Longy, or The Tale of A Twat
Like anyone, I've had some crappy relationships in the past. Nothing too horrendous though, and I'd still stop to pass the time of day with all of them.
I'd like to talk about a crappy relationship I'm still in. This is about one of my friends, who I'll call Longy.

Longy is, to put it mildly, an unmitigated cunt. A wraithlike beanpole of chaos with bony paedo fingers and the sensibilities of a raped kazoo. He is a one-man maelstrom of shamelessness. A half-titanium cyborg bellend, due to the unbelievable amount of terrible injuries people have inflicted on him – his left leg, left arm, collar bone and half his head are covered in metal plates. He is a selfish, cowardly, attention-seeking nightmare, obsessed with the pantomime of aggression. He starts fights yet is too scared to throw a punch. He throws drinks in strangers' faces. All the trimmings of violence, with none of the actual violence. The drunken twiggy bastard has ruined two of my birthday parties by upending tables and scratching at faces like a fucked rooster. Then, naturally, he brims tearfully with indignation and a sense of injustice when he is quite deservedly knocked the fuck out. I have seen a 60-year-old hippy in a top hat driven to violence by Longy's perpetual screeching. If Longy were a Jew, you'd forgive the Nazis.

He is a drug-addled, nonce-like career victim. When 34, he was dumped by our friend's 16-year-old daughter for being, I quote, "too immature". His house is a squalid robots' graveyard, littered with the smashed corpses of gadgets, carpeted with cannabis, powders and fluids, a doss house for rock and rollers who still live with their parents. He is a jobless chancer, respecting no-one, pathetically apologising his way out of trouble five times a day if he isn't able to run fast enough. He learns nothing, and blames everyone else. And I have it on good authority that he once said "Meh" at the moment of orgasm.

I don't see Longy that much nowadays, what with me having a child. Largely he accepts that. But occasionally he comes calling, and when he does he makes me laugh my arse off for 20 minutes, then sigh wistfully for the rest of the day. A more sinewy, hilarious, mind-crushingly irritating wanker I will never meet.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 22 Oct 2010, 10:15, 2 replies)

We all need those people who remind us why we grew up.
Lovely verbage.
(boozehound is drinking your bar dry, Fri 22 Oct 2010, 10:59, closed)

Cheers
He wasn't always this bad. It seems that unlike most people, he gets more childish with every passing year.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 22 Oct 2010, 14:40, closed)