The Pump. Going caveman after a workout. Implementing Danger and Play's workout advice for muscular density. Destroyed. A hellish workout, I feel like my limbs have been cut off and sewed back on without anaesthetic. I'm getting bigger, better. Used tae be there was more meat on a butcher's knife than on wee Francis. But now? I'm the cavemen. I'm the guy who looks like a serial killer. I'm your worst fucken nightmare.
The post workout high. You look at every lassie strolling by and the conflagration, the temptation to slap her ass, fuck every woman that moves, glass any cunt dat looks at you the wrong way. You pay your bus fare and you sit your arse down at the back of the bus. Buses are fuckin fascinating innit. Ahead of me, a group of voluptuous twenty somethings sit in front of me. All four of them are Irish. Mount Anville lassies? Not exactly grade A clunge, sadly. Two of them are wearing fat suits, the hen is a tidy six, odd enough for a burd like her she's wearing all these
"So Ross, he was like, onto me about the goy at the doore, about, how it was like..."
"Ross, is this the goy doing Orts?. He is like, such a loser!"
Fatchops pipes in.
"He was getting it off with Rebecca at the Orts ball last year. He was like, "I've had it for you for so long now" and she was like EEWWWW...."
The laughter of the Sirens.
I'm looking out the window of the bus. The song on the radio is that gay piece of shite "Somebody I Used To Know". My mind is sprawling, thoughts are anachronistic, landscapes, torrents, rainfall, finding myself at home in my study twenty years later reading The Wealth of Nations when my amorphous man child (he was like and i was like) trots in like he's the King of England, and he tells me that "Dad, I've got somebody I think you should meet" and I'm thinking, thank god, the good lord, Jesus Christ and St Peter he's not one of these bellends whose fallen in love with a horse called Twiks (in the future, marriage to animals is legal) and he brings in the lassie, and lo and behold, it's fucking FATCHOPS from the bus, where he's telling me all about her, about her in your face attitude and her high sex drive and the fact that she eats children and her vagina swallows dildos whole, and I'm looking out, morose, taciturn, LIKE LIKE LIKE UP UP UP shite back tae the real world of, incessant chatter, inexorable chatter, gossiping on this poor fuck, called Ross, who might actually be a bit of a laugh, but he's been thrown to the D4 hoes for one mistake, one cardinal sin, and it IS A FUCKING BLOODBATH with these lassies.
They get off the bus.
All contact with reality is truncated. These two guys get on and sit up beside me. They look like PHD students, ie they have potato heads, are lumpy, have beards and are balding with long hair. A saccharine piano ballad emanates from the speakers. They start speaking out loud, in that high pitched, effeminate mew that irritates me.
"the last episode...was great."
They were talking about My Little Pony. Late twenties, dissecting the ins and out of a cartoon, and not in this ironic hipster "I watched it because I had some pot and it happened to be there" fashion. These are not men. They are timorous turds. I find myself going DOWN DOWN DOWN DOWN whether I want to or not, and once again I'm back to the future, reading The Wealth of Nations when my daughter comes in, the one I'm proud of the most, and she's telling me how she's got a boyfriend and she introduces him to me (big government approved) and I look at him. Limp fisted handshake, the fuck is this shit? He's pathetic. He speaks enthusiastically and breathlessly. He's overly nice. He won't treat her like shit, ok, and I've had the talk with my daughter already, but will he be able to take care of her, and the grandchildren? Christ, that's ANOTHER set of kids I'll have to teach. I look up. He's still here! He's still talking about how he used to watch My Little Pony in university. He's even wearing flipflops. He won't fuck right off.
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!
They get off outside Trinity College. I look forlornly out the window. Just a couple more...Trinity. The people that run Ireland come from Trinity. And UCD. More thoughts. I get up, in my stride, pass a pair of gangly teenagers in Nike hoodies...
"...the best sneakers ah ever stole!"
"ye bleeding cock!"
There is a conflagration, a decay, inertia creeps, and the Manosphere is roasting marshmallows on it. Race you to the bottom, 123 GO!
And that is why, I don't want children.