Desiderata non fucktardibus

I had a horrendous day at work today. I was arguing an inconsequential admissibility issue before a cantankerous goat, against a nebulous buffoon, which I knew by 10:30 was going to drag itself into a twisted hernia of spastically twitching uselessness and illogic. My learned friend was postulating long into the somnolent reaches of the afternoon and generally crapping on in the style preferred by counsel paid by the hour. I heard no (modern) case law, there was scant reference to legislation, regulation, delegation, code, node, matter or anti-matter. I was bored.

When I spoke it was with all the authority conferred upon me by Occam's razor and the inexorable gravitas of a mile long legislative ice-pick. And staccato brevity, if you can believe that. It didn't do any good, because someone wanted to run what sounded suspiciously like an argument derived from the Chewbacca Defense. The result? Adjourned. In all honesty we should have been out of there by 11, enjoying an affogato somewhere sunny.

At least Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith had, by all accounts, a lovely day. I bet she doesn't have to live with a pack of fucktards. Although, upon reflection, perhaps she does. But at least her place is fucking clean. I wish someone would give me flowers. And wipe my arse and put toothpaste on my brush for me. I'd been staring at the bitch's coat of arms all day, and felt oppressed by it.

After a long day I was hoping to get home and enjoy a godfather or three in the back yard while throwing pebbles at the neighbour's cat. "Honi soit qui mal y pense", my arse.

I opened the door and any thoughts of alcohol or recreational animal cruelty were immediately adjourned to a date to be fixed, with costs reserved.

I feel that this account of life with my flatmates is becoming derivative. There are novel things that are done to cause me anguish from time to time. But as each day passes and each new offence is catalogued in its phylum it must logically occur that at some point in time I shall merely be bleating about the variance in magnitude or severity. I do not pray that my flatmates will find ingenious methods of aggravating me. I know some of you sadists will.

Today I find The Artist, dressed in tie-dyed overalls, barefoot in the kitchen, re-potting a fucking Dracaena Marginata, or some hideous relative. That, in my humble opinion, is enough. I could stop right here. After having considered the issues and listened carefully to the arguments made by both parties I find these plants guilty of being shit. I refuse to have them in the Habitat. Ugly primitive bastards of things.

Her repugnant taste in plants aside, we have all the equipment outside for this very task. A task she observed last weekend as I re-housed the indomitable and resurgent Spathy. A task that is infrequently undertaken in a kitchen in civilised society.

I could see the last of my special mulch and about half a bag of cheap shitty potting mix (never buy this stuff - I've found bits of plastic in it) spread across the floor and her muddy foot prints all through the kitchen. They led outside and back in again. The retard had obviously gone outside to get the trowel, in order to facilitate the distribution of artificial humus and rotting chicken shit throughout the Habitat.

I ran through a few possible opening remarks: "What the fuck are you doing?" "I hope you intend to clean that shit up." "You filthy fucking hippy, get the fuck out of my kitchen."

You see? Derivative. I dismissed them all summarily.

"Good evening." Steely. Dead-pan. Emotionless. Menacing. Hopefully she will look up and see my well practised scowl and evilly glittering eyes, piss herself and flee.

But no. She trumped me. The final insult:

"Hi. Can you pass me my nose ring. I put it down over there somewhere."

The claimant rests his case.