I’ve just had a real narky cunt arrive, flustered because the dumb cunt can’t find the easy-to-find location, and try to tell me – the fucking resident – that my address is wrong. My address, is wrong. I asked the cunt on what possible fucking dimension he thought he was on, and that started a more heated discussion diffused by the brother-in-law.
I’ve had all kinds of Tesco simpleton cunts turn up here and lose shopping, give me the wrong shopping, substitute tinned tuna for fucking cat food, give me a week’s shop which has stuff all expiring the day after delivery… but to tell me I don’t know my own fucking house number is a glorious example of utter fucking incompetence that will take some beating.
It’s the fucking complaints email avenue for you, you cunt!
Nominated by The Empire Cunts Back.