“You have made the kaka all over my favourite racetrack, and now you are broken and hanging on a wall, dripping like the salami-donkeys in a Polish village.”
Here, gutter-worms! Something you may be able to ride.
Dear disgraceful Putas,
I am gone for five minutes and you filthy monkeys lose all your mierde! You have made the kaka all over my favourite racetrack, and now you are broken and hanging on a wall, dripping like the salami-donkeys in a Polish village.
I have brought this new training bike for all of you to learn how to ride again after sitting on your fat culos for eight months and eating pasta and burgers of ham. I hope it is not too fast for you all. Ha ha!
I should have brought it earlier. Maybe your shameful Sunday performance would have been less shameful, and I would not have to dirty my shoes walking through your blood, broken bones, and smelly culo-fountains.
Look at you, stupid Horse-Tooth Puta! Now you have no arms left. Only I can make the race with no arms and you are not me. Now you will only take the kaka of failure in your gigantic mouth and speak to Jesus hoping your stupid he-sister’s arms fit onto your broken girl-shoulders.
I grew my whole spine back in a fortnight! You will be squirming on a bed for months, because your horse-teeth have sucked all your vitamins up.
And you, fossilised Yellow Puta. Look at you. You see a light on your dashboard and you stop and go home. I never see ANY lights on my dashboard! I never see any dashboards, because dashboards are not for champions to look at!
I look also at that English Gravy-Scab Puta. The one with the mad eyes of a vicious weasel. Yes, that Puta who fights with the cows and the toilet door. He has the concussion, yes? When has he not had the concussion? Always he has had it! That is why he yells at the clouds all the time.
I also look at the Un-Dead Zombie Puta, but it hurts my eyes. He is ugly like nothing I have seen in this world. How may years has he been dead for? He has also broken something, yes? Good.
Once again, the stupid Sad-Eyed Puta is crying. I would cry too if I came third and was still kicked in the stomach and face by my crew when I came back to the pit and started asking for more money to ride Gigi’s worthless motorcycles. Yes, I would cry, but I do not cry because I am a Spartan!
Only this new Giraffe Puta has any cojones! Only he listened to me when I called him before the race and said to him he must be like the zebra that flies through the trees! And he was! If he had not ridden in the wrong direction for a lap, he would have won!
Clearly, nothing can be successful unless the Mamba makes it successful. So I am ready now to make successful successes.
Obviously, there are now many vacant chairs on the teams. And I can no longer pretend to be retired because I am not retired and was never retired. I just needed to soar atop the mountains like a hammer and drop my butter on the world.
It is all dropped. I am ready. You all have my number. The one who makes the most pathetic begging for my return will be the one who will then obey my orders.
Standing by for your adulation,
George.
About the Author
Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.
Related Posts
“But I think the Horse-toothed Puta’s little Repsola sister will catch it because she is weak and her gums are so broad the Plague will enter through there.” →
“It is five years past the time when that tear-gushing weep-festival of despair went home to play with his dolls and cats.” →
“And everywhere he is put this black flag with the picture of his broken culo on it.” →
