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Great Start To A Sunday Morning


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Woke up with a fucker of a headache, and figured I'd just pop a few pills and stay in bed until hunger drove me into the kitchen. Just settling down for a bit of a prolonged kip when the wife starts screaming.


Bolt downstairs, hauling my shorts on as I go, and the wife's outside sort of scampering back into the house.


Typical of a chick, she's in a perfectly calm and coherent manner as she explains to me what's wrong.


"Oh! Eeew! Eeeew! Ooooh! Eeeeeeeew!" she explains, jumping up and down and flapping her hands in front of her face.


"Aye?" I says, losing patience immediately.


A brief sortie into the gerden reveals that a squirrel has decided to go swimming in the pool during the night... and it being the weekend the fucker was probably bleezing. He's fallen in, not been able to get back out, and has drowned and is now floating in the water all limp. It's a pretty depressing, Barrymoresque situation, and the loon's out there just forming a huge list of questions in his heid regarding the mortality of squirrels. I can see it in his eyes.


"Daddy..." he begins, as I walk up next to him.


"I'm not answering any questions about squirrels." I tell him.


"But, Daddy...."


"Are you going to ask a question about squirrels?" I ask him, sizing up the distance to the squirrel versus the length of the net-on-a-stick I'm brandishing.


"...I think so."


"What did I say?"


"Not to talk about the squirrels..."


The wife then edges out of the house and shouts over, "Did you get it?"


"Daddy..." begins the loon, almost fucking certainly about to ask a question specifically regarding dead squirrels.


"No!" I shout at the wife.. "He keeps swimming away from me!"


"It's alive?" asks the stupid cow.


"Daddy..." persists the loon.


My heid starts fucking thumping again, and I realise the net-on-a-stick is too short.


"Daddy..." continues the loon.


"I thought it was D.E.A.D" shouts the wife.


I'm considering holding both their fucking heids under, when the wife points out we're going to her mate's kid's first birthday party, and intimates that, as usual, we'll be the first to fucking arrive and the last to fucking leave, so that's my entire fucking Sunday fucked before it even fucking starts. Two hours of driving and four hours watching a drooling infant chew its way slowly into a mountain of fucking presents, HAPPY SUNDAY, KELT, YA CUNT!


"Did you get it (the deid squirrel) yet?" She shouts again, standing right there where she can clearly see I didn't have it.


"Aye, nae bother!" I say. jumping into what is, essentially, dead squirrel soup.


"Daddy..." begins the loon.


And etc... :angry2:

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Kelt sleeps in the nuddy :o


That's right :) And now EVERYONE has that mental image.


And it'll never leave you... never, ever leave you.



Too much time on yer hands Kelt, coming on here to tell all this story...



I do indeed have way too much time on my hands.


I would hazard a guess that I work... I mean really work... about 12 hours a week :thumbs:


The rest of my time is split between squirrel fishing, drinking Jack Daniels Tennessee Honey Whiskey, and chronic masturbation.


And that's an mental image that will never, ever leave you :thumbs:

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