Tramp-o-gram
During my time as a travelling salesman I was paired up with a succession of evil bastards. One of them was a fella named Harry. Unfortunately this was prior to the Harry Potter thing, so I didn’t have the opportunity to rip the piss out of him all day about this. Instead I nicknamed him Krishna. He thought I was being effectionate and matey – I wasn’t. I hated the prick.

One time we’d just finished lunch in some Toby Carvery somewhere or other in South Wales. Krishna spent the meal talking with his mouthful about how fucking marvellous he was – his favorite subject. As he was technically my superior I nodded, silently stabbing a fork into my leg to stop myself from delivering a haymaker straight round his smug, cuntish, inbred face.

Eventually, we left the restaurant. Krishna went to get the car and I hung about, happily releasing a succession of stinky, silent farts (gravy dinners have this weird effect on my guts, its a bit like lobbing a light match onto a bonfire doused in kerosene). While I'm happily trumping away, breathing in the vapours (nothing quite as satisfying as the smell of your own farts), a tramp ambled up to me. I smelt him first - even above the noxious gasses I was emitting like a badly conditioned moped; the tramp gave off the sort of vapor trail you see in the Yogi Bear cartoons – only this bloke was emitting the pungent smell of stale piss and cheap booze, not the contents of a lovely pic-er-nic basket. The tramp stood next to me. I made a mistake then, I nodded at him as if to say: awight. He then started telling me his life story. He was friendly enough, I suppose.

Then I hit on an idea. I asked this tramp to do me a favour. As a little sweetner I passed over a tenner. As I couldn’t tell Krishna how much of a cunt he was to his face (politics of the workplace and all that bollocks), I hired this affable vagrant to do it for me. Not a bad deal for him; tell a random stranger he’s a cunt – ten quid. Fuck me, if I could get that sort of employment contract sorted I’d be earning a couple of grand a week with hardly any effort.

I nodded to my new mate as Krishna drove up in the company Lexus. My new best mate winked at me, scratched at his haggered old chin, and ambled off towards where Krishna was pulling in. The look of horror on Krishna’s face was worth the tenner alone. I smiled inwardly and waited. God, I wanted this cunt I was partnered with to know he was a cunt so much. I’d been waiting a long, long time to let him know. And now I was about to tell him via the rather peculiar medium of tramp. It was the perfect fucking crime.

The tramp rapped loudly on the windscreen. I steadied myself, staring intently at Krishna, just waiting to see how he’d react to some random abuse (he was a bit of a wet blanket underneath the brash exterior, I anticipated he’d cry or piss himself, or – hopefully – both). The tramp rapped on the window again and said: “That bloke over there says you’re a cunt!”

...bugger...
( SpankyHanky, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 16:59, 3 replies)

Love it
absolutely love it - clicks hard and harder!
(Lizard King, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 18:58, closed)

cryin' with laughter!
thanks, you are a funny bloke!
(Hotty, Fri 3 Jul 2009, 19:13, closed)

It was quite clever really
You established yourself as a bit of a high roller (if he figured out you paid the bloke), and made clear that you were above conversing with him in the normal sense. An excellent start!
(kmbugmp, Mon 6 Jul 2009, 10:15, closed)