THERE'S ALWAYS ANOTHER GAME ...

This morning Sydney Fylbert demanded that I take him to work; he would "weed out" the useless ones. When I informed him that no, my work is NOT a suitable place for a turkey vulture, he suggested, very loudly, that instead I harvest the fatty inner thighs of some of those useless old cocks for him to nosh on later.


"But what about their bled-out corpses afterwards?"


"Oh, just toss them by the side of the freeway. People have traffic accidents all the time".
And I must admit, there were moments during the day when I felt like doing exactly that.
Useless old cocks get extraordinarily loud when there's a game on the telly.

SYDNEY FYLBERT

Still. Slaughtering an old entitled Marinite prick or two is bound to be messy. And bloodstains are hard to remove from carpet. I could have "harvested" the offensive blithering old Russian drunkard on the bus back to civilization, but there was enough liquor inside the fellow that his spongy leg meat would've gotten poor Sydney Fylbert quite sozzled, and that would have been counterproductive. I hope the busdriver has back-up when she gets to the end of her run. The old bastard was two thirds of the way down on his fifth of whiskey, and getting closer to finishing it everytime someone told him to shut the 'fruit' up. Actually, in between the up-shut requests, I could have engineered a sudden falling forward into the hard top edge of a seat in front of him without anyone being the wiser. Or least ways being a witness.

But I'm saving that for some other occasion.

Please bear in mind that at the end of my workweek I've had just about enough of entitled Marinite bourgeois dickheads.


Perhaps after the next team victory.



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