Please give a crap… 

This is a public service announcement.

Diabetes is on the rise in America and something needs to be done about it.

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For just the price of one hot steaming poo a day,  we can help find the cure for this debilitating disease.

That’s right,  just one heavy,  corn infused bum dumpling and we can take a stand (or squat) against diabetes.

We hope that,  one day,  we can shit our way to finding a remedy against this insulin deficiency once and for all.

So,  please read our book and create food that will enable you to birth the most substantial,  eye watering,  bung stretching turds you’ve ever experienced.

Let’s end this sugared tyranny by standing together.

Or squatting.

Yes,  squatting makes more sense.

Give me strength…

Yesterday I went to the gym after work, despite being tired after a long…fucking…day.

I walked up to the reception desk and handed over my membership card to the girl standing behind it (the desk, not my card).

Me: “Here you go“.

She took my card, looked at it for a second.

Girl: “Thank you Daniel“.

Bit weird, but OK.

Me: “Can I have a towel please?

Girl: “Sure“.

She handed me a towel.

Me: “Thanks“.

Girl: “I love your energy! Have a great workout

My energy?

All I did was ask for a towel and then thanked her for handing me that towel.  It’s not like I bounded in, frisbee’d my membership card at her and bellowed: “Well hello there my good woman!  May I have a towel for today’s exertions!!???

Still, I mustered enough energy for an eye roll.

She deserved it.

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Are you talking at me?

I’m currently sat in the waiting room of the physical therapy clinic whilst my wife undergoes another session following her double ACL knee surgery a few weeks back.

Whew, that was a long sentence.

Anyway, I’m sat here reading crap on my phone (as usual) when I felt the prescence of someone sit down three seats to my left.

A miniscule fraction of a nanosecond passed before I heard a southern American drawl aimed in my general direction.

“That’s a lot of tattoos”

I chose to pretend I hadn’t heard her and kept reading whatever bollocks I was reading on my phone, knowing full well she was talking to me.

How do I know?  Well, because:

A) I have two full tattoo sleeves, and

B) I’m the only other person here.

I could feel her looking at me awaiting some sort of response, like a gormless child waiting for a firework display to begin; slack jawed and unblinking.

The act of ignoring someone does not come as easy to me as many would think, so I succumbed to literal peer pressure and looked up at her old, heavily tanned, heavily cheekboned (due to one surgical procedure too many) face.

I gave her a fake smile.

“A lot of tattoos huh?” she pointlessly asked, in case I hadn’t caught the gist of her last unwelcomed comment.

For a second I toyed with the cliché response of “Oh shit, where the fuck did THEY come from??”, but instead I lifted one arm, admired it for a moment and chuckled a friendly(ish) reply:

“Yeah. And a lot of pain too.”

That should be enough to end this unwanted conversation, I thought.

Wrong.

“Wow, gee whizz”, she continued with me now back to my phone, attempting to re-ignore her.

She then paused for a few seconds to, I assume, scan all my artwork.

Then she let out an audible shudder.

Have you ever heard someone audibly shudder?

What kind of reaction is that?

It’s impossible to describe the sound with the written word, but it was like she had spiders suddenly running up and down her sinewy but saggy, slightly hunched, leathery body.

Silent shudder.

Sarcasm is a dish not found on the menu.

On Saturday night my wife and I attended the Purple Reign tribute act at The Westgate in Las Vegas.  It was awesome and definitely worth a visit, especially if you’re a Prince fan like me.

Anyway, beforehand we had booked a reservation at an Italian restaurant to make it a proper date night.

Upon arrival we were shown to our seats and handed the largest menus I think I’ve ever seen. These things were like windsurfing sails.  Looking around the restaurant I could see people struggling to keep their chairs in place as they fought against the air conditioning.

At one point I saw a crying child fly overhead.

After a few minutes the waitress came over to our table.

“Hi, my name is (I genuinely can’t remember); are you ready to order, or do you have any questions?”

I looked up at her with a wry grin and replied, “Yes actually, I do have a question; is it possible to get a larger menu?  This one isn’t quite big enough.”

She smiled back and said, “Yes, I know.  The print is just so small and difficult to read.  We really need to make the whole thing bigger, sorry about that.”

At last, someone that gets it!  She knew I was joking and ran with it, commenting on the size of the text on these huge, wobbling cardboard monstrosities.  At last I had found someone that picked up on the subtleties of my English humour and gave as good as she got.

I was so happy.

After she had left, my wife (seeing my smile of satisfaction) leaned in, and said “You realise she thought you were serious, right?”

Fuck.

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Fed Zeppelin

The supermarket last night was manic, with last minute Christmas shoppers packing their trollies tight like a hungry alcoholic competition winner on a supermarket dash.

I was regrettably in there because we had run out of alcohol in the house and that’s a sin at any time of the year, let alone Christmas.

After negotiating the badly driven trollies and turkey laden imbeciles with no sense of direction or intelligence, I loaded up my trolley and slalomed my way through the festive fuckwits to the checkouts.

After queuing for an eternity behind knuckle draggers and bickering couples, I finally reached the checkout.  I began loading my meagre purchases onto the belt and awaited my “sorry to keep you waiting, would you like some bags?” from the friendly checkout girl.

No, its OK, I’ll just kick my stuff all the way to the car.

Probably not the best approach as these guys were swamped with Chrismassy cretins and their sanity was hanging by a thread.

As I was stood there being thankful that ASDA didn’t sell firearms, I couldn’t help but watch the two women behind me unloading their shopping onto the belt behind mine (and yes, this time there was a divider). They were both rather large ladies, one considerably larger than the other. A lot larger.

I shall call her Zeppelina.

They were placing item after item after item after item onto the checkout which had started creaking under the weight, and I began to wonder if this was their Christmas shop or ‘just the weekly’.

Anyway, after about 5 minutes Zeppelina pulled out an empty chocolate wrapper from their trolley and gave her friend a smile that said, ‘oops, what am I like?’.

A pig?

Zeppelina used this moment to take a breather from the exhaustive nature of what she was doing (as some of those cakes looked quite heavy), and once she’d caught her breath and stopped wheezing she handed the wrapper to her friend and said, “we’ll need to explain that”.

No she won’t.

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