July 4th, 2011 at 2:55 pm by Stupid Rubbish

Mental illness is an odd thing.

I mean on the one-hand it’s about as funny as a firm kick in the gentleman’s testicles, because it f*cks up people’s lives and causes all kinds of miserypain and unhappiness. But on the other hand, if we are honest, it does offer some genuinely f*cking superb comedy – the kind you just know you are going to hell for laughing at.

Mental illnesses creates the kind of utter street randoms that we all see wandering about in town centres doing the most bizarre and terrifying things. No matter how f*cking non-PC it might be to find these people amusing, unfortunate and scary, we ALL DO IT, even if we PRETEND NOT TO STARE.

Seriously, you think blanking them and staring straight ahead makes it all OK..?

Don’t tell me for a SECOND that if you walked past a grunting man dry humping his own bike whilst proudly wearing a Tesco carrier on his head, you wouldn’t laugh at least a little bit? I saw that spectacle only last week, laugh? I nearly sh!t the road in pure joyous celebration.

A few weeks before that I encountered a “shouter” sitting on a wall outside a library. I have NO idea what he was saying but it seemed like it might well have been “GALLOPING w@nkER!” repeated at immeasurable decibels and accompanied by a steady stream of shouting mouth spit.

I think I notice these characters more too, or at least I attract them somehow, I must be psychotically magnetic – like an oozing blob of sex honey to an OVARY WASP.

And I almost have this inbuilt feeling that one day I will actually BE one of them you know. And in some ways I look forward to it… after all, normality is f*ckING overrated. I think I could get quite vocally involved in spending my days pushing a supermarket trolley full of filthy shoes up and down a crowded high street whilst irrelevantly screaming WORM RUBBER! at the top of someone else’s voice.

But I digress.

The mental illness I am really talking about are more those funny little small things.

I know a woman who cannot possibly go more than sixty seconds without furiously looking at her watch. What’s worse is that she moves like a f*cking insect, or a stop motion film, but frowns angrily at her watch each and every time she JERKf*ckS it up in front of her livid red face. It’s like the f*cking watch keeps shouting to her or something like an invisible wrist pest.

I know someone else who has to nasally smell every single object that they hold. No matter what, they NEED to smell it and then they can operate it or handle it as normal from that point onwards.

This, of course, means that incredible amounts of comedy potential offer themselves up to the right kind of utter c*nt of a friend, obviously. STOP LOOKING AT ME.

Anyway, shut up and let me finish.

People are f*cking NUTS – and I mean all of us, not just the ones who we all THINK are nuts… in fact, you know what the only difference is between us all?

They don’t know how nuts they are, they are immune and blissfully ignorant to their own crazy.

Deep down, we know.

2 Responses to “Clock checker.”

  1. JonnoBass says:

    love it. my neighbour two houses down likes to do ‘gardening’ after the sun sets with her bare hands whilst muttering furiously at the plants she is picking at. she is always dressed up smartly when angrily hand-pruning her stupid f*cking plants. she’s Irish.

  2. [...] For those of you unlucky enough to have felt compelled to read the sh!t I smear across your collective metaphorical faces, it was the very same complete bellend of a woman that I wrote about here: CLOCK CHECKER [...]