Malicious wishes for a thieving scumbag

There are two reasons why this blog has not been updated for several weeks:

1. I am approaching bedpan-and-robotic-feeding-arm levels of laziness.
2. My laptop was nicked by one of the most despicable subhuman fucks Scotland has to offer.

While I realise that there's an endless number crimes that outweigh the significance of stealing consumer electronics from a whiny, overprivileged, middle class twat like myself (and that the fact they only took one possession from my room displays a warped kind of consideration) I harbour nothing but pure malice and acidic contempt for this inbred, amoral reptile.

So, thief, here is a list of my hopes for the future. Your future. Your horrific, unfulfilling, painful future:

• I hope you wake up with a stray cat, rabid and flea-ridden, clawing enthusiastically at your genitals. Every morning. Until you die.

• I hope your firstborn has a snout and a fine coating of jet black fuzz, meaning that no matter how hard you try, you can never love it.

• I hope you develop an incurable habit of absent-mindedly trying to smoke the wrong end of a lit cigarette.

• I hope every second chip you shovel into your greasy, thieving face goes down the wrong way and feels like an iron pine cone slowly grinding slowly down the length of your oesophagus.

• I hope you become spectacularly incontinent at an abnormally young age, and that you discover your condition during the physical act of love.

• I hope you fall foul of a sadistic yet extremely talented plastic surgeon, who forcefully anaesthetises you and remodels your face to look exactly like a scrotum with eyes.

• I hope you're arrested, tried and punished during the week that Britain, in a fit of Medieval nostalgia, brings back the rack for petty criminals.

• I hope you unwittingly discover that drinking a mixture of Tennent's Super and Rockstar energy drink causes those with blood type AB+ to release pheromones that make them sexually irresistable to most large livestock.

• I hope you're reincarnated as one of those grey-brown sucker fish you see stuck to the side of glass tanks in pet shops. Just sitting there, sucking and wishing somebody wanted you.

• I hope the guy in the pawn shop just shakes his head disapprovingly when buying my computer from you, and that you can't sleep for a week because even though you have the money or the drugs, it's just not the same without him at least saying thanks.

• I hope that every time you approach a child - blood relative or otherwise - it collapses into a violent, cowering tantrum, prompting the nearest parent to gawk at you in disgust and snatch the kid away while pointing at you and crying 'MONSTER!'.
  

• I hope your mother is ashamed of you.

Yeeeeah, take that. You may have gotten away with taking from me over a grand's worth of equipment, containing several irreplaceable documents and files, but I have written out a mean-spirited list of unfeasible/impossible, hypothetical punishments. Sweet justice, brought to you by the safe, impotent anonymity of the internet.


Aside from my more violent fantasies relating to the burglary, I also have this image of two junkie bastards with a few hours to kill until Cash Converters opens, exploring the contents of my hard drive as they huddle together on a piss-stained mattress in a bare hovel. I can't help but imagine them picking through my truly woeful creative writing, criticising its lack of direction and clumsy, trite dialogue; dismissing my collection of unlistenable electronica, incomprehensible world music and wanky jazz as a failed attempt to make myself seem interesting; screaming in horror and confusion at the hours and hours and hours of alien porn hidden half-heartedly in a desktop folder marked 'Stuff'...

Again, it's highly unlikely due to things like password encryption and the guaranteed fact that they couldn't give a scrawny, solitary fuck about what's on the laptop they just ripped off. Even still, I can't get rid of that picture of the thief, cackling mockingly through broken, yellowed teeth, as his filthy hands, clad in Fagin-style fingerless gloves, click and type through three years of my digital personal effects. Chilling.


I'll add to the list if and when I see fit.