I bought the Apple Phone 5G the other day, at the market from one shufflebutt whose trousers were far too tight around his thighs to be lecturing me on how to utilize my personal computer. He used the letter i before all his words so frequently, I was dutily certain he would refer to me as his iCustomer. Bloody fish sticks, I remember back in the wartimes that any man who wore trousers in such a fashion had problems keeping the missus happy, for their pizzle would be ever so squeezed against their innards that it would hurt to let oneself be relieved in the privy, let alone in their lady.
I would be willing to scribe a review for my Apple Phone, yet my dearest has yet to prepare my morning meal. “Muriel,” I said. “Wherefore have you put my Weetabix? How can I prepare my column for the Times Soldier in the paper for the kids if I do not have my Weetabix?”
“There is no Weetabix in the cupboard dear, only some of those Special K flakes from Mr. Kellogg that you enjoy every morning.” I couldn’t stand for this. Screw Mr. Kellogg, I’d be darned if I didn’t get my Weetabix in the morning. 20 years now, I’d eaten them at 8 in the morning every day, and I would not accept any sort of modification on these plans. The soft cleavage of the patties when the milk poured over them, and my cutlery gingerly tapped against the patties was a feeling I couldn’t get through other means. My breakfast would be all to cock if it was not made as I desired.
The doorbell rang and I walked to our room in the flat. I noticed the carrot muncher at the door requesting some dosh for the white pudding he was selling. “Never mind him, Muriel. The greengrocer has nicer pudding I’m certain than this yob.” The confused male gave a look and departed, and I smirked as I made my way to our pit. Resting under the covers was the greengrocer, who had made sure to come with his wooden broom full of oats. “Shush,” I told the greengrocer, “close your chops and feed me some of what you have stashed in your lunchbox.”
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