April 9th, 2011 at 7:17 pm by Stupid Rubbish


I nearly threw my mobile telephone into a f*cking river today.

Yeah, yeah – it wouldn’t be the first time I had hacked off my own technological nose to spite my irritated, red face either.

What the f*cking sh!t is wrong with it that means every call I make is full of little crackling f*ckpops that make it seem like I am having a hammered conversation with Norman Collier?

And another thing…


Why does it know so much?


Why does it ask me so much?


Why is it forever asking f*cking permission for things from me? It’s not my child and it certainly isn’t my wife, so why the f*ck is it constantly bleating or harassing me about something I DON’T f*ckING CARE ABOUT?


It’s like a mewling little pocket-f*cker that seems to spend all it’s f*cking time (and my pricking battery) sending out pointless nonsense that I have no interest in. “Pingush!t 9 wants to use your location!” it eagerly spits at me like a street-hawking, homosexual whore.




You are a telephone.

Comments are closed.