The last time this happened, I was at the bus station waiting to go home. I had a quick glance around the people waiting: one particular doughball of a human being caught my eye, and from here on in we shall refer to him as just that; Doughball.
Sat directly opposite me, Doughball had scruffy shoes, trousers that were covered in those little pooky balls that old trousers get and a grotty denim jacket. His hair was greasy like a bodybuilder's Speedos, either from a lack of hygeine or from said bodybuilder spunking in his hair for several hours. The nice, little labrador that accompanied him had a sniff around, struggling to get away from Doughball for some fresh air, presumably.
At this point, Doughball began to talk to the little woman next to him (who we shall call Little Old Woman), who replied quickly and then began glancing around for a length of rope to hang herself with. Fixated on a cigarette butt that was lying on the ground, I was determined not to catch his eye. There was no need, as he was quickly joined by "Arsehole", as I affectionately named him. The two men were complete strangers, but Doughball soon struck up conversation with Arsehole.
"Do you smoke?" he slevered, flabby hand diving into his pocket for his grubby little packet of cigarettes.
"Aye, do you?" - yes, of course he does, you twat.
"Aye."
"Cheers."
Puffing away and exchanging smoke-blows of satisfacation, the conversation rumbled forward. They began to mutter about the dog, and Arsehole asked Doughball if the dog liked chocolate. With a spray of saliva, he informed Arsehole that,
"Aye, he'll eat some chocolate."
Arsehole proceeded to give a piece of Mars bar to Doughball, who began to sweat with temptation and jealousy. Rather than giving the small chunk to the dog, he first took a bite and gave the sloppy remains to his pet...I was outraged, and shouted "Listen fatty, a bit of chocolate is the last thing you're needing. Give the dog what he deserves, you overweight sack of shit!" before skewering him with my Samurai sword.
At least, I should have, but I resisted temptation.
So, the dog looks around itself and spits the aforementioned chocolate back out. To this, Doughball says,
"Ehh, aye, he'll eat it when he's good and ready."
Yeah, sure he will. And I have a ten-foot trouser snake, mate. Had you ever considered that just because you demolish as much junk as a bin lorry, it doesn't mean that your dog wants to do the same, you dolt?
Doughball informed his new found hetero life-mate that it is for the best that the dog doesn't eat the chocolate, as he's getting fat. No, fatty, he isn't, trust me. You fat bitch. He really isn't. If anything he could do with putting weight on, clearly you've been sneaking bites from his dog bowl. Turning and accidentally expectorating in Little Old Woman's eye, he told her,
"'I've seen that dog eat six tins of meat in one day...ho ho ho, greedy cunt."
"Oh, he he he," was the woman's reply, as she reached into her bag to see if she had remembered to pack her plasma gun today. Damn, she hadn't.
I wanted to tell the fat fuck that just because he has a bottomless pit of a stomach, it doesn't mean that his dog wants to consume food on the same scale that he does.Try not feeding him six tins a day, and see what happens. But I didn't want to get his attention or start a conversation with him, or I'm afraid I'd have had to whip out some of my kung-fu moves on his fat-bastard ass.
Arsehole butted in with his little comment, which fortunately meant he was no longer just standing there dropping the disgusting little black bits from his cigarette into the dog's left eye. He told Doughball that he thought the dog had a nice, shiny coat, which I took to be some form of chat-up line amongst arseholes. After saying this, he then went back to wearing an expression upon his ugly face that suggested he was the type that could watch Dennis Miller saying "I don't want to go on a rant here, but America's foreign policy makes about as much sense as Beowulf having sex with Robert Fulton at the first battle of Antietam. I mean, when a neo-conservative defenestrates it's like Raskolnikov filibuster deoxymonydroxinate" and afterwards ask "What the hell does 'rant' mean?" Meanwhile, Doughball turned to Little Old Woman and asked if she ever gets headaches.
"Oh, yes. All the time," she pleasantly nodded, as she discreetly dialled 999 on her mobile.
"Right here?!" mumbled Doughball, as he tapped his temple.
Okay, let me explain something to you, Doughball. The sore, throbbing pains in your right temple are undoubtedly cause by one thing and one thing alone; dirt from your unwashed hair has fallen into your ear, and when you put your head on the pillow at night, the dirt tips into your head, thus clogging up all the veins and slowly grinding the cogs in your brain to a halt.
Whilst this conversation between Doughball and Little Old Woman was going on, I noticed that Arsehole had something shoved up his scrubby little jacket...hopefully some form of suicide machine, I thought. I also noticed at this point that Doughball was swinging his leg backwards and forwards really quickly, as he had been since I sat down. If I had desired to be spoken to in a series of grunts and sprays, I would have stood up and shouted "Listen, you smelly little man, if you want to lose weight then hop on a treadmill. Swinging one leg backwards and forwards will not make a difference. Now, remain seated and shut the fuck up."
However, I was content with the fact that I was currently not breathing in shite-fumes from his breath as he replied to me, so I didn't say anything of the kind. Clearly not content with him and his little bum-chum stinking the stance up, Doughball then began to choose some more victims...Little Old Woman had left, presumably to attempt to flush her own head down the toilet, and in her place was a snobby old cow holding some Marks & Spencers bags. He turned to her and said,
"Hello, how are you, pal?"
"Fine, thank you," snivelled Snobby Old Cow as she began to search desperately through her Marks & Spencers bags, causing some sort of a distraction to get rid of him.
Maybe he realised his spit was unwanted by her eyeball, either that or he just preferred flirting with his flea-infested dirtball compadre. Either way, he turned back to Arsehole to continue their little repartee. Arsehole asked if Doughball had a girlfriend or boyfriend and I nearly fell onto my arse with laughter. The mutt on the ground was the nearest he had most likely ever come to giving that question a yes. He said "no" and then Arsehole told Doughball that he didn't have a girlfriend either, as (and I quote) "I've given all that up."
Oh, you have, have you, you filthy little prick? Or perhaps it's because the last time you had a whiff of a love interest was before the last time you changed your underwear, and that was around the Jurassic age. So you simply haven't given up; rather, you've given in to the fact that you're a scrubber and that you're going to rot away on your lonesome. The idea of giving it up suggests that you had girls falling at your feet, which is certainly true if the smell is all that we are taking into account. Doughball then asked if Arsehole had been married, and vice versa. Needless to say, both answers were a definite "no"
Let me pause there to put this into perspective for you. This was fifteen minutes after we had sat down. While this may only have taken you five minutes to read, I had to suffer it for much longer than that: remember that this is the condensed version. Nobody else in the entire bus stance had breathed a word, or the edge of a word, and yet this pair had polluted the stance for fifteen whole minutes. Talking is something that strangers generally don't do. Why this pair had decided to spread their delightful oral germs I don't know, but it was not pleasant.
And now for the best part of this entirely nonsensical episode: Doughball told Arsehole that he was in Glasgow today to apply for a job in the abertoir. Unsurprisingly, Arsehole didn't know what this was (and I reckon the only way that Doughball did was because he had been sticking pages 2 and 3 of The Sun together with his jizz when he saw an advert for one next to the lovely buxom blonde that the newspaper had snapped for that day). Doughball explained that it was a slaughterhouse. Again, Arsehole didn't know what this was. I began to think to myself that I could actually be witnessing the world's most idiotic conversation between the greediest deliquent and the smelliest deliquent in the world. After explaining that a slaughterhouse was where they kill animals, Doughball told Arsehole that he didn't get the job as he failed to pass the test.
It made me wonder, what was the test? I suppose it must have been to bring the knife hammering home into the heart of a cow, and after managing to summon enough energy to get off his arse to do this, Doughball had tried to eat it, thus failing the test. Or maybe he was to put 10,000 volts through a sheep, but took pity on the creature. Next thing you know, his Happy Meal was Super-Sized and he had ended up with his trousers around his ankles giving the sheep a little "hows-your-father?"
Just around the corner was the best part of this conversation...Arsehole asked if Doughball liked animals, and his reply will remain with me for the rest of my life.
"Yes. But I don't like slaughtering them."
Well ladies and gentlemen, excuse me for asking the obvious, but...
WHY THE FUCK DID YOU APPLY FOR A JOB AT A SLAUGHTERHOUSE, YOU LOW-LIFE SCUMMY PIECE OF POOHCORN?!