Meet George, he’s an arsehole — “How do you do?” Yes George, kudos on the niceties — he can be very polite when he wants to be, very charming, but please don’t be fooled; he’s an arsehole, and I should know, he’s my arsehole associate.
George — HEY! Ignorant little sh— pivot this way, I want you facing us. Yeah, that’s it — hold it there — do you see the resemblance? He’s sweaty, looks grubby and smelly, and he’s got pursed lips — George, breathe in and out for me — do you hear his breath sounding like windy-pops, like flatus-puffs? Now, just sniff the air — halitosis / shit? What, mints? Nah, this tight arsehole considers such things an extravagance.
George, arsehole George — here, you need a wet wipe
It might just be me, but I find George’s anus-eskness disturbing — he’s not exactly a small arsehole — he comes to eye height — and he does so look like an arsehole, and he’s not exactly lacking in shite. I find him self-righteous, unoriginal, unpleasant, and a bore — he repeats his opinions until I hear them and I mean hear them deep where they burn — and he’s so remarkably insightful, and is a man of such exquisite assessment, that he finds himself above such things as lowly as ignorance.
When life seeds a solemn thought — sometimes it’s barely even the flesh of a thought, sometimes barely even its shadow — George likes to caress it until the hour darkens, and he likes to hold it until the day turns glum, and he would love to knock the years up dour so he can glut on me ’til he’s languid, ’til I’m responsive to less and less woe —