I’ve been a bit of a narky cunt this week, properly feeling out of sorts. I mean just yesterday I helped this doddering old stink minge across the road without even trying to cop a feel of one her dangly rotting tit bits and the day before that it took me nearly twenty minutes to squirt my paste on my 3rd wank of the day. I put it down to lack of sleep.
Sanctimonious, wankster, hippy urban chicken farmers and The Good Life fucking wannabe’s, you know who you are.
Fucking Farmer Giles you are not, you live in a city you set of livestock owning cunts. A city where people work normal hours, a city where when purchasing a house people normally forget to ask the question, ‘Hmm I like the house, but does Bernard fucking Matthews live next door?’ If you feel you can’t resist the overwhelming urge to open up your own battery farm, then fucking move into the country, there’s already plenty of fucking wildlife there and the native animal boinking farmers would probably be glad for a few more chickens to stuff.
The last thing I was expecting to be woken up at 04:00am by was the sound of a cock apparently throwing up, especially since I’d already performed the same trick myself only a few hours earlier. I looked out of the window into the neighbours’ bastard barnyard only to see fucking Foghorn Leghorn strutting his stuff around the lawn, signalling his intent to fuck every chicken there to within an inch of their lives. The arrogant twat didn’t even flinch when I stuck my head out of the window and started roaring in an attempt to out cock-a-doodle him.
The fucking thing even woke up some slutslug I bought home the other week, which was a surprise. I thought she was deaf. I’ve tried looking on the internet for a Fox to Hire, but keep getting dating sites for sad middle aged prostiwhores. Oh well every cloud and all that.
Rightio then, Mrs Hemp-Recyleton please lift up your tie-dye Inca tribal robe and show me your egg hole. No not that one. The one you shit from. Use your green fingers to prise it open, that’s right. What, this? No it’s not a fence post you gormless poultry wrangler. Although a post pounder would probably help with this. Yes I am going to bum you, bum you with a MASSIVE stick