I am the Champion!

I am now typing this in Unishit's library, having secured an important and money-raking result some 50 minutes earlier. After sacrificing my priceless beauty sleep and energy, my reward was a Gold and money. I even took the trouble of giving them a perfect score. Fair pay for fair work, that is what I always say. I think they should just give me the money every year. Another 354 days before my next physical fitness test and payout.


My next goal is to get a decent hairstylist. With my thick, unruly mop and my tendency to slouch, I look like a beggar. My female colleagues have been trying to get me to make myself pretty (note: pretty as in not David 'Squeaky' Beckham pretty). They said I should not waste my height and big eyes (meow!). I think they are right. When it comes to aesthetics, always refer to a woman or a gay. With the money I got earlier, I should be able to get myself at least a half-decent hairstylist. Ideally this will be a she, not just a she, but also a pretty she. But this is the Shithole, and as the Depeche Mode song goes, dream on.


Wonderboy is getting married next Friday. Another bachelor bites the dust. Initially I thought I would not attend his wedding, but between that and sitting through Fixed income Securities class, there is only one choice. My concern for my mental health aside, I feel that as a friend, I have a duty to be with him in this most difficult of times. For the past year Wonderboy has been burning his weekends and jeopardizing his health just to prepare for this overpriced circus. He needs all the support a man could get.


No weekend blog post is complete without football. The fixtures list suggests that no upsets will be on the cards. More importantly, Everton must beat Pompey, who are rooted to the bottom of the table. Only all-out attack will do. The Shittizens are playing the Hammers on Monday. May that vulgar mob from Manchester get hammered.