pan on the go and being so fat couldn’t stand on a stool to put a new battery in the smoke alarm.Bring it on!!!!!!!!!
posted by liits at 9:04 PM
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