ERROL PARKER | Editor-at-large | Contact
A specimen from our town’s Heights district said he can’t bloody wait to get home from work this evening and enjoy a few of King Charles’ fingers for tea.
Though stopped short of saying he’s in for an absolute c-bomb of a day, sales manager Greg Stevens said he and his cat Tinsel are a bit crook in the guts after a weekend of eating like the world was ending.
Mr Stevens reckons Tinsel goes mad for ice cream and if he gets wind of some in the house, he meows his head off until Big Greg relents and makes him a little cone.
“Obviously, it goes through Tinsel like a truck through a tunnel so I reckon we need a few fibrous meals to help put the brakes on in the tum tum,” he told The Advocate this morning in the shared laundry at the apartment complex he shares with our reporter.
“He’s shit on the rug more than once. Anyway, a ‘smooth brain’ like you wouldn’t understand. Tonight, we’re having some of King Charles’ fingers on white bread with a good squirt of smokey BBQ sauce. I bet some leftie cuck like you would have to have some artisan sausages on sourdough. You can take your fancy bread and shove it up your arse,”
“You probably don’t even know what I’m talking about. King Charles’ fingers are fat sausages. We get ours from the supermarket because I don’t get paid very much. Hard concept for some tie-wearing media rentboy like you to understand but some people in this world have to eat shit and die so your life is more comfortable. I saw you getting that Pad Thai from that food courier yesterday. Making that poor young man ride all the way up here in the pissing rain. You decadent western pig.”
Greg paused to pat down his own pockets, while still maintaining eye contact.
He let out a short huff and asked our reporter if he could borrow a dollar for the dryer.
More to come.
