Cotton tips in a clown's eyes.
I'm listening to Mozart's Requiem Mass, because it is a perfectly imperfect piece of music. It is a tribute to the maxim that "You ought to get stuck into whatever you're doing you lazy sod, because you never know when you are going to take ill and die."
It also helps me imagine disabled fat midgets in wheelchairs pushing themselves across a cratered no man's land into a nest of machine guns, which contrary to popular opinion, gives me much pause for thought.
When I was at work today my boss was talking to his wife and I was muttering about something.
"I'll see you when I get home honey," he said, "the angry giant is about to lose his top."
When he got of the phone I told him that I wasn't going to "lose my top," and was well under control. This, he reckons, I'll just let simmer for a while, but sooner or later, I'll have to let it out.
I'm the first one to admit that I do lose my nut on the odd and very irregular occasion. One coffee, two fucking sugars. What the fuck is that shit? I thought that fucking rule was well and fucking correct. What dozy fucking lesbian, left wing, town trollop of a second grade teacher told me that one? Filthy mole. Ought to be hung up on a hook by the vagina and whipped by everyone in town.
When I was at the lights a few days the woman near me and I reached for the button for the little green man at the same time.
"I'll get that for you," I said, trying to be charming.
"Thanks" she said with a stuck up air.
"Well if you're going to be like that, I'll just fucking throw you in front of a fucking truck."