I don’t mean to cause offence to the nice gentleman in the bar who is shouting “OI. You lookin’ at my bird?” He is, of course, not a cunt, and I’d better shut up or fucking else. Nononono. Something in my eye. Sorry.
My gripe is with the obvious butch lezza, cropped hair, 4’8″ tall, 4’9″ wide but not in dungarees, who was blocking my access to the milk in the Co-op today. “Could you excuse me a second?”, I asked. It moved grudgingly aside, and then, with the speed of a slug on Mandrax, a thought occurred to it, “Did you just call me ‘Sir’?” it enquired, with more than a soupcon of strop. I repeated what I had said, with extra clarity for the hard of understanding. It didn’t reply, and I moved on towards the ripen-at-home nectarines. Thinking.
Butch lezza was definitely looking for trouble. If I HAD called it Sir, I can only imagine that the next move would have been a call to the (thought) police. At the very least, I could have expected a loud lecture on gender identity, and instruction as to which precise category the cunt fitted, complete with silly pronouns. You don’t have to be a mind reader these days. If a complete stranger raises a gender-related issue for no apparent, or an invented, reason, they’re looking for trouble.
Be on your guard, cunters. It’s not just in the Co-Op. It’s global:
Nominated by Komodo.