Walkies With Lard Arse, Ginger Kids & Binmen

Went for a walk in the park with me Dad today and we saw a poster on a tree saying: "This is a photograph of our much loved dog which went missing last Tuesday. If found please call us." So me Dad phoned them up and said, "I've just found a photograph of your dog!"  He's crazy, it's just one mad laugh a minute round here. That's what he thinks anyway, the sad fat get. Boring as fuck, that's the reality of my sad and lonely existence. It's got even worse since he went on a diet. Why, for fucks sake, when other people go on a diet do the immediately put everyone around them on a diet too? You want to see the meagre portions he dishes up for me at night now, a motley handful of biscuits and a bit of leftover chicken, that's all I'm getting. It's no wonder I have to eat shit when we go for walkies is it? I'm bloody ravenous. I'm contemplating ripping me bean bag apart just to see if by any chance there's some actual real beans in there. Still, on a brighter note, there's a for sale sign up over the road. The place where the ginger ninja lives. So the days of that little scroat coming wheeling down the drive making a right racket on his pathetic little girlie scooter thingy are hopefully almost over. The ponce. That's twelve disturbances a day less to look forward to. Just Stumpy the postman, the Indian takeaway lads and the fucking Jehovas Witnesses to piss me off on a daily basis now. The binmen have virtually given up the ghost round here now. Once a fortnight we see them if we're lucky, the lazy twats. Me Mum has to sort out all their shite for them now. Bottles here, cans there, newspaper over here, cardboard over there, plastic containers in this box, foil in that box. What the fuck are they getting paid for that's what I want to know? Balls bastard buggering all as far as I can see. Driving the pissing van very slowly up the road. Checking meticulously to see if you've followed the fucking eight page list of instructions to the letter. Figured out if it's a green bin, black bin, blue bin or rainbow coloured fucking bin week and carefully presented your rubbish in a manner that appeals to them. You need a pissing PhD to put your shite out round here these days. They're fucking binmen, not royalty. It's only a matter of time before they all glide past in their fucking pristine clean van (as they haven't yet found any rubbish that ticks enough boxes to go in it) waving like the fucking Queen in a high vis jacket. They can fuck right off when Christmas comes, that's all I can say.