So a while ago a friend and i were toying with a character called Ken Labrador. He was a very angry old man with little to no understanding of modern culture.
We wrote a piece where he vents his spleen about students with the intention of trying to get it printed in the local paper but as you can see the language is a little on the ripe side. He was very angry though and we found it hard to reign his language in!
So here he is:
Love the blog. It’s the only thing that keeps me from opening a vein down here in Rottingdene.
Just dropping you a quick line to have a go at the students.
They make me sick.
They’re everywhere, it’s nothing personal i hate every single one of them. From the work-shy, cider swilling, dog end smoking, communist, first year philosophy student to the tax dodging, tight jeaned, terrorist scarf wearing, cluster fuck, art school dyslexic.
We’ve all seen them swimming in a putrid torrent of their own vebal effluence on every street corner. Or clogging up the tram system with their mile high haircuts and never expiring young persons railcard. I kicked one in the cock the other day and the daft cunt didn’t even notice because he was to busy musing as to the subtle nuances of Fleet Foxes new wank-a-thon that was spewing out of his Sony iPod 360 earbox. As he lay there convulsing in a pool of his own ego i heard a faint murmur about a late night showing of La hein at the Duke of shitting, ‘i’m so fucking middle class’ York cinema and how him and Wilifred were going to write haiku’s about a girl they both fancied but were too fucking wet and studenty to put it in her tight little arse.
Don’t get me wrong i studied when i was younger. I went to the school of hard knocks and got a PHD Ba Hons in being gang fucked by the man whilst still holding down a steady job gunning down krauts and supporting 3 kids, 2 wives and a mistress. Life was simple back then, there was no, Neo-nu-rave-krunk-step, Glasweegen-speed-tech-rape-core or Rohypnol. Just good old fashioned family values and the occasional soapy tit wank with the nice young redhead from the estate.
What do they even fucking do? They certainly don’t go to lectures because i’ve been fucking following a couple for the last few weeks and they do less that my paraplegic wife.
They lie about all day poncing rizlas off each other or smoking drug spliffs rolled in pages of the bible when their vegetarian, fair trade, clorene free, ‘kingskins’ run out. Then trapes about in their spiderman jim jams borrowing the Flight of the Conchords DVD off each other and hoofing rice cakes and pot noodle sandwiches into every available spotty, unshaven orifice still stinking of last nights STD swap/clunge fuck. In my day rice cakes were for the colonials and noodles were for the Japs.
In the evenings they are even more of a nuisance, romping about adorned in traffic cones and their school uniforms wrapped round their cocks and tits. Singing the littlest hobo at full volume and being sick into each other mouths between shots of toilet duck and gin. One of the little cunts was sick in my dog walking boots which i had left in the front garden ready to don before taking little Kilroy for his morning walk.
In conclusion, i blame the parents. A good thrashing never did me any harm. I ware this limp with pride and thank my farther every day for the lessons he taught me. Even if it did cost me the use of my left eye.
Ken Labrador, 89 years of age.
(Special help from Shahin ‘The One’ Islam)