Gossip
Sunday, a day of rest, the Lords day and all that old poo.
Sunday for me means festering in my pit all day except when I have to work. The joys of being able to lie in bed holding ones dick [I was going to write “holding your dick” but it may be construed incorrectly] and staring at the ceiling or, perhaps, reading the Sunday papers.
The Sunday papers for me are the Torygraph and the Malicious on Sunday.
My beloved David has gotten into the habit of getting up first, schlepping all the way to Tesco [immediately next door] and waking me gently with my Sunday breakfast in bed. This consists of either a chunky KitKat or King size Twix and the papers aimed at my head from the bedroom door.
Twat
After knocking together some coffee type liquid he comes back to bed and also reads the paper.
Yesterday things went as per usual, clunk to the head with the Twix, bleary and confused re-assembling of the papers, spilling of coffee and tipping over of ashtrays etc.
Then, my whole world collapsed. He was sitting in bed reading the News of the World!
I am defiantly my Fathers Son, and he wouldn’t have the NotW in the house. And neither would I.
It’s not the content, it’s the lack of content and the worthiness of what is lacking.
“What the fuk have you bought that shite for?”
“For the gossip.”
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I always thought that gossip related to shite talk about people one knows [one, again, I’m starting to sound like Melvin Bragg].
Who gives a toss about Becks and his whores of the coke addiction of the stand in presenter of Albanian Third Division Football on Sky Sports 34. Well, by the look of it lots of people.I know I can be a bit of a social spaz but, please, am I missing something?
Sunday for me means festering in my pit all day except when I have to work. The joys of being able to lie in bed holding ones dick [I was going to write “holding your dick” but it may be construed incorrectly] and staring at the ceiling or, perhaps, reading the Sunday papers.
The Sunday papers for me are the Torygraph and the Malicious on Sunday.
My beloved David has gotten into the habit of getting up first, schlepping all the way to Tesco [immediately next door] and waking me gently with my Sunday breakfast in bed. This consists of either a chunky KitKat or King size Twix and the papers aimed at my head from the bedroom door.
Twat
After knocking together some coffee type liquid he comes back to bed and also reads the paper.
Yesterday things went as per usual, clunk to the head with the Twix, bleary and confused re-assembling of the papers, spilling of coffee and tipping over of ashtrays etc.
Then, my whole world collapsed. He was sitting in bed reading the News of the World!
I am defiantly my Fathers Son, and he wouldn’t have the NotW in the house. And neither would I.
It’s not the content, it’s the lack of content and the worthiness of what is lacking.
“What the fuk have you bought that shite for?”
“For the gossip.”
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I always thought that gossip related to shite talk about people one knows [one, again, I’m starting to sound like Melvin Bragg].
Who gives a toss about Becks and his whores of the coke addiction of the stand in presenter of Albanian Third Division Football on Sky Sports 34. Well, by the look of it lots of people.I know I can be a bit of a social spaz but, please, am I missing something?
posted by liits at 4:04 AM
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