I, for one, can’t believe the thread was open FOUR HOURS before someone posted this…
I’m sorry I thought we’d started.
Are there any women here?
Start again.
You want to complain. Look at these shoes! I’ve only had 'em three weeks and the heels are worn right through.
– No, I want to complain about…
If you complain, nothing happens. You might as well not bother.
– Ohhh… f’r God’s
Ow, my back hurts. I’m sick and tired of this office.
Well, I wanted to start an argument about how crappy AOL is. How it kicked me off no less than SIX times last night. You’d think I’d have learned after the fourth, but us AOL users are stupid like that. Turns out there’s a pit thread on this exact subject. I would have posted there if I could have stayed on for more than two minutes last night.
Anyway, I wish to argue and complain about the abuse. Looks like I’m just going to be hitting myself on the head saying “WaaaAAAAaaAAaaah”
He doesn’t have to shoot you now.
Yes, he does. Shoot me now, shoot me now!
P.S. It’s Wabbit Season.
No, no, you’re missing the second “Wah”, like, “Waahhhh, Wahhhh”, and put your hands on your head. Here, try it again - {WHAP!}
better
“better?”
“better get a bucket”
[sub]reference Mr. Creosote, The Meaning of Life[/sub]
an umbrella, waterproofs and waders would have been better…
but to accompany your argument, would sir like a waffer-thin mint?
[sub] spelling intentional[/sub]
… and a hhhhhhhhhose.
Well, so much for trying to start an argument. All I got was a bunch of contradictory statements. And don’t tell me that by contradicting me you must be arguing because it won’t work.
I would have responded back to you all sooner, but I went out today to get a license for my pet fish. Boy what a fiasco that was.
I’m fed up with being treated like sheep. What’s the point of going abroad if you’re just another tourist carted around in buses surrounded by sweaty mindless oafs from Kettering and Boventry in their cloth caps and their cardigans and their transistor radios and their Sunday Mirrors, bomplaining about the tea - ‘Oh they don’t make it properly here, do they, not like at home’ - and stopping at Majorcan bodegas selling fish and chips and Watney’s Red Barrel and calamaris and two veg and sitting in their cotton frocks squirting Timothy White’s suncream all over their puffy raw swollen purulent flesh 'cos they ‘overdid it on the first day’ and being herded into endless Hotel Miramars and Bellvueses and Bontinentales with their modern international luxury roomettes and draught Red Barrel and swimming pools full of fat German businessmen pretending they’re acrobats forming pyramids and frightening the children and barging into queues and if you’re not at your table spot on seven you miss the bowl of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup, the first item on the menu of International Cuisine, and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners and then some adenoidal typists from Birmingham with flabby white legs and diarrhoea trying to pick up hairy bandy-legged wop waiters called Manuel and once a week there’s an excursion to the local Roman Ruins to buy cherryade and melted ice cream and bleeding Watney’s Red Barrel and one evening you visit the so called typical restaurant with local colour and atmosphere and you sit next to a party from Rhyl who keep singing ‘Torremolinos, torremolinos’ and complaining about the food - ‘It’s so greasy here, isn’t it?’ - and you get cornered by some drunken greengrocer from Luton with an Instamatic camera and Dr. Scholl sandals and last Tuesday’s Daily Express and he drones on and on and on about how Mr. Smith should be running this country and how many languages Enoch Powell can speak and then he throws up over the Cuba Libres and sending tinted postcards of places they don’t realise they haven’t even visited to 'All at number 22, weather wonderful, our room is marked with an ‘X’, food very greasy but we’ve found a charming little local place hidden away in the back streets where they serve Watney’s Red Barrel and cheese and onion crisps and the accordionist plays ‘Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner’.
Wow monkeylucifer,
would you like to come upstairs?
There…there…wouldn’t be any Monty Python fans in this thread would there ?
casdave - no, but lots of Abbot and Costello lovers. I’d recognize those quotes anywhere.
Ender, my friend.
I absolutely HATE conflict, so anytime I have an argument, you are welcome to take over for me.
REALLY!
And I have one going on now that is making me sick, so you are OH SO welcome to it!
Scotti
I’d suggest a massage from the Swedish Prime Minister.
The BBC would like to apologize for the poor quality of the writing in this thread. It is not BBC policy to get easy laughs with words like bum, knickers, botty or wee-wees.