Buttnots Bewilderment
Windows don't clean themselves you know!
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Shove it up your arse
Good afternoon citizens.
A few reminders from your all powerful and all knowing super masters:
- Please keep all affection out of the public eye, far too many young people have been seen to be “fist bumping” or “high fiving”. This kind of contact in public view is simply unacceptable and will not be tolerated.
- Refrain at all times from playing music loud enough to hear in the next room. The all knowing all hearing overlords do not want to hear your drivel.
- Realign your opinions with the newsletter posted daily at your home. Keeping your “facts straight” is imperative to the overlords success and you must not hinder this.
That is all for this hour. Be sure to tune in within the hour for more updates on how to live your life in the correct manner.
Dr H Golders
Civil Affairs Coordinator
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Falklands Tesco Tattoo Cafes
In today’s ”news” we have outstanding ideas about fake independent cafes ran by the very Devil itself, Tesco. We have idiots with shit tattoos. We have moron tabloids sending open letters to foreign Governments.
First up is these boho coffee slinging sluts who give off the cosy appearance of being a home ran hang out looked after by two ex hippies who eat nothing but soy and daisy chains but apparently are “majority owned” by Tesco.
We have had this argument before with Pret a Manger and Mcdonalds ownership (they don’t have shares any more). This is a bad sign, independent cafes and eateries are on the rise and some damn fine stuff is around so when Tesco go poaching it undermines the little man. There are all the old arguments of independents may not pay properly and are keeping all the profits to themselves (how dare they eh Tesco?) but on balance I like my muffins home made and my coffee served by a human not a Tesco Droidbot. Am I being silly? Does it make a difference where I eat a muffin or drink a coffee? Does it matter who owns a cafe? Does it matter that Tesco are playing on the rising popularity of independents Yes to all of the above.
That really shit newspaper, The Sun, has written an open letter to the Argentine President telling them “HANDS OFF” in regards to the Falklands. They think they are so hilarious and are doing us, the great empire, a favour by displaying our rabid love of the Falkland Islands in a foreign newspaper none of us will ever read. Cheap trick. Tabloid whores! If anyone actually likes the bullshit letter sent by The Sun then remember that they don’t really care, it’s sell sell sell! Provocative nonsense, the Islanders are being treated like ping pong balls by both Governments and its not polite.
Last highlight was the prat who got a really crap Marilyn Monroe tattoo on her arm and now she is devastated. She paid some unlicensed crack bandit £50 to do this masterpiece. Only one comment: LOL.
Peace sisters xxxx
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New Christmas present #spiderman #amazingspiderman #tshirt #xmas #geekchic #nerdfashion
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That’s a nice box.
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Cripes.
I used to antagonise him on purpose, pick bad fights with him over miniscule details. I would make a ridiculous but brilliant point then think “HA! That showed the prick!”
I have no doubt in my mind that the scumbag antagonised me on purpose too and thought the exact same things.
We would argue about topics like the deriving ingredients in certain booze, junipers in gin and hops in beer and so on. We could find absolutely anything to bicker about like a pair of old bitches at a coffee morning.
Sometimes it was more playful. I would reply to perfectly reasonable proposals with something like “a caterpillar is eating your hat”. Those moments I felt cruel but it was just too much fun to see him shake his head and say “oh man, oh man”.
The poor fucker was so often trying to make decent conversation but he caught me in those awful booze soaked days so I would blast him back to his own thoughts.
Then again, he got me good too. He could always shame me the same as I could shame him and I kind of liked that I had someone to fence with. Christ, we had to do something to break up those dull evenings at the flat listening to all the fucking self lovers and ego stokers.
I could pick up the phone and call him right now. I won’t, that would make him so smug.
“Oh hi. It’s you is it? Erm, well I am kind of busy right now…” He would lie, the worm.
Don’t get me wrong, beneath all of the bile and scorchers there is a pure companionship. If we scrape off the protective crust hard and long enough we always find a river of brilliant ideas. We even plan to write a screenplay about them, which can only mean that we do like each other. Or does it?
Anyway, it will be called “Look What We Did Now” and no one apart from us will like it.
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Try The Mixed Berry
”You know if I have been speeding if the scones are still warm.” Jests the vendor.
I don’t know his name but he is friendly enough to do Sunday morning small talk with a perfect stranger. We speak mostly about the cafe and how everything is baked fresh but not on the premises. He informs me that the goods are zoomed in via friendly, nameless vendors each morning from a nearby kitchen, a system which I get the feeling isn’t ideal.
He also mentions American tourists who stop to take photos of a particular Georgian door across the street. It is a pink door and compared to the other doors I have seen during my stay it is average at best. We both ponder as to why the Yank tourists find it so worthy of a photograph, which leads onto a discussion about my visit and what kind of tourist I am.
We finish our discussions then the friendly nameless vendor goes back to his chores and milling around the counter. I continue with my breakfast, which I am so impressed with that I don’t notice the several customers arrive and depart with their Mocha-chino-chai-spressos.
I am the only patron who is sitting in. This is for the best because I am eating a brown scone with walnuts and the crumbly nature of a brown scone with walnuts does not bode well for parading in the street. Let alone the juggling act I would have to perform if I was to take my mug of tea with me.
“This scone is delicious man” I inform him, louder than necessary because of the accent barrier and rattling steamed milk machine.
“The mixed berry are better.” He tells me.
I promise him I will try it next time and turn back around to my, apparently, second rate scone.
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Blossom
Swirling, graceful blossom. Slicing the air with its pretty perfection. Prettier still, the bubbles of a good gin and tonic busting their way to the top of the glass. Maybe the blackness of bitters creeping into a whiskey sour.
Beauty is in the eye of the booze holder.
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It’s not me
(Source: consumeconsume)
A small section of humanity is left in my good books, this is for them.
