Random grab bag of thoughts and what have you from the last week or so.
Anthony Worrall Thompson. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Anthony. Worrall. Thompson. I'm writing his name three times in order to fix his horrible orc-like face in my memory, and what has the troll-featured cuntbubble done to attracts my ire? Why, suggesting that the minimum wage by abolished. And why should the minimum wage, that succour to nameless millions balancing precariously above the poverty line, be abolished? Because it would make waiting on staff work harder for tips. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Drink it in. Anthony. Worrall. Thompson (this, incidentally, is the same man who suggests turning up to a fully booked restaurant and insisting that you booked, because they'll have to let you in, he is a pox on humanity, a boil on the face of sweet mother earth, an enormous worm ridden shit in your chardonnay, to paraphrase the tone-deaf man's Tasmin Archer, Alanis Morrissette).
Ormskirk's getting more dangerous! After the "Karaoke Kicking" incident of a couple of weeks back last weeks Advertiser headline was "Blood on the Bones" the bones, in this case, being dominoes, so not as exciting as the headline would lead you to believe. It was a fight over a game of dominoes. Oh Ormskirk. Worth noting, however, that the chap whose blood was spilt was also recently in the paper accused of illegal campaigning in the SU presidency race. Publicity hungry little imp just can't stay out of the news.
Anthony Worrall Thompson. He did that cake with the Snickers bars didn't he? How could that possibly be any good? Wanker. Copper-bottomed wanker.
You make the decision to get married, you make the decision to buy a house, and all of a sudden you have to buy sofas. Why did this never occur to me before? Furniture always just sort of happened.
Dear Duncan Fletcher. Please drop Geraint Jones. A joke's a joke but it's getting a bit much now.
Day something or other in the big brother house, and still I manage to avoid it.
Madonna on a crucifix. Has she gone too far? Asks the Daily Mail today. No. Next question.
Anthony. Worrall. Thompson. Have you seen that thing he does with his hands at the end of saturday kitchen if he wins the vote? This little self deprecating gesture which is anything but. It says I knew I would win because I'm Anthony Worrall Thompson, you're a gay australian and you're a woman. I, however, am Anthony Worrall Thompson. And don't get me started on that pisspoor excuse for a wine expert, you know the one. Jamie Oliver's mate. That's right. I'm saving up a bucketload of piss and hatred for that clueless, fruit-fixated berk. No, the wine guy, not Jamie Oliver. Though now I come to think of it...
Anthony Worrall Thompson. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Anthony. Worrall. Thompson. I'm writing his name three times in order to fix his horrible orc-like face in my memory, and what has the troll-featured cuntbubble done to attracts my ire? Why, suggesting that the minimum wage by abolished. And why should the minimum wage, that succour to nameless millions balancing precariously above the poverty line, be abolished? Because it would make waiting on staff work harder for tips. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Drink it in. Anthony. Worrall. Thompson (this, incidentally, is the same man who suggests turning up to a fully booked restaurant and insisting that you booked, because they'll have to let you in, he is a pox on humanity, a boil on the face of sweet mother earth, an enormous worm ridden shit in your chardonnay, to paraphrase the tone-deaf man's Tasmin Archer, Alanis Morrissette).
Ormskirk's getting more dangerous! After the "Karaoke Kicking" incident of a couple of weeks back last weeks Advertiser headline was "Blood on the Bones" the bones, in this case, being dominoes, so not as exciting as the headline would lead you to believe. It was a fight over a game of dominoes. Oh Ormskirk. Worth noting, however, that the chap whose blood was spilt was also recently in the paper accused of illegal campaigning in the SU presidency race. Publicity hungry little imp just can't stay out of the news.
Anthony Worrall Thompson. He did that cake with the Snickers bars didn't he? How could that possibly be any good? Wanker. Copper-bottomed wanker.
You make the decision to get married, you make the decision to buy a house, and all of a sudden you have to buy sofas. Why did this never occur to me before? Furniture always just sort of happened.
Dear Duncan Fletcher. Please drop Geraint Jones. A joke's a joke but it's getting a bit much now.
Day something or other in the big brother house, and still I manage to avoid it.
Madonna on a crucifix. Has she gone too far? Asks the Daily Mail today. No. Next question.
Anthony. Worrall. Thompson. Have you seen that thing he does with his hands at the end of saturday kitchen if he wins the vote? This little self deprecating gesture which is anything but. It says I knew I would win because I'm Anthony Worrall Thompson, you're a gay australian and you're a woman. I, however, am Anthony Worrall Thompson. And don't get me started on that pisspoor excuse for a wine expert, you know the one. Jamie Oliver's mate. That's right. I'm saving up a bucketload of piss and hatred for that clueless, fruit-fixated berk. No, the wine guy, not Jamie Oliver. Though now I come to think of it...
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