Rudolf the Twat

Jack was feeling a bit blue. And when I say blue, I mean the darkest blue you can imagine. The deepest part of the ocean that no diver, submarine or sunken ship has ever, or would ever want, to reach. And it wasn’t even Monday yet. In fact, today, this week, this month, year, decade, life, had all been going rather well for Jack, objectively, his boomerang ‘girlfriend’ Penelope thought (aloud) as she watched him unravelling carrot-orange thread from the christmas jumper he’d inherited from his (dead) dad’s wardrobe six years previous. The once-perky-now-flaccid-chode of a snowman’s nose sat astride ‘poor’ Rudolf who’s cherry-bakewell honker was still, smugly, intact.

No wonder Rudolf hasn’t got any mates, the twat, thought Penelope. He guilt-trips Santa into giving him the reigns for the most important night of the year (obviously completely unqualified, akin to letting a ten year old drunk take to the wheel of a Mercedes four wheel drive), hoofing all the loyal, slogging dancers and prancers who’ve been Santa-sucking, present-pushing for donkeys/reindeers years, to the back of the line. ‘Poor Rudolf’ my arse, Penelope clicked her baileys coated tongue across the rim of her empty pint class. It suddenly dawned on her. Rudolf took them for a ride. A situation not too dissimilar to her own. She quickly crammed another orange crème quality street into her cake-hole in order to plug the volcanic torrent of execrable insults she could feel rising up her windpipe in the direction of her boyfriend (emphasis on the BOY rather than the friend part) as she considered this picture before her with 90 carat contempt. Pathetic, incompetent Snowman, arrogant arse-licking Rudolf and then, to trump the two of them, her tosspot of a boyfriend, wasting away in front of vile Jeremy Kyle, hands in his pants, probably plaiting his pubes. Now this would make a great game of Snog, Marry, Kill, she thought (aloud). Or not.

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