Fat fuckers are really something. Early this week in the gym there was a pile of them sweating like football players about to die from over-exertion on a humid mid-summer day. Happens at the beginning of every year. Today, there were less people in the gym than usual. If I did not exercise regularly I would weigh between 800 and 900 pounds, maybe more. That is including the casket of course.
There was an incident in the change room I would like to share with you. Young motherfucker, in the change room with a few of his mates, was talking on his cell phone as I was about to shower. "Hey!" I said, after he had finished his call. "Mind if I share a little locker room etiquette with you?" Young motherfucker looked at me like maybe I was fucking Martian or something. I continued, "That phone is a camera too, isn't it?" I was standing there butt naked in front of him. I continued some more, young mother was all quiet-like. "When I was a kid nobody ever had to tell me, or anybody else, not to whip out a camera in a change room because everybody knew that to do so would get your ass kicked so hard you would never be able to operate a camera again in your life, if you survived the ass kicking at all."
Fucking cunt still did not say anything, but I think he got my drift. His friends suppressed their mirth, poorly.
1 comment:
It is those spoiled little bastards who are born on a different planet, I suspect.
Planet Indulgence. The air they breathe seems to be more rarified than our carbon footprint might suggest.
Flip side of the coin. Midway through my son's first year at school, his teacher worked hard to prepare those five-year-olds into putting on a Christmas Show. Not a nativity thing, but they were cranked up to high doh all the same. He didn't say much about it but he was nervous.
Anyway. Into the lunch hall all the parents trooped to share in the tension. Countless mobile phones fidgeted in and out pockets. I asked one of the classroom assistants dotted about if it was ok to take a couple of pictures before the place filled up.
"Of course," she said.
I got out the phone and fiddled with the menu. I hate these things. Already in one corner flashes were popping off as if there was enough battery power to light up the hall. It was worse than a Rolling Stones bash.
I got the phone up in front of me as those kids stared back horrified and wracked with stage fright.
I could see the classroom assistant running towards me as if to slide into a tackle and bring me down on the hard floor.
"Sorry!" she gasped. "You can't take any pictures. My mistake."
Her face was flushed and apologetic. I sat back down a little abashed.
In Tony Blair's Toy Town Britain everybody was and is a suspect.
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