Terrible bad

But I do Karate!

It all faded into shite when I had to prove that I did karate.

I didn't do karate.

I thought it might be enough of a deterrent to claim that I did do it, bit it wasn't.

This big fat Mexican guy beat the shite clean out of me.

But it was OK! It was really OK. He beat my shite in in a methodical, detached manner, where I knew he wasn't beating my shite in, but rather the shite in of an abstract notion of me that he thought he might have known.

I said "But it's me! It's me! I like the news, and TV, I like "You've been framed" and "Heartbeat", I am a nice boy..."

And yet he beat me still.

But that's OK. I was about to enunciate my final wee bit where I compared myself to the British War Poet Wilfrid Owen, as he clumsily poked his fingers in my chest, but I didn't have to. I think he took heed of my words as he walked away. I don't know what I did to make him walk away. Probably fuck all, he probably decided himself. I think he did.

Yet still, I whispered "Fuck off, ya big cunt" and did the fingers, lazily, as he walked away. I regretted it almost instantly, as I never liked Oasis, and they popularized that gesture, in so much as it would be understood by my assailant.

I pondered these notions for a while, and then died, of brains trauma and blood loss, and here I am now.

Karate is compulsory in heaven, as these cunts want you to better yourself. Fuck that shite.

What are you gonna do?

Fuck me.