I’m sure they do it to wind us up and they do it on purpose, that, or they are in league with the purveyors of blood pressure medicants.
Allow me to illustrate:
Sunday afternoon, Biggin Hill Air-show on the goggle box; the surround sound is wound up and flexing the windows. Enter honeybunch
“Loud isn’t it!” Strike one. That’s why I turned it on you dozy cunt, is what I wanted to say, but I let it slide.
“Now listen; this is what it’s about lass: a Spitfire.”
“Sounds just like any other engine to me.” Strike two. You fucking soulless harridan!
Michael Clarke announces his retirement and gets emotional:
“Aw.” She says “I feel sorry for him, don’t you?”
“No!” “He’s a baggy green Aussie bastard, which is as hateful a frenchman (No! Fuck off spell-checker he’s not having a capital F) without an English arrow sticking out of his chest. I hate the bloody convicts; they hate us so why should I feel pity for him”
“But it’s only a game and you shouldn’t get so angry, it can’t be good for you.” Strike three through twenty-three.
See what I mean. They can never attain cuntitude, but by the fuck the know about cuntishness and how to twist it when it’s in up to the hilt.
Of course you could never trump Cuntishness with Cuntitude or you’d never get your shirts ironed.
Sneaky vindictive cunning Cunts.
Nominated by: King Cnut