A couple of hours. Fuck's sake. Is that how long it takes for a Belfastian to imbibe half a bottle of Babycham these days.
A couple of hours. Fuck's sake. Is that how long it takes for a Belfastian to imbibe half a bottle of Babycham these days.
I've been dicking about on the internets all day, pretty much, when I've got this ten minute job to do that some builder guy keeps ringing up and asking for every half hour.
The hawt girls are like; 'why haven't you done it' and I don't reply directly. Preferring instead to let my left eyebrow register my distaste regarding the inquiry.
They all seem content enough to wait for me but what I don't understand is why I don't just do these things.
I'm taking that as a thinly veiled, if somewhat convoluted metaphor as to my current procrastination with the OCD thread. Mostly because it's all about me.
I would appreciate clarification on the following variables and would be grateful if you could just sign off on some of the below archetypes. I've got an essay due.
Who is the mysterious builder guy? He sounds like he means business, but keeps getting intercepted by your shielding entourage of hawt girls. Speaking of which...
Who are the hawt girls? Try as I may, I just can't shoehorn that bevy of benevolence into a lounge scenario without raising an eyebrow. Speaking of which...
Who is your left eyebrow? And who, for that matter, is your right?
Who is the 'I' in this scenario and where am I in all this?
Instead of explanation, I'll give you guys the missing link that was in my head at the time of that post. It's like a puzzle, only less satisfying.
Thus, you aped him aptly. And with his undoing, I was setting you up for your own titular retention. I may reference back to this internally in the future and belittle you about shortcomings that you had no idea existed.
Everything is brought to you by Fjohürs Lykkewe.
That was fun
The builder guy is me. I'm constructing a lounge worthy of habitation and need your co-operation with a ten minute thread job, if you please. The hawt burds are, in this case, a rather apt metaphor for the internet which is currently our only link. This is indirectly conveying yet protecting you from my physical ire which, but for the grace of glod, cannot presently take the form of a spike which exudes from the monitor to meet with your face upon my command. The left eyebrow is, or was, the stony, and yet deafening, silence you deigned to leave us with.
You are I.
That is all.
You disgust me.
http://www.whoisthemonkey.com/videos...ed-compilation
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