08 July 2005

So I’m an asshat, am I?

Interesting turn of phrase, that. I intend to steal it, substitute the more poetic word “arse”, then lob you screaming into the volcano while I dispassionately finish my cuppa. Well, I’ll do the last bit as soon as I get out of this infernal straight jacket.

I’ve lived in the States for thirty odd years now, and have been exposed to a goodly number of boozy arse-hats.

I still have an accent, and one can actually hear their handful of synapses firing when they hear me talk. Since I don’t fit their preconceived notions of the overly sensitive/effeminate Hugh Grant type, and am obviously not James Bond, they have all come to the conclusion that I am an evil genius, bent on world domination through the use of an overly large weather machine that I‘ve concealed in the extinct volcano behind the shed.

Which only goes to show you that these Yankee arse-hats are remarkably perceptive.


And that's the way I likes it.