/ adverts say: living with your parents... BAD... FIRE... BAD... NOT IVF CHILD... but what would you make of a man, in his 50+... who applies for a neighbour complaint, about a man he's complaining about, while making a complaint, to the mother, of the man he's complaining about? surely it can't be the old fashioned unfathomability of fear... if he can't approach me... why does he boast a complaint on a canvas of my mother? hmm... might have to look into this... /
and i thought i was living next to an englishman....
what i thought, turned out
to a misnomer...
i was living next to...
a fucking CUNT!
(bronson style approach
in giving the gift of
so he comes over that i'm
smoking outside my window,
and that the smoke
is somehow, "magically"
flowing through the window
into a room where his
"new-born"... the wanker is
50+ and his bride is 40+...
there are two alternatives
to a psychiatric waiting room...
a brothel, where the body speaks,
and a dark forest: where you
can scream insults, rather than
mutter them under your breath...
with this cunt of a man,
this castrato wannabe cossack
of an, "englishman"...
i thought i'd go one further...
so he complained to my mother,
but didn't complain to me?
does he believe in property rights?
there's a "his" air that
otherwise gives us a parallel
expression of life?
the cunt high or sumthin'?
well i know he's not punjabi...
cunt reeks of black pudding
and microwave dinners...
cunt says something?
fuck it... let's eat everything
on him... apart from the snout...
might get a lurking kuru
so an absolute cunt, with and without
a bollock sack: one could
attempt to call "it" an
example of an englishman...
1. a brothel for the body,
2. a darkened place on
the outskirts of urban society
to give out a: shout out to bronson!
kant! you fucking chewing-gum
aspect of phlegm!
you ass-crack of a dodo alzheimer's
with a cocktail of down syndrome!
so i'd ask...
if your "child", or should i say
herr pinguin, you're so over-protective over...
why don't i see a baby buggy?
or why doesn't the baby ever see sunlight,
or ever leave the fucking house:
O mighty landlord of loft essex!
don't be afraid to show us the retard...
we don't mind retards...
but it's not you're complaining
about me smoking, outside my own
window, inside my own bedroom,
like you might be harbouring
the next usain "ya man" bolt!
imagine an england when the next
english native... thinks the white, immigrant,
is treated, as if the native is:
king pompous philip zee dritte!
or whatever charlie will become -
hope he does...
but when, every, ahem,
englishman thinks i'll wipe his
ass, in my own home,
while he'll appear stupendous
gorging on curry and kebabs?!
i'm about this close | |
to raping this twat... with my thumb;
and this is my neighbour we're
i.e. he owns the dictate of personal
because he gave birth to a fucking
yeah: blame the hunchback
for breeding upright children...
and they say the mood in america
mood in england,
with these sort of "englishmen":
i'm starting to think of
a liver + kidney pâté: of the rare sort...
because the fucker doesn't own
our shared air!
i rather smoke a cigarette out my
window than in my room!
his room... is non-inclusive in the matter!
but then again... they say venezuelan
living arrangements are congested...
sure... in england?
it's just constipated.