Glue
“The cold bit into them, causing his toes to recoil. That daft cunt. Oh aye, there was nothing wrong with the huge, fuck-off, forty-inch state-of-the-art flat-screen bastard of a telly he’d nicked for Terry. Nice one, Alec. But the useless auld jakey twat had forgotten to lift the remote-control handset from that Barnton gaff he’d otherwise so professionally done over. Terry felt his discomfort rise and his perspiration levels increase as he extended his toes and endeavoured to click from BBC 1 ...through to Channel Four. There was a French job on in a bit and a flash of tit and erse was inevitable. Forget Channel Five: everybody else did.
It was funny, Terry speculated, thinkin aboot the posh cunts that were in toon for the festival. You could pit a bit ay tit and erse in a paper read by schemies and it was oppressing women, but show the same in a French film and they lap it up and it becomes art. So the real question of what constitutes art should be ‘is it wankable, and if so, who by?’ Terry thought, as he arched his back and pulled his buttocks apart to let out a fart at full force.MoreLess
It was funny, Terry speculated, thinkin aboot the posh cunts that were in toon for the festival. You could pit a bit ay tit and erse in a paper read by schemies and it was oppressing women, but show the same in a French film and they lap it up and it becomes art. So the real question of what constitutes art should be ‘is it wankable, and if so, who by?’ Terry thought, as he arched his back and pulled his buttocks apart to let out a fart at full force.MoreLess
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