It is 8.39am on a Saturday morning as I am typing this out. Yes, no doubt there’s a timestamp, but I am writing this here for verbal impact as this is important to my rant.
I woke up at 7.40am. No, not to go for yoga (which would’ve been at 7am, but I digress). It is because the neighborhood chacha line-dancing housewives-trying-to-dance association decided to test their brand new speakers. On full blast. At 7.40am. On a Saturday.
I hereby curse them with syphillis in the nose, herpes in the ass, may their nipples fall off, may their sons run off with immigrant (male) grasscutters and may their daughter be tied to a tree and hit repeatedly with a hornet’s nest.
And to the neighbour who thought it’d be good to practice his er-hu at 11.40pm (WHEN I WANT TO SLEEP) : I wish your mother would finally become a paraplegic, your father gets gonorrhea from a transvestite prostitute and that your maid would repeatedly rape your sister with a broomstick.
It was only till I yelled loudly “GOOD NIGHT” a couple of times whilst prancing up and down in my brother’s room (that little fucker can see me anyway) that he packed up his er-hu and went to masturbate over his mother’s body sleep.
You may ask how I managed to block out the horrendous music that they play : I’m currently blasting Sarah Brightman’s – Symphony on my loudspeaker. The other neighbours better be thankful I haven’t yet started blasting DJ Hellraiser / Rammstein / Insane Clown Posse. I’d rather listen to something I like, thank you very much.
And I don’t give two flying fucks that my next door neighbour is the cousin of the Sultan of Negeri Sembilan.
Really, it doesn’t. Cause the client called me at 11.53 p.m.
No, he’s not trying to have a sordid affair with me.
No, he’s not trying to have a “pay-per-click” session with me, if you know what I mean.
Dude, it’s 23.53 on a Saturday of the F1 weekend. Please go home and lay your wife.