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I woke up with gallons of hot milky spuge in my hair this morning after a rough night at the docks and thought, wouldn't it be good to have a personal loan to help pay my medical expenses and help me paint my houseboat? I was also excited at the prospect of getting to talk to anm adviser on the phone about my loan, since my outgoing calls had been monitored obtusely for the last 8 months after those obscene calls I made to Richard Branson regarding his ridiculously arousing facial hair. I had tried phoning a plumber to get the dead hookers out of my irrigation system but to little avail, the police traced the call and blamed me for a string of slightly-sexy murders all over the south-east. Most of them weren't even me, they were Mike 'the Snake' Biggley and his sidekick, Paul.
So, back to my loan. I sat, slightly aroused, in my armchair with my fingers delicately lingering above the keypad, savouring the moment. Tantric.
I bit my tongue hard as I finished entering the number and heard the 'click, click' connection followed by the deliciously generic, 'ring, ring'.
'Hello!' she cried, her voice that of an angel.
She was really a sales assistant called Lyndsey with a fake tan and padded bra, but to me she was all I'd dreamed of for the last 8 months besides an end to my house arrest which I frequently discarded.
'Are you a homeowner?' she inquired. Probably trying to get a cheeky invite for dinner sometime. 'I built my own house' I told her with a smug grin across my wretchedly bearded face, 'with the bones of the infidels!'
I think she liked my whitty remark because she played music down the phone to me as she went to see her supervisor called Kevin. I imagine he drove a Lexus but I'm not entirely sure.
At this point my foot because caught in the space between the armchair and a piece of lumber I used to beat hookers to death with. There was still bits of fishnet and shards of lipgloss packaging stuck to it. I was in great pain but couldn't afford any ointment for my poor foot, because my medical expense of priority was the cottage-cheese-like substance clinging to my left thigh. It doesn't taste much like cottage cheese at all.
'Help me, Veronica!' I cried down the phone.
'I'm called Lyndsey' she replied, 'and I was you inside of me.'
I was gobsmacked. Girls normally hang-up after I tell them that, so I didn't know the natural progression of a conversation from this point onward.
'Oh yeah' I purred, like a black man into a microphone 'I'm wearing a thong'
'So... how much would you like to borrow?' she asked, in a furious and racially intolerant manner; much like Hitler may have done had he worked for a loans company.
'Fifteen thousand' was my response.
'Fine' she yelled, hating those pigmies, 'I'll bring it over later in a brown paper bag. All I need is your credit card number, national insurance code, driving license number and shoe size.'
I kindly obliged but it was no use. She took everything, even my shoes - which she gave to her son-in-law called Jacob. But I don't much, he's got a hair-lip and looks like Nicholas Cage only fatter. Poor kid.
So the moral, my good friends, is do not under any circumstances, trust the Puerto-Ricans. They will kill you given half a chance. HALF A GODDAM CHANCE!
So, back to my loan. I sat, slightly aroused, in my armchair with my fingers delicately lingering above the keypad, savouring the moment. Tantric.
I bit my tongue hard as I finished entering the number and heard the 'click, click' connection followed by the deliciously generic, 'ring, ring'.
'Hello!' she cried, her voice that of an angel.
She was really a sales assistant called Lyndsey with a fake tan and padded bra, but to me she was all I'd dreamed of for the last 8 months besides an end to my house arrest which I frequently discarded.
'Are you a homeowner?' she inquired. Probably trying to get a cheeky invite for dinner sometime. 'I built my own house' I told her with a smug grin across my wretchedly bearded face, 'with the bones of the infidels!'
I think she liked my whitty remark because she played music down the phone to me as she went to see her supervisor called Kevin. I imagine he drove a Lexus but I'm not entirely sure.
At this point my foot because caught in the space between the armchair and a piece of lumber I used to beat hookers to death with. There was still bits of fishnet and shards of lipgloss packaging stuck to it. I was in great pain but couldn't afford any ointment for my poor foot, because my medical expense of priority was the cottage-cheese-like substance clinging to my left thigh. It doesn't taste much like cottage cheese at all.
'Help me, Veronica!' I cried down the phone.
'I'm called Lyndsey' she replied, 'and I was you inside of me.'
I was gobsmacked. Girls normally hang-up after I tell them that, so I didn't know the natural progression of a conversation from this point onward.
'Oh yeah' I purred, like a black man into a microphone 'I'm wearing a thong'
'So... how much would you like to borrow?' she asked, in a furious and racially intolerant manner; much like Hitler may have done had he worked for a loans company.
'Fifteen thousand' was my response.
'Fine' she yelled, hating those pigmies, 'I'll bring it over later in a brown paper bag. All I need is your credit card number, national insurance code, driving license number and shoe size.'
I kindly obliged but it was no use. She took everything, even my shoes - which she gave to her son-in-law called Jacob. But I don't much, he's got a hair-lip and looks like Nicholas Cage only fatter. Poor kid.
So the moral, my good friends, is do not under any circumstances, trust the Puerto-Ricans. They will kill you given half a chance. HALF A GODDAM CHANCE!
Super Kev wrote:
> Oh and no I dont drive a Lexus but do work in a call centre!
You are evil; pure evil.
> Oh and no I dont drive a Lexus but do work in a call centre!
You are evil; pure evil.
Sounds like someone has been smoking the funny stuff again, haven't they Para!
Oh and no I dont drive a Lexus but do work in a call centre!
Oh and no I dont drive a Lexus but do work in a call centre!
Indeed.
But highly amusing, in a weird kind of way....
But highly amusing, in a weird kind of way....
Crazyman.
I woke up with gallons of hot milky spuge in my hair this morning after a rough night at the docks and thought, wouldn't it be good to have a personal loan to help pay my medical expenses and help me paint my houseboat? I was also excited at the prospect of getting to talk to anm adviser on the phone about my loan, since my outgoing calls had been monitored obtusely for the last 8 months after those obscene calls I made to Richard Branson regarding his ridiculously arousing facial hair. I had tried phoning a plumber to get the dead hookers out of my irrigation system but to little avail, the police traced the call and blamed me for a string of slightly-sexy murders all over the south-east. Most of them weren't even me, they were Mike 'the Snake' Biggley and his sidekick, Paul.
So, back to my loan. I sat, slightly aroused, in my armchair with my fingers delicately lingering above the keypad, savouring the moment. Tantric.
I bit my tongue hard as I finished entering the number and heard the 'click, click' connection followed by the deliciously generic, 'ring, ring'.
'Hello!' she cried, her voice that of an angel.
She was really a sales assistant called Lyndsey with a fake tan and padded bra, but to me she was all I'd dreamed of for the last 8 months besides an end to my house arrest which I frequently discarded.
'Are you a homeowner?' she inquired. Probably trying to get a cheeky invite for dinner sometime. 'I built my own house' I told her with a smug grin across my wretchedly bearded face, 'with the bones of the infidels!'
I think she liked my whitty remark because she played music down the phone to me as she went to see her supervisor called Kevin. I imagine he drove a Lexus but I'm not entirely sure.
At this point my foot because caught in the space between the armchair and a piece of lumber I used to beat hookers to death with. There was still bits of fishnet and shards of lipgloss packaging stuck to it. I was in great pain but couldn't afford any ointment for my poor foot, because my medical expense of priority was the cottage-cheese-like substance clinging to my left thigh. It doesn't taste much like cottage cheese at all.
'Help me, Veronica!' I cried down the phone.
'I'm called Lyndsey' she replied, 'and I was you inside of me.'
I was gobsmacked. Girls normally hang-up after I tell them that, so I didn't know the natural progression of a conversation from this point onward.
'Oh yeah' I purred, like a black man into a microphone 'I'm wearing a thong'
'So... how much would you like to borrow?' she asked, in a furious and racially intolerant manner; much like Hitler may have done had he worked for a loans company.
'Fifteen thousand' was my response.
'Fine' she yelled, hating those pigmies, 'I'll bring it over later in a brown paper bag. All I need is your credit card number, national insurance code, driving license number and shoe size.'
I kindly obliged but it was no use. She took everything, even my shoes - which she gave to her son-in-law called Jacob. But I don't much, he's got a hair-lip and looks like Nicholas Cage only fatter. Poor kid.
So the moral, my good friends, is do not under any circumstances, trust the Puerto-Ricans. They will kill you given half a chance. HALF A GODDAM CHANCE!
So, back to my loan. I sat, slightly aroused, in my armchair with my fingers delicately lingering above the keypad, savouring the moment. Tantric.
I bit my tongue hard as I finished entering the number and heard the 'click, click' connection followed by the deliciously generic, 'ring, ring'.
'Hello!' she cried, her voice that of an angel.
She was really a sales assistant called Lyndsey with a fake tan and padded bra, but to me she was all I'd dreamed of for the last 8 months besides an end to my house arrest which I frequently discarded.
'Are you a homeowner?' she inquired. Probably trying to get a cheeky invite for dinner sometime. 'I built my own house' I told her with a smug grin across my wretchedly bearded face, 'with the bones of the infidels!'
I think she liked my whitty remark because she played music down the phone to me as she went to see her supervisor called Kevin. I imagine he drove a Lexus but I'm not entirely sure.
At this point my foot because caught in the space between the armchair and a piece of lumber I used to beat hookers to death with. There was still bits of fishnet and shards of lipgloss packaging stuck to it. I was in great pain but couldn't afford any ointment for my poor foot, because my medical expense of priority was the cottage-cheese-like substance clinging to my left thigh. It doesn't taste much like cottage cheese at all.
'Help me, Veronica!' I cried down the phone.
'I'm called Lyndsey' she replied, 'and I was you inside of me.'
I was gobsmacked. Girls normally hang-up after I tell them that, so I didn't know the natural progression of a conversation from this point onward.
'Oh yeah' I purred, like a black man into a microphone 'I'm wearing a thong'
'So... how much would you like to borrow?' she asked, in a furious and racially intolerant manner; much like Hitler may have done had he worked for a loans company.
'Fifteen thousand' was my response.
'Fine' she yelled, hating those pigmies, 'I'll bring it over later in a brown paper bag. All I need is your credit card number, national insurance code, driving license number and shoe size.'
I kindly obliged but it was no use. She took everything, even my shoes - which she gave to her son-in-law called Jacob. But I don't much, he's got a hair-lip and looks like Nicholas Cage only fatter. Poor kid.
So the moral, my good friends, is do not under any circumstances, trust the Puerto-Ricans. They will kill you given half a chance. HALF A GODDAM CHANCE!