Odin's balls
06-22-2022, 01:55 PM
Perambulating the hound last evening, I found myself heading home on our usual route.
Maybe 200 yards off I see a chavalanche of skanky looking sheboons looking fearful and trying to distance themselves from something.
The something they are trying to distance themselves from was what I assume to be their collective sperm donors in a howling rage, in the middle of the road and having an oooking, eeking, pushing and shoving match
As the hound and I close the distance, I can hear words in English but in no particular order so as to make sense.
Then it kicks off. One coon decides to stand in the middle of the road rip its shirt and offer the other oxygen thieves out. They oblige.
We now have a six nigger brawl in the middle of a major road in London, with cars trying to drive around the excrement coloured mess, which is impeding their progress.
A little further on, there is a pub with outside seating. The patrons of which are clearly entertained by the TNB and laughing at the somewhat effeminate nature of the entertainment unfolding before their eyes. Think Colin Firth and Hugh Grant in Brigit Jones' diary and you're getting close.
As I pass by the suitably refreshed customers, I hear the following statement from some wag...
'Well, the Pride parades aren't as organised as they used to be'.
The whole pub erupted in laughter and so did I.
Turning to survey the assumed carnage. I survey six sweaty niggers in a heap on the tarmac, all trying to get a lucky blow into their opponent's delicate bits.
It just looked so wrong on every level.
Still chuckling now.
Maybe 200 yards off I see a chavalanche of skanky looking sheboons looking fearful and trying to distance themselves from something.
The something they are trying to distance themselves from was what I assume to be their collective sperm donors in a howling rage, in the middle of the road and having an oooking, eeking, pushing and shoving match
As the hound and I close the distance, I can hear words in English but in no particular order so as to make sense.
Then it kicks off. One coon decides to stand in the middle of the road rip its shirt and offer the other oxygen thieves out. They oblige.
We now have a six nigger brawl in the middle of a major road in London, with cars trying to drive around the excrement coloured mess, which is impeding their progress.
A little further on, there is a pub with outside seating. The patrons of which are clearly entertained by the TNB and laughing at the somewhat effeminate nature of the entertainment unfolding before their eyes. Think Colin Firth and Hugh Grant in Brigit Jones' diary and you're getting close.
As I pass by the suitably refreshed customers, I hear the following statement from some wag...
'Well, the Pride parades aren't as organised as they used to be'.
The whole pub erupted in laughter and so did I.
Turning to survey the assumed carnage. I survey six sweaty niggers in a heap on the tarmac, all trying to get a lucky blow into their opponent's delicate bits.
It just looked so wrong on every level.
Still chuckling now.