Imagine just how fucked up you’d have to be for everyone you know to get together for an intervention.
You going to have to be doing some hard-core junk or something really fucked up to have all your loved ones lure you somewhere just to sit you down and jam it home that you are being a cunt.
I guess you should count yourself lucky that you have people that give a fuck about you but think about it… your just enjoying your life and getting on with it; you don’t need these dicks telling you how to live your life.
You don’t tell them that their wasting their lives working 9 to 5, buying nice stuff and bringing up perfectly healthy kids. What’s it got to do with them?
Fuck them and their three family holidays a year, you’ve got ketamine.
And what if you do give up the drugs/booze/animal sex videos/celebrity stalking; does that mean that you’re going to live forever? No!
They’re only doing it to make themselves feel better because ‘they care’.
Do they fuck; bloody do-gooders, now you’re as boring as they are. At least when you were on the drugs you had a social life, right.
What now? Another night stuck indoors, flicking between channels and ordering a meat free pizza because you’re not allowed to go clubbing with your ‘druggie’ mates. What do they know?
They haven’t doubled dropped pills with a Brazilian model in a Belgian bar or spent a night in a cheap hotel with a stripper and a bag of coke the size of an apple.
So what you lost your wife and kids and a tramp is now living in your car because it’s off the road and you can’t afford to run it anymore.
Who cares, that tramp gets good weed and sorts out your recycling.
Some bloke was living in my mum’s old car just before she moved down to the coast several years ago but she was too scared to do anything about it. I believe his name was Matt and she sort of knew him from somewhere.
He had gotten in one weekend when she was away and refused to go because he had ‘issues’ and problems with family. My mum is a bit of a believer in helping people in times of need; I however am not. Fucking crack head.
I said what he needed was a good kicking.
My last straw was when my mum told my brother and me that she was leaving for work one morning and caught the man taking a shit just outside her back gate where the car was parked. We wanted to go down there with hammers and throw the prick in the river.
In the end her boyfriend at the time, a giant Irish pub owner smashed the dude up with a bit of 2×4. How we laughed.
I still think we should have thrown him in the river.
Break his arms first though.
A mate told me about one of his neighbours had come home from a holiday to find two Polish blokes had moved into his shed at the very bottom of their garden. Their excuse was that because the house was empty for two weeks they assumed that the house was abandoned.
Turns out they had plans to break into the property and squat the place out. Fuck that. I’d chuck a match to the bastard and settle up with the insurance once they’ve pulled out all the immolated eastern European builder’s corpses.
But I digress.
A few of the lad’s at work started talking about social networking today and one of the agency bods said that he preferred Facebook over twitter because twitter was more along the lines of selling yourself. When asked what he meant he didn’t know why he had said it and didn’t really know what he had meant by his statement.
A day later we still don’t know what he meant.
I said that I preferred twitter for a few reasons.
It seems to be a bit of a twat free zone. Again, I’m putting this down to the limit on the amount you can type in there. Cuts down on the troll factor.
You can do some real celebrity stalking from birds that get their tits out in the paper to A-list Hollywood types. You can actually have a wank over Hillary Duff’s photos and it isn’t one of those creepy fan sites set up by a fat, balding sex predator.
But best of all… no invites. I don’t want to go to your gig on Thursday in a country 3000 miles away. I don’t want to send you an extra life on ‘Sparkle Cunt’ or whatever shit puzzle game you’re playing. I don’t want to sponsor some mate of yours that I have never met because he’s doing a sponsored walk for something or other. I don’t want to check out your model page.
But then maybe I use these networks a little too much.
I can imagine my intervention.
My mum sitting there after they have trapped me in some shit hotel room by the coast asking me to get rid of my laptop and try going outside for a bit. “Get out there Greg and see some of the world, meet people.” I don’t want to, your all out to get me.
Do one mum, I live my own life now. If I liked you all I wouldn’t have left home. HA!
I kid, she’s alright I suppose.