Fraudulence

So. I am two-and-twenty years of age. It is massively underwhelming. I still employ idiocy in every crevice of my life. I still engage in debates about what type of fish I’d prefer* to be raped by. I continue to be absurd. I no longer throw digestive biscuits at people at parties. I’m forty-seven per cent more disillusioned than when I was twenty-one. By the time I’m twenty-five I’ll be so disillusioned that I’ll lose control over my bladder and have to use a commode.

It’s the London Marathon today. Unfortunately I couldn’t make it this year, so instead ran to the shop to get some bread. It was ALMOST as gruelling. Almost.

The man in the shop was surveying me with pitying eyes. I suppose I looked a trifle jaded. I avoided the ‘With Added Omega 3’ variety and instead opted for something a little less wholesome and a little more processed. I took (right) said bread to the till…

ME: Can I purchase this bread please?
SHOP MAN: But is it bread? You’re telling me that it’s bread…
ME: It’s actually a live chicken. Can you not tell?
SHOP MAN: No, there’s a million pounds in there.
ME: I’m a bit hungover. I don’t think I could deal with the disappointment of opening this bag and there not being money in there.
SHOP MAN: There’s definitely money in it.
ME: If I take this home and it turns out to be a loaf of sliced bread and NOT money, I’ll come back and demand a refund. I’m a citizen. I have rights.
SHOP MAN: That’ll be one pound fourteen pence please.
ME (Handing over correct change): There you go. I’ll be back.
SHOP MAN: Bye
ME: Bye

The contents of the bag were gluten and disappointment.

What a wanker.

P.S. This conversation ACTUALLY happened.
*Perhaps ‘prefer’ is the wrong word. I’m not a sicko.