Monday, 8 February 2010

Rupert Abbott is still a cast-iron fuckwanking shithead, only this time he's a cunt, a turd, a tool, a cackend and a cunt too

First, he pinches my marketing manager. Then he starts working with my old agency. Then he gets himself a fucking column in our trade mag - which he used to slag me right off.

Who? Rupert cock-shuffling, shit-chobbling Abbott.

Rupert Abbott, marketing director (he doesn't get capitals at the start of his job title because he's a cuntwit) at our number one rival, is the dragon to my St George. Or, to put it another way, I hate him so much, I sometimes sit on the lavvy forcing out a pooplop, and all the effort I put into pushing, I put into wishing upon him a death you wouldn't wish on anyone - except a cunt-packet like Rupert Abbott.

So, why another post? What could this fuck-barrel have done to out-cunt all the cuntery he's cunted up to now?

Any guesses?

No?

I'll tell you.

HE SHOWED UP AT FUCKING DELILAZ!

WHAT A CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT!

THAT'S MY FUCKING MANOR, YOU CUNT! DELILAZ IS MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE! MINE!

YOU CUNT-GRISTLE!





Breathe.

Relax.

Hmmmmm. Haaaaaa. In. Out. Relax.








This...this is a new low. This is the ultimate insult. Up with this I cannot put. In he walks, in his fucking suit, with my old account director buying him drinks, and my old creative director scoring free booze (some things never change), and a look on his face like the cat that got the cream - only the cream that belonged to another cat who got there fucking first.

I can't think straight. I can't have this. I can't have it.

After an hour (when Abbott didn't go near a bird, apart from politely thanking them for topping his drink up. Politely! What a cunt!) they all fucked off out of it, with Abbott pocketing something from Billy The Stabber behind the bar. (Billy The Stabber is called that because he has a long history of stabbing people, with knives. Lovely chap, though.)

And this...this is the ultimate treachery.

After Abbott had slithered out of the place, I asked Billy what he took with him.

Billy replied. 'What? Him? Errr...just a picture of one of the girls.'

(The girls at Delilaz all have little cards of themselves dotted about the place with private contact details on. Just in case you want to, you know...er...book them for a children's party or something. Ahem.)

'Which girl, Billy?'

'Errr...I can't remem...no! Hang on - it was Cutella. He took Cutella's picture. Definitely. He had a very, very significant look on his face. If you know what I mean.'




Love is like an exquisite rose bush. From a distance, it looks like the perfect expression of joy, beauty and unblemished goodness. But get up close and...well...pretty soon you realise that rose bush has thorns.

(To be honest, I'm struggling here. I've pinched this from a Poison song. I think the thorns are, like, the bad stuff. And the flowers represent, you know, all the nice coupley stuff, like blow jobs and watching porn together.)

In short, Rupert Abbott has bitten off a battle he can't chew. It's time to get fucking nasty.

Why? Because CUTELLA IS MY LAPDANCER!

1 comment:

  1. Well, she'll have to give you goods on Mr Snotty, and you can stitch the prick up. He doesn't wash, his undies are streaked with skiddies, his wang is minute and deformed and he's really into kiddy porn.

    You've got it made.

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