Farewell To Arms
Today I'd like to propose bringing back the death penalty for women with stupid laughs and men who wear sweater vests. This particular bout of broad-minded tolerance, while something that I would certainly still support in the cold light of day, was probably brought on by getting back to my hotel room at 10:30 tonight, after a long day, and finding a full scale house-party going on in the room next to mine. What made it worse was that the rooms were joined by those interconnecting doors, through which you could actually hear a mouse fart, and which stood no fucking chance whatsoever of muffling the peals of laughter periodically emanating from this particular group of wankers.
Noise from adjoining hotel room occupants is about number one on my list of "Things That Piss Me Off". I phoned Mrs Bison and even she could hear the twats through the wall. I waited patiently - maybe they would just piss off on their own? Two minutes later my patience ran out. Mrs Bison was somewhat concerned that I should not be tempted to go round and inflict actual violence on the perpetrators, although it was clearly deserved. But if not that then what? Her suggestion was to call the hotel and have them sort it out but I dismissed that approach on the grounds that it would be a pussy move. Plus, the hotel weenies would almost certainly just have politely asked them to "keep it down", at which point they would probably have carried on as before.
The other option would have been to go round and knock gently on the door, before politely requesting that they keep it quiet. That's no good either - the problem is that I assume before even going round that they will take the piss in some way and so am already in exactly the mood that would ensue if they had taken the piss. Meaning that there's no way I could ask them politely to do anything. Why the fuck should I?
So I took the middle way. I banged on the door and told them to shut up. This I felt was a balanced and reasonable approach. I didn't say "shut the fuck up" and I didn't add "cunts" to the end, although it was clearly warranted. These were whiny middle-aged, middle management type people with those annoying laughs, only you mostly heard the women laughing because of the high pitch. So anyway, they did indeed shut up, and, as a bonus, fucked off too. I looked out of my door to see what breed of wanker had caused my blood pressure to spike; lo and behold, a wanker in a sweater vest. I might have known!
I have met a lot of people over the years, in a lot of countries, and although it's not an infallible test, you can generally assume that any man who voluntarily wears a sweater vest (i.e. they didn't juat have the arms of their sweater ripped off by a moving vehicle on the way to the office) is a Class A Wanker. Some of my friends fall into this category so, as I say, it's not a perfect test. (Unless they're wankers and I just never noticed, I suppose.) Anyway, silence has now descended again on my spartan hotel room. Until tomorrow morning of course. I have to get up early and you can be fucking certain that my neighbor is getting up at the same time. Vengeance is mine, sweater vest cocksucker.
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
Noise from adjoining hotel room occupants is about number one on my list of "Things That Piss Me Off". I phoned Mrs Bison and even she could hear the twats through the wall. I waited patiently - maybe they would just piss off on their own? Two minutes later my patience ran out. Mrs Bison was somewhat concerned that I should not be tempted to go round and inflict actual violence on the perpetrators, although it was clearly deserved. But if not that then what? Her suggestion was to call the hotel and have them sort it out but I dismissed that approach on the grounds that it would be a pussy move. Plus, the hotel weenies would almost certainly just have politely asked them to "keep it down", at which point they would probably have carried on as before.
The other option would have been to go round and knock gently on the door, before politely requesting that they keep it quiet. That's no good either - the problem is that I assume before even going round that they will take the piss in some way and so am already in exactly the mood that would ensue if they had taken the piss. Meaning that there's no way I could ask them politely to do anything. Why the fuck should I?
So I took the middle way. I banged on the door and told them to shut up. This I felt was a balanced and reasonable approach. I didn't say "shut the fuck up" and I didn't add "cunts" to the end, although it was clearly warranted. These were whiny middle-aged, middle management type people with those annoying laughs, only you mostly heard the women laughing because of the high pitch. So anyway, they did indeed shut up, and, as a bonus, fucked off too. I looked out of my door to see what breed of wanker had caused my blood pressure to spike; lo and behold, a wanker in a sweater vest. I might have known!
I have met a lot of people over the years, in a lot of countries, and although it's not an infallible test, you can generally assume that any man who voluntarily wears a sweater vest (i.e. they didn't juat have the arms of their sweater ripped off by a moving vehicle on the way to the office) is a Class A Wanker. Some of my friends fall into this category so, as I say, it's not a perfect test. (Unless they're wankers and I just never noticed, I suppose.) Anyway, silence has now descended again on my spartan hotel room. Until tomorrow morning of course. I have to get up early and you can be fucking certain that my neighbor is getting up at the same time. Vengeance is mine, sweater vest cocksucker.
Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison
posted by Mr Bison at
8:00 PM
2 Comments:
I assume that by sweater vest you actually mean a tank top?
And yes, every wearer of a tank top or indeed someone who isn't an octogenarian wearing a cardigan, deserves to be strapped to a burning Jeep and driven into Glasgow Airport where John Smeaton will gladly "set aboot them"
I would have told my husband the same thing. My husband would most certainly agree that would have been the "pussy" thing to do.
My 12 year old son had an altercation at school, and I offered to call the principal to have her deal with the bully. My husband said that he would be looked at like a pussy, and told him to "splatter the kid's nose" if he laid his hands on him again.
UGH! The way men handle things is so testosterone based, but I suppose we women should just let men handle things the way men will.
:) Terri
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