In retrospect I should have realised that the violence was not inevitable; I should have seen it coming, if only I had the insight into my own psyche that Diane Abbot clearly possesses.
Cheeseburgers are a pretty manly thing to cook for tea, so far so good; I am at peace with myself. Then came fatal mistake: I rolled the mince into dish shapes, lined them with jalapeno peppers, stuffed them with shitake mushrooms and mozzarella cheese. Then mash up a packet of smoky bacon crisps and roll the burgers in the crumbs to form a coating. (This also soaks up excess moisture). I placed the burgers on a baking sheet in preheated oven and then had a massive nervous collapse.
Stabbing pains shot through my head as I clutched wildly at my temples and thrashed around on the linoleum. The day before I had made a bacon sandwich, which was supposed to help, a manly thing apparently your bacon sandwich; but I had ruined it by putting cherry tomatoes in it which had made it all gay. Now I was paying the price.
I scrabbled at the front door and stumbled out into the street: A bespectacled gentleman with a satchel was passing; I immediately punched him savagely in the face sending him sprawling to the floor. A woman came running from her house, so I made an absence gesture with my fist and told her to get her tits out. The shooting pains subsided, I went back inside and slapped my girlfriend in Case she said anything; lets face facts; she should have been cooking in the first place because she has a vagina and, as a result, this was all her fault.
|After drawing this overwhelmingly feminine picture of a happy little dinosaur I had no choice but to scissor kick an I.T consultant in the stomach.|
I have read an awful lot about me this week and I am inherently awful: I am eternally grateful to both Diane Abbot MP and Barbara Ellen, a sort of journalist, if I have completely misunderstood the word journalist and it means that you write down what ever comes into your head, for keeping me posted on my deeply flawed existence.
I had no idea until I read the Observer that men are responsible for wasting the fertility of women by not having children with them because men are selfish. Put like this it sounds a bit stupid; this is because it is. A third of women, according to this publication, do not have children for this reason; Barbara Ellen feels that it is a larger percentage than this; presumably because the elves in her head sang to her that this was the case.
Despite the unquestionable statistics it raises the question of opposites: How many women are forced to have children because the man is selfish? Barbara seems to be under the impression that women who don’t want children for reasons of their own are an ‘urban myth’, which is frankly more sexist against women than anything I have ever said or done.
I don’t really need to point out to any rational person that if only one person out of the necessary two wants children then that person needs to be with someone who does. What if the man wants children and the female party involved does not? Is she being selfish?
Why are children part of an unquestionable long term plan? If you are part of a couple and you think that you would be good parents and a child would enhance your life and relationship and you can provide for this new being then that seems fair. Thinking that having children is something that you do because it is what you do is an outdated concept that lacks all levels of introspection and philosophy: This planet is running low on a great deal of things and people are not one of them.
As an upper middle class journalist/MP, a large majority of the people that actually exist are going to be different to the people that you have actually met. I have taken everything these two people have said into account: I checked with my partner and asked if I was stopping her from breeding, she assures me that no-one needs to do that. She was very graphic about it. All men have the desire to be stereotypically masculine in the same way that women all like pink shoes and talent shows. My girlfriend watches Top Gear while I’m out because I hate it; I like baking, drawing pictures and big lovely bosoms. I am comfortable with this, and would be, even if I loved the cock.