HNT (BEFORE AND AFTER)

If you don't like it, that is fair play, and I look forward to your polite silence (just like if I was an ugly chick posting a picture of her mirror-shattering self on a girls night out, you just say NOTHING, y'know?) Or if it really makes you feel better about yourself, tell me it's awful, but please, I implore you, do not bore me to fucking death with idiotic comments like about how I'm going to 'regret' it when I'm 50 walking down the street with my big tattoo showing.

Um, duh! You do not know me better than me, and I will take this opportunity to point out that I have rather great abs, and if they are still on display when I'm 50, then I will be so overwhelmed with smug, nothing else will matter.

...next, I'll be getting a half-sleeve full-colour portrait of Fingers crouched over a computer, scowling and giving everyone "the finger" with Smoopie in big loopy elaborate and dramatic cursive writing underneath (complete with ironic love heart dot to the i)...I'm going to position him on my right uber toned bicep and delt in order to achieve a tastefully subtle ink-balance....

Baaaaaahahahahahahahahaha! Not. However I am thinking about getting "Pooks" on my left flange flap...

The end.

SHE'S GETTIN' A TATTOO, YEAH - SHE'S GETTIN' INK DONE

So I finally pulled my finger out and finished off my belly tattoo over the past two days (pictures posted tomorrow). It only took, um, 17 years. D'oh!

Two hours of bone chipping red hot needles tearing into my flesh with accompanied searing agony yesterday, and then another two hours today. It's all outline and thick, heavy colour. For those not in the know, that is the shit that really fuckin' hurts. Shading is for pussies.

It's big, it's bold, it's bright and I fucking love it.

However, it's turns out I'm pretty much the lone ranger there. *does. not. care.*

Of all the people I've shown or texted a picture to so far, the overwhelming majority are not impressed.

Meh.

I have never cared what anyone has thought of my four tattoos, and now one has been extended to four times it's original size, I still don't.

Earlier, an associate offered her unsolicited opinion of my newly inked abdominal masterpiece.

"Oh, oh no. No. It's no good, you'd look better with something smaller Kitty."

"Yeah, a bit like you and your arse."

The end.

p.s. the tattoo guy gave me his number and wants to bang the shit out of me cause I'm so fucking tough and instead of carrying on like a little bitch, I nonchalantly sipped my 1.5 litre Diet Coke and chatted about lurid, filthy sexual fetishisms the whole time to keep my shit focussed and together, and didn't wince or complain, not even once. my composure gave him a boner. booyah.

REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED WITH A SIDE OF SHOESTRING FRIES...

OK, so this is going to sound like I'm talking about myself, but I'm so not.

See, a friend of mine (who is not me) indulges in a fair bit of Internet shagging dating. So does her sister (I don't even have a sister).

Recently her sister went out with a guy from an undisclosed dating site. I'm not being coy, I just don't know which one because quite unbelievably, I don't use them! *shock and/or disbelief*

Her sister did the nasty with this dude, as they dated for a little while. I believe after the ugly bumping, he dished a "root and boot" manoeuvre*, and blanked her.

Then he posed as his own cousin and made a date with my friend. Yes, both sisters use the same dating site. However, it should be noted that that my friend and the guy did not do the filth.

The two sisters have since pieced together that this guy is a fucking liar and pretended to be his cousin to date the second sister and try and get his prong in her socket, like he did with the first one.

Personally, I'm all for Internet sex, family member swapsies and generally behaving like an unpaid man-whore, but not if you are lying to people in order to do it.

Now I realise that none of this has a good Goddamn to do with me, but see, I've just been contracted in to arrange the revenging.

I'm outsourcing because I have a lot on my mind at the moment. I can't think straight and I don't want to offer up lame score settling tactics. I have been spending some time gazing out the window wondering who to call to gather around my cauldron, when I realised I have you few hundred great friends, and you really are an excellent so-far-untapped resource for this sort of shenanigan planning.

So I am imploring for help.

*help!*

I'll make it a competition to make it 'fun'!

Can everyone who has a strong vindictive streak lurking under a thin and crispy veneer of normality, please offer up their best ideas for a bit of ruthless revengefulness.

The winning entry gets a minimum three-hour date with yours truly, though please do not let that deter you from entering the competition as tolerating an evening of buying me expensive drinks and listening to me talk about myself is optional only, fully transferable, and not even mandatory.

The end.

* I seriously had to type that incorrectly and spell check it, like fucking usual...

TUESDAY'S TITS

SELLING SALES

At work we have introduced a membership scheme. Basically, the punters get a little inconspicuous key chain with a number stamped on it and their name and a 'question and answer' is entered into the computer along with the corresponding key chain number for means of identification.

Every 10th visit they get the house fee waived, or something like that. It's basically a loyalty programme like you get at Bakers Delight, or with Qantas.

It is not as easy to sell as one might first assume. Most blokes don't want even the most subtle link or proof of association in any possible way to my place of business.

*go figure!*

Here is an excerpt of me up-selling the free memberships during my last shift.

Kitty: Hello! Would you like to join our membership scheme? Every 10th visit you get the house fee waived...or something like that.

Punter: Uuuuum, no.

Kitty: Go ooon, I'm going to get bollocked if I don't get some names down. I just need your first name and a question and answer to put into the computer. Come on! It's just like accruing air miles....Yeah! It is! You know what it is? It's a Frequent Fucker Programme!!! Haaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

*falls about, killing self laughing*

Punter: *runs for exit with humiliated expression*

Hmmm. That didn't go so well.

The end.

HIGH ACHIEVING IN THE SUBURBS

These days, I always like to have some obscure, pointless but most importantly attainable personal goal in my mind. Helps me get through the darker moments. You know?

This week, I'm mostly obsessed about getting my name on the Top 10 Attendees list on the gym's monthly newsletter.

Yes I'm fucking serious.

Someone is leading at the moment with a piss-poor total of 23 visits. That is fuck aaaall! I mean, considering there are up to 31 days in a month a meagre 23 attendances is hardly a big deal to flex ones delts and crow over. Is it?? No. It's not.

Does anyone else agree with that? See, I think I might have issues with over-doing things. Perfectionism. Extremism. All of that shit. The point is, at the end of my crazy days, I no longer have Red Socks to bore to death talk to about this stuff, nobody with a notebook and a plastic identification tag on a lanyard around their neck, nobody to nod and scribble secret but fascinating notes about my mental state, nobody to care, so prepare to get it right between your eyeballs more and more often.

*Back to the gym newsletter conquering!*

So I could easily go twice a day, six days per week. Multiply that by four weeks and that is an easy 48 visits!

I intend to bat that "23visits" bullshit right out of the ballpark and score an even 30 for this month. I'd easily get a much higher score, but I only decided to become totally preoccupied with this ridiculous crap a few days ago and that is very much mid-month. For festering Santa-season December, I shall aim for an obnoxious 50+ visits by increasing things to twice a day every single day. Though I'm going to have to find out which days they intend to close for Present Day, then devise a contingency plan of perhaps several "three-visits-per-day" strikes to keep the numbers up.

I want to see my fucking name at the top of a list before I die. This may well be my only chance. So what if I end up doing lines of Voltaren and L-Glutamine in the car park just to get through my workout? Nothing worth a damn is ever easy to achieve. Plus I'll have abs to friggin' die for by News Years Eve!

Wish me some luck in my comments.

*If you don't, you fucking suuuuuuuuuuuuuck sweaty balls*

The end.

GOOD ENDING

I haven't been posting much have I? Yeah, no. I'm not slaving to the Internet anymore, particularly as summer has sprung its shit on me really early.

There is too much Goddamn living to be done!

Anyway, life is just sorta "OK" for me, in case you have been wondering. I don't have Red Socks to crap on to anymore, and until I get a new counsellor, I think you lot might be getting what he got for a while. *sound of one million delete clicks*

It's hard with two little kids, I will tell you that! Toddlers make for a lot of tension between me and Wavey, a lot of fighting. Often, the fights are not about anything the other person did, but rather a way of venting anger and aggression over something the kid(s) did.

I can't scream and rant at the children without ensuring that I feature heavily in their therapy appointments in years to come. I'd like to avoid 'family' sessions where all the blame for their insecurities and fascinating emotional problems is squared placed on my head. So I scream and rant at him. He reciprocates with vigour.

Yesterday started off sucking really hard. "The Spouse" and I started hating each other extra early, and I mean early! Like, pre-gym visit early! That's rare.

Anyway, it continued throughout child summer sandal shopping. It persisted at the beach too. I daydreamed about filing for divorce while a chewed my Vegemite and sand sandwich, hurling hateful glares of, um, hatred at him.

Then I went to the local pub to meet my friend for a drink. It was mid-afternoon by then. Wavey scowled and looked pissed off when I left. I intended to cap the socialising at two hours so he couldn't get stuck into me for 'deserting' family time or whatever. I'd be home in time to make the dinner and be 'family friendly' then watch a DVD with The Spouse, beg for sex, and then go to bed without any. The usual Saturday!

I whined to my friend about how much life/spouses/children suck arse and ruin everything, and then got so drunk on just a few wines that my friend had to call time on drinks really early, and drive me home. I don't actually remember leaving the pub at all. *HARDCORE!*

When we got home things improved somewhat. The house was curiously empty, and then I got a text from The Spouse to say he was out feeding ducks with the kids. The next minute I was sprawled on the couch, really naked, behaving like a lesbian with my friend! I can remember sucking her nipples and/or inspecting her oesophagus with the tip of my little pink tongue. The she went down on me and then.....aaaah!

Finally I was happy.

I then passed out in a satisfied heap went to bed at 5pm and slept till midnight. I briefly got up for high-fat snacks, half a pack of Pandol and six litres of water, then went back to bed.

The end.

HNT (FROM THE UNDIE DRAWER)

DON'T MIND ME, I'M JUST PAYING THE BILL

Yesterday I saw my former-counsellor Captain Red Socks at my gym and didn't recognise who he actually was for several minutes. Then I had to fight the urge to run away (with or without dramatic shrieking). To make matters worse, instead of a vague wave and dash toward the cardio section I went over to him and made rambling, pointless, unnecessary, stalker-inspired polite small talk. I felt like vomiting, but I could not stop talking.

Then I ran on the treadmill for 45 minutes. In shorts. The gym was empty by the time I was finished and although I couldn't see myself in any mirrors (that was strategic) I am certain the ungodly sight of my cellulite flapping up and down must have been the cause of the customer-exodus.

I think my plan of living competely counsellor-free is unrealistic.

I also went to a new dentist yesterday. She is a nice lady one. I was there for about 35 minutes, although normally I'm in and out in 20. However, this dentist and her lady assistant kept taking unscheduled breaks throughout my scale and polish to discuss the latest episode's of New Zealand's Next Top Model and Flash Forward. They would totally stop, down tools and have a good old chat about plot lines and who their favourites were.

The lady assistant, who had just smoked about 40 Marlboro Red's and hadn't washed her hands and/or sucked a courtesy mint, looked at me and said "I hate you for looking that good in shorts, you bitch".

I wouldn't mind if I had some sort of relationship with the woman, but I don't. I'd never laid eyes on either of them.

I couldn't reply cause I had a water jet thing in my gob and that awful spit-sucker thing too. She then moved on to covet my eyelashes and my teeth too. I endured two more proclaimations of 'bitch', and then luckily, before my outrage built up too much, she moved on to discussing "that idiot Britney Spears" and how her daughter was going to watch her "not-sing a note" that night.

She noted how unprofessional and "rude" her performance was particuarly was she was charging so much for the show. As I was about to pay $175 myself, and was feeling that unprofessional and rude might well be how I'd summise the past 20 minutes, I then began to experience full-blown irony-overload. So I made a grunting, scoffing type noise, but then began to choke on the pooling water in my mouth, which had gone into my throat mid-scoff. This is mostly because the spit-sucker thing was glued to the underside of my tongue and sucking up nothing but tongue-membrane, mouth-meat bits. *not amused*

I showered them both with my saliva/water mix, causing a chorus of 'eeeeewwwwwww' and frantic face-wiping, and I smiled to myself and felt quite smug.

The end.

TUESDAYS (MINI) TITS

JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE

This afternoon I fluttered into the knockshop, ready for another shift, another adventure.

No two shifts are ever the same in this joint, today is no exception.

This afternoon was extra special. Upon greeting Rachel the Super Boss, she informed me that there was a Penthouse Magazine shoot going on in the orgy room upstairs and the lovely lass being photographed was none other than Rachel Whitwell, who is fiiiiine with any tragic and desperate losers (like me) who might want to get their spectating on and get a good old eyeball full of scorching Kiwi hottie.

I twisted an ankle,broke two fingernails and pulled a hammie getting up the two flights of stairs and hurtling down the corridor.

Oh. My. God.

Mother of one and at 27 years of age, she proves that actually, not all of the stunningly superior beauties are in dire need of a good airbrushing before they are fit for general public consumption.

She is nothing short of spectacular. Not a stretch mark, not a hint of cellulite, not a wrinkle, not a single faint blemish in sight anywhere, and believe me when I tell you I scrutinised every inch of her very, very carefully. Perfection from her pedicured toenails to the tips of each strand of hair on her head (which is the only place she has any).

Stunning. Polite. Smiley. Friendly. Professional.

She did some shots in the pole dancing lounge and mid-shoot, wandered up to reception stark fucking naked, save for a pair of stripper heels.

I felt my jaw slacken and fought the good fight to keep my gaze well above her chin, I was going for eyeball to eyeball at all times.

*I failed*

"Uuuuuuuh....duuuuuuh...muuuuuuh, er, erm, sorry. I looked at your boobs." I stated, horrified. I was glowing magenta. Dry mouthed. Dizzy. Fuckety McFuckerson! I'm such a LOSER!

She giggled and told me it was normal, it was ok, she didn't mind. Happens all the time...

*prays for spontaneous death to occur*

"So, do you have a towel please?" She chirruped, sweet smile on perfect face.

"Uuuuuuuuuh, duuuuuuh....shuuuuuuure." I blathered some shit while I felt around the desk for a towel. Obviousy, I do not keep fucking towels on my Goddamn desk...they are obviously in a neat stack in the laundry room, but my brain couldn't manage any complicated processes like "where are the towels?"

Frankly, I would have struggled with other brain twisters such as "what's your name?" and "What colour is the sky?" at that moment.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh,....Uuuuuuh....I just uuuh, laundry....Just a second." I began drooling then.

*someone strangle me, pleeeease*

She gave me a funny look (of course she did I was acting like a fucking retard) and minced away back to the photographer while I broke another two fingernails and pulled my other hammie sprinting up the staircase to the laundry to get her a towel.

I got her 12 towels, just to be extra nice, because she is so ridiculously beautiful and perfect. I was nearly in tears when she said thanks and touched my hand.

SHE TOUCHED MY HAND!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The obvious response to being utterly and completely blinded with such amazingly superior physical perfection, is to feel utterly wretched and spend a good 15 minutes standing in front of a full length mirror with my jeans pulled down below my knees and t-shirt pulled up to my neck.

*CHOO! CHOO! IT'S A FUCKING TRAIN WRECK*

All there is left to do in times like that, is order a huge pepperoni, mushroom and double cheese pizza with a side of wedges swimming in sweet chilli and sour cream, and a chocolate thick shake. Well, actually that is been done, so actually, all there really is left to do is lay in wait for the delivery guy.

Oh!....and here are the tears of utter and complete self loathing. Riiiiiight on time.

The end.

IT'S TOO EARLY FOR IDIOTS

So I have a blocked shower drain in the en suite of my nasty shit box rental property.

Three weeks of phone calls to the cunts who parade themselves as "Property Managers" at my local real estate agents has yielded no result.

This morning, after working night shift, Wavey tells me that he has heard from the plumber and he will be here at 10am.

"Thanks fantastic, but I won't be here." I grumbled. "I'm off to the gym to be obsessive. It's my day without spawn and/or responsibility for others. I have to work again tonight. Fuck the plumber and his poxy plunger. I'm not rearranging my schedule."

*Make coffee in vain attempt to become a civilised human before 9am and ring plumber*

Ring Ring

Plumber: "Hello, Mr Plumber speaking."

Kitty : "Hi, this is Festering Rental Tenant at XX Shit Street, Crapville. I believe you are coming to plunge my pipes at 10am. Well, I won't be here. My husband is a fucking 'tard and did not send me a meeting request to Outlook in a timely fashion. Your access has been denied. I will be out."

Plumber: "Oh....Well, can you just leave me the key under the mat?"

Kitty: "No."

Plumber: "No?"

Kitty: "No."

Plumber: "Why?"

Kitty: "What do you mean WHY?? Because you are a stranger and you don't live here and I don't give my house keys to strangers. I don't want you rifling through my undie drawer thanks very much."

*silence*

Plumber: "I've met you before though, I sort of know you! I was there in June. You are the girl who works at the brothel." *long silence* You're really pretty."

OH. MY. GOD.

Kitty: "Sorry I think I have the wrong number."

*hangs up*

The end.

DRIVING THRU ON A THURSDAY

Oooooookay. So first things first, if Wavey Davey asks, I'm not blogging shit 'till next Tuesday!

Now, on to today's crap about nothing! I will happily admit that I regularly allow my children to eat Macca's "food" products. Most people pretend that they don't swing through the local chippie or Red Rooter once or twice a week. They are fucking liars. I do it regularly and without shame or much thought for what other's may think of it. They are my children and if I want to poison their livers this early in the game, I fuckin' will. I pay my taxes! I'll do what I like.

The fact I am a junk food enabler is shocking, I know, given my own obsessive behaviours when it comes to Orthorexic food hang ups, but whatevs. Today hasn't been that easy for me. I'm having babysitter issues and I sort of unexpectedly broke up with Red Socks this week and it's not been easy. Nobody told me when I started counselling that I would rather surrender several of my own lovely, suckable pedicured toes than give up seeing my counsellor at any point, like, ever. "They" should have fucking mentioned that to me. I would never have started in the first place.

I feel like I have lost my bestfriend, I don't have that many and it makes me want to drink heavily and be loud and theatrical about my desperate, lonely suffering.

Instead of comfort eating while I stare out the window and cry because now I really, really have nobody to talk to who is always civil and polite to me regardless of the stupid shit I talk, and trust me I can be really hard work, I comfort eated by proxy.

I loaded the spawns into my enormous beast and wheeled down to the local Macca's. Ooh, did I ever mention that when I move in the new SK HQ, I shall be able to hoof it to Ronnie's in under five minutes (I'll also be able to visit the Chinky, Blockbuster and a Thirsty Camel - shaaawiiiing) and that pleases me as much as a multiple organism, chased with a large bag of cheese Twisties and an icy glass of Pinot Grigio.

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.

Cue the drive thru for this here Kitty! I wasn't wearing a bra, or any makeup and I had my hot pink Grosby terry towelling slipper-thongs on. Although getting around in public like that may well be "McFabulous" for some, I am quite a stuck up little c word. It always matters how I look.
I got in the queue and noticed how everyone was favouring the right hand side drive thru ordering thing. There are two, but there were five cars lined up for the right one, and none on the left. What?

I pulled out and went through the left one. I really wanted two Big Macs, a large fries, a chocolate thick shake, two Oreo McFlurries and a Choko Pie but the kids insisted on fuckin' Happy Meals. Shits. I did add Diet Coke to their meals just to even up the score a bit (watching a year old old drink carbonated drinks when all he has ever had in his life is water and milk is hilaaaaaarious).

(I am a rather familiar face at the local Gold Arches and the teenage gothic emo drive thru chick knows me pretty well, she is a sweetpea)

Kitty: McHey to you to Mcbiatch!

Drive Thru Chick: McHeeey Kitty! McHi boys! *waves at my gorgeous spawn*

Drive Thru Chick: That's $12.95 please

Kitty: Sure, hey what is the dealio with the drive thru lane? Everyone is favouring the right, please explain!

Drive Thru Chick: Oh yeeeeeah, that is 'cause there is heaps of drama, hey?! They get abused when they try and merge with the right lane to get to the pay window....and there have been a couple of actual fights too! It's craaaaazy.

Kitty: You have to be fucking Mckidding me. Drive thru rage? Please tell me you are full of shit and just winding me up.

Drive Thru Chick: Nar! Fully sick, hey? Our customers are that lame. One time they had to call the friggin' police for real and they even showed up.

Kitty: Get McFucked! You're lyyyyying.

Drive Thru Chick: Not.

Kitty: That's McLame!...Later babes!

I got the "food" and drove home, got the kids out of the car and into their chairs for lunch and began decanting their "lunch" onto plastic plates.

Fuck.

I got the wrong food. I pulled out a Cheeesburger, a large fries and tested the boys drinks - regular Cokes! I'll be damned! Imagine the teaspoons of sugar and their tiny little defenseless teefs!!!!! Goddamn it. So I had to load the kids back into the beast and drive all the way back, for I was not about to pay $11.00 for such meagre offerings.

I slid back through the Drive Thru and bleated into the speaker about how I'd got the wrong thing and wanted the right thing.

Kitty: I got someone else's order, I need you to give me the right order. I have a receipt.

*waved receipt out the window*

Drive Thru Chick: Oh, no! Drive thru darls

*drives thru*

Kitty: I got this bag and it's wrong, I need Happy Meals stat!

Drive Thru: You're gonna lose it, but you need to go inside to fix it.

Kitty: Negative. No bra, no make up, slippers. Forget it biatch. Refund me and I'll get back in the queue. Can I please note this is McBuuuuullshit and I'm going to be late for fucking work now? Tell your wank-manager who doesn't give a fuck. TELL HIM ANYWAY. Kick Ronald in the balls for me too.

Drive Thru Chick: Hehehehe, oh you've met him then, like, my manager?....Yeah....I'm not surprised.

Kitty: Only a few times....what do you mean you're not surprised???????

I got my refund, lined back up in the queue and even stayed in the right lane with all the other cars for fear of being beaten to death for trying to merge after ordering and when I got through to the "food" window they tried to give me someone else's order again.

Kitty: This is God hating on me for supplying my children with trans fats y'know! This BLOWS!

Second Drive Thru Chick: Trans....what?

The end.

P.S. Yes, I do happen to know Sarah, but no it isn't meeeeeee! So stop emailing me asking if it is! So, so lame!

I'M ON PROBATION

Wavey says I can't blog for a calendar week as punishment not only for arguing on blogger, but also facebook. That cunt.

the end.

*he doesn't know I'm posting this...hehehe*

I'M A ROCKET SURGEON

Ok. I might be batshit fucking crazy, but if I had to choose between that or being a fucking idiot, I'd pick insane every day of the week.

Including Sunday.

This morning I took my Beast Wagon up to the local shops to do some grocery shopping. I loathe supermarkets and the mini-malls within which they are usually located. The carparks give me anxiety. I drive a massive car. It's huge, and long (just like my penis would be, if I had one). In fact, my vehicle only juuuuuust fits into a regular sized garage. In fact also, I had to spend $4000 extending the garage at my new McMansion.

Anyway, I parked far away from the main entrance (because Jebus gave me legs), shopped, paid and put my stuff in The Beast.

Then I got into The Beast, and began to reverse out of the carspace. They make all the spaces for tiny little Noddy cars these days, have you noticed too? The distance between rows of carspaces is not adequate for anything larger than a Fiesta either. I realise the goal is to pack as many cars into the carpark as possible, but it is my opinion that the bunch of geniuses (or is it genii?) at my particular local shopping centre have taken measures to achieve that objective too Goddamn far.

You can't even open your door HALF WAY without smashing into the car parked next door. I'm only small, I can slip out pretty easy but anyone 10 stone or over isn't going to manage it.

Anyway, back to this morning. As I was mid-reverse, a woman turned into my carspace corridor/lane way thing, and continued to drive toward me. As I reached a 45 degree angle, with my bumper inches from the cars parked behind me, I looked to find this fucking retard coming to a halt...about three inches from my front bullbar.

When I made eye contact with her, she smiled at me. Then she shrugged. Sweetly. She had just parked me in.

Here is a crude diagram of the position I found myself in:





Hmmmm. What was making me seethe with fury, is that she had every opportunity to stop two car spaces back, to allow me to drive forward and swing The Beast onto the left side of the carparking corridor/lane thing, thus allowing her to drive by or park in my freshly vacated carspace.

I pressed my electric window button until the window was down far enough to allow me to poke my head out. She did the same thing.

"Um, were you born this fucking stupid or do you have some sort of acquired brain injury?" I called, war face on display.

"You are in the way, you need to move!" She shouted back.

"Be serious, you've just parked me in!" I screamed, red faced and I could feel the vein in my forehead pulsating. A quick glance in my rearview mirror confirmed the appearance of the massive vein that appears on my forehead when I am experiencing intense rage.

"I did not! You just can't drive! That stupid big car is in MY way!" She shouted back.

She then looked very flustered (she should have been scared because I was two seconds from smashed her fucking teeth in) and reversed her shit box Hyundai Excel back about two feet. Now, the only place I could go is back into the carspace and allow her to pass by. The chances of me eating that much shit, was approximately zero. Fuck that.

"Hey lady! I'm not driving back into that carspace you fucking cunt! I have $100 worth of snacks right here, I am going to sit you the fuck out. You just fucking try me!!! I'm officially INSANE YOU KNOOOOOOOW!!!" I screeched out my window.

Two guys sauntering by began to laugh at me, they stopped walking and one got his phone ready to take a picture, just in case a full-on scrag-fight broke out in earnest. I folded my arms in defiance after engaging my transmission into PARK.

I then pulled on the handbrake and turned my engine off. I gave her the finger and then made a phone call. What a great opportunity to take a break and catch up on calls etc that I needed to make.

A car that had pulled up behind me began to beep. Incessantly.

She sat there for two minutes and 40 seconds and then she rolled her fucking piece of shit (that makes a Yaris look like a supercar) out of my way. I must tell you though, she only moved back a short distance, forcing me to perform a 37 point turn to get out of the carpark.

I don't care what anyone thinks. The day that I eat shit from Excel driving fucking window lickers like that fucking moron, is the day that I eat a .32 calibre bullet.


The end.