Yesterday I was a miserable bastard.
I don’t being a miserable bastard.
So I initiated Operation Don’tbeafuckingmiserablecunt.
First up was a shopping spree:
Then a quiet beer:
Then I treat my tastebuds to some absolute beauty:
Then I wrote to Happy Socks to tell them that I wasn’t happy:
Am I any less miserable? A bit. But then I realised…whoa!
Finally, I promised you some tits. As I am still not totally un-miserable, I enclose just one nipple:
Oh, you were expecting a sexy lady, weren’t you?
ps It isn’t me. I’m not that fat.
But tonight I have beers with old colleagues, tomorrow my dearest Italian friend is making me a meat feast pizza, Saturday I have leaving drinks for a good friend, followed by a roast on Sunday and meeting a Twitter buddy in the process.
And next weekend, each day is with one of my very favourite immigrants, plus I have booked two days holiday for next week (only because it will be too hot in the office – 35’C is possible outside) and it is just two weeks until I switch my fucking computer off and go snort loads of crack off the backside of the fattest gay Guardia Civil bloke I can find.
It was worth reading all of my utter drivel, wasn’t it?