Oh Jesus cunting Christ on a no speed Chipper. Yes, a fucking Chipper. A Chipper, folks, was a Chopper for losers. It's what I had when I was a kid. A loser kid, as it happens. A big fat ugly loser bespectacled kid on a Chipper. So my first bike was a cheap knock off, and cheap knock offs are what I now do.
This off knocking though, is not about bikes. Would you like to guess what it is about? I shall begin again, without the distracting Chipper shit:
Oh Jesus cunting Christ on any kind of wheel based transport. You people just don't fucking get it, do you? After all these days, months, years. After all my sterling and euro efforts, you still don't fucking get it. IT. IS. ABOUT. ME. Really, I hate to be all cappy and full stoppy but you fuckers have forced my hand. That banner, that banner that has caused such stupid baseless bitching and sniping, pissing and moaning, and so many ill-formed, pointless and badly constructed sentences over the past twenty-four, that was ABOUT ME. I am the one with few friends, I am the one with the self-promotion penchant and in my desperation to win I am the one who is desperate for you all to think that it is desperate that I am not.
Can you hear me? Do I need to speak more slowly? More biggly?
So if you could all shut the fuck up and let a guy get some swimming lesson watching done I would very much fucking appreciate it. Gimme does not approve of your idolatry, your obtuseness, or even your threatened face-punching be it facetious or no.
There is only one face that Gimme would punch and it is the fat one of the faux pregnant Roisín Ingle.
You fucking heard me. Faux pregnant. I'm not kidding you. Here's the scoop:
Knowing that even the penis-brained numbskulls who read her weakly weekly drivel were beginning to bore of her boyfriend bashing, her privileged posturing and her pathetic attempt at a life of quirk, Ingle has been forced to invent a pregnancy. 'But how does one comfortably fake gestation?' she must surely have asked herself but with shorter, simpler words. 'Those fake bumps look awfully pokey!' The answer was not long in coming. 'I'll just eat myself pregnant! More pies! More cakes! More piecakes for my massive gaping maw! I eat for art! I gorge for my gorgeous gouty words!' And so it came to pass.
Sure, she's most likely going to produce some baby-shaped things in or around the appropriate time but I reckon it'll just be a couple of those life-like latex numbers that we all saw on that Channel Four documentary.
It's fucking fact, folks, it happened, it's happening, it is going to happen. Now fuck off and get your meaninglessly bitching faces around that shit. And yeah, give me my fucking award.