XmisterIS
Purveyor of fine nonsense
This is something that has bugged me for years, and I have finally SNAPPED!!!! (straight jacket and yummy vallium please!!! Or phenobarbitol ...)
It goes like this (with a little artistic licence and exaggeration thrown in for effect):
I make the trip to the horrible, gaudy, nasty, heaving, chav-filled town centre to find a new pair of trainers. I have to elbow and punch my way through the rabble to get to the show shop, where I spend ages trying to find a pair of cheap, comfortable trainers that don't look like they've come straight from a cartoon and been inflated with a bicycle pump. At the same time I am trying to fight off the attentions of a pubescent, acne-covered shop assisstant who wants me to buy some space-age ubertrainer for £150.
I find the requisite article, punch and elbow my way to the queue for the counter.
Eventually I get to pay. Then I go home and scream obscenities at the cooker, just to vent my anger!
The whole process takes me a morning, at least, and I am fuming! All I wanted was a pair of bloody buggery shoes!
Eventually the bloody buggery shoes start to wear out and I need another pair.
It is at this point that I have a cunning plan ...
I know the make and "model" of the shoes I bought last time, so it should be painfully easy to just go online, find the same thing and order a straight replacement. Five minute job, excruciatingly painfully easy, no hassle whatsoever.
Or so you would think ... no, I turns out that my particular "model" of bloody buggery shoe is no longer being made, or anything remotely like them, even though they're only a couple of years old.
So the only option I am left with is either to wear plastic bags or repeat the whole fiasco of elbowing and punching and biting my way back to the shoe shop on a heaving saturday afternoon ... I find that a golf club appropriated from the outdoor sports department works well as a queue-buster when it is rammed firmly up the arse of the chav in front - each one makes a different kind of astonished falsetto screaming noise while wiggling around like a cretin.
Rant over! I thank you.
It goes like this (with a little artistic licence and exaggeration thrown in for effect):
I make the trip to the horrible, gaudy, nasty, heaving, chav-filled town centre to find a new pair of trainers. I have to elbow and punch my way through the rabble to get to the show shop, where I spend ages trying to find a pair of cheap, comfortable trainers that don't look like they've come straight from a cartoon and been inflated with a bicycle pump. At the same time I am trying to fight off the attentions of a pubescent, acne-covered shop assisstant who wants me to buy some space-age ubertrainer for £150.
I find the requisite article, punch and elbow my way to the queue for the counter.
Eventually I get to pay. Then I go home and scream obscenities at the cooker, just to vent my anger!
The whole process takes me a morning, at least, and I am fuming! All I wanted was a pair of bloody buggery shoes!
Eventually the bloody buggery shoes start to wear out and I need another pair.
It is at this point that I have a cunning plan ...
I know the make and "model" of the shoes I bought last time, so it should be painfully easy to just go online, find the same thing and order a straight replacement. Five minute job, excruciatingly painfully easy, no hassle whatsoever.
Or so you would think ... no, I turns out that my particular "model" of bloody buggery shoe is no longer being made, or anything remotely like them, even though they're only a couple of years old.
So the only option I am left with is either to wear plastic bags or repeat the whole fiasco of elbowing and punching and biting my way back to the shoe shop on a heaving saturday afternoon ... I find that a golf club appropriated from the outdoor sports department works well as a queue-buster when it is rammed firmly up the arse of the chav in front - each one makes a different kind of astonished falsetto screaming noise while wiggling around like a cretin.
Rant over! I thank you.
