PESTIVAL part1

February 4th, 2011

tHANKS FOR WAKIN ME UP, mAN!

Another shit-4-breath depressive ate my cuntentines day 4 lunch. Left me in the lurch w a buncha Reclaim Love warts. There was only one place to go – Piccadilly Circus Clusterfucks – U know the one … the one without a john. Tonight it was either fuck or fight & I knew which ring I was in.

I neck chained 3 venti lattes – triple shots all around – and let the coffers fill. Soon, as the acid besieged my windpipe, I waddled over to the counter and asked in my best LL Beannie voice where I might find a toilet for customers. Stupid fuckin eunuch was lovin it – shoulda been working at McDonalds. Wavin her hooks at some fantasy mall, broadcasting my roadmap to hell, I interrupted her to ask if that was the facility she used normally. Would she care to escort me there so I didn’t get lost – since I’d been drinkin a bottomless cuppa crap just as soon as I got to their ass emporium and even paid 4 the privilege.

There was a pause I could almost taste it. AT UR CERVIX MA’AM,

“I’ll just get my manager”.Perfect. Divide & conquer.

I found another circus slave. “Say, just so I got my facts straight, Is it an American franchise this cafe?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow”

“Is this place American or English?”

“What’s the diff?”

“Put it this way, Limey, back at home we got certain standards: 3 strikes U’re out, don’t mess with Texas AND most importantly U put a pissoir on the premises if U’re hawkin diuretics. Comprende? Now where’s Urs, ASSHOLE?!”

“When in Rome, Yankee” – and he hands me a cup.

“Good ol toilet humour. Knew I could count on U, Cous”

“Excuse me, I couldn’t help overhearing Ur exchange and wanted to make it known that it is a British standard for any premises who serve food and drink to have toilet facilities, or agreed access to” says someone on my side

“Yes I’m with the tourist”, says another beside.

“No we don’t really like that kind of thing here, Madame. It could be alot worse”, from someone else

“You’re not as stupid as you look” I volunteered when the manager arrived.

We had a long, fortifyin discussion about standards of health, hygiene, waste disposal and etiquette during which we weighed my filthy mouth vs Clusterfuck’s filthy gesture – extra pointage for initiative and creative use of cup. Clearly I was the winner – he asked me to leave – so I decided to take my cup home, but not before executing a manoeuvre which would demonstrate a winner’s grace.

I parked my bike just outside the entrance, bursting with delight to share the wealth. Squatting right behind a potted plant before the neighbouring restaurant and filtered their coffee for them once again, with my own special solipsistic blend. Then set down my concoction, gingerly, whilst making myself presentable to my adoring public. I opened their door with one hand and facing them, ceremoniously lifted the golden cup before me, demonstrating Olympian aesthetic and a winner’s devotion. I brought it down in an arc from behind, and bowled my steaming, gleaming trophy into the clenching mass of city suckers, wage worn serfs and Bilderberg bastards clamorin for cover – “STeeeerrrRIKE!”, I howled.

There was nowhere for them to run, hide, mask or stifle their collective gag at my triumphant streak of pisschrist. Hallmark doesn’t have a card for this kind of feeling.


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