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Cyclists (Yet AFuckingGain)

Judging by my swollen inbox, oh, er missus, I am not alone in thinking that these twats are a load of Hitler fixated fudge packers in lycra. I've even had cyclists admitting to me that the bell-ends in lycra do their heads in too. Vermin, that's what they are. And what do we do with fucking vermin? That's right, we fucking kill it don't we? I am therefore declaring this weekend National Twat A Fucking Cyclist weekend. Think about it, this is our fucking road that we fucking pay for. Well when I say "we" I mean me Dad and you lot, I'm a dog, I don't pay for fuck all, but neither do I cycle 16 abreast with all me mates down the B2437. I'm not entitled, you see. I know my place, so I don't do it. These twats aren't entitled either. Do they pay cycling tax? No they fucking don't. They might pay car tax, some of them, but that's for driving their fucking cars on the B2437 NOT a fucking bike. You can't have three cars and only pay road tax on one can you? Well, you can if two are vintage classics I suppose, but you're starting to pick hairs now and doing my head in almost as bad as these knob jockeys. So, if you see one out and about this weekend. On OUR roads, illegally on OUR roads, that we pay for, simply force the cocky gay porn obsessed twat off into a ditch or the path of an oncoming lorry. There's three points for a fatality, two for a loss of limb and/or permanent disability and one for a fracture. First one to 50 wins an autographed pooh on a polished pitch pine plinth. Over to you. Woof.

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