The end of the world will soon be upon us. Sometime in December, according to Mayan folklore, everything will stop. Most of the people I know and love will perish.
The end of the world will soon be upon us. Sometime in December, according to Mayan folklore, everything will stop. Most of the people I know and love will perish. Krakens will get miffed and do a poo on my lawn. It won’t be a pleasant time for anyone. And I have countless deeds to finish before everything goes: family members to hug; friends to have fifteen last drinks with; a comedy rap musical to write. Let’s be honest, the world really needs the latter to happen before whatever god is out there starts flinging the Earth about like a stroppy toddler.
On average I have the urge to slap the living piss out of someone every two and a half months. Now that I no longer need to repress these urges, I have roughly five slaps before it all grinds to a halt. Here is my shortlist of pain recipients, in no particular order.
People I would like to slap:
1) David Cameron. I’m not just currying favour here. I’m apolitical as anything. His decision-making skills are below par, clearly, but that is not my focus here. It is actually a physics issue. He has the most scientifically slappable face imaginable. His cheeks would wobble at just the right frequency. His horrid beady eyes would look just the right balance between concerned and surprised, I can feel it. And he’d definitely say something like ‘gosh!’ or ‘crivens!’ which would make the legal ramifications vastly worthwhile.
2) Michael McIntyre. His existence worries me. I’m pretty certain it may well be him that incited the upcoming apocalypse as it is. He takes the idea of comedy and stabs it to death with the grin of an excitable puppy. Anyone who takes such relentless glee in murder deserves a slapping of the highest order. He uses observations that he could never possibly have made (having never lived as a normal human being) and delivers them in the most grating pitch conceivable. I don’t care if he’s successful. I don’t care if I can relate to some of what he says. I don’t care if it’s largely because I’m a comedian who’s actually used a joke and still will never make as much money as him. He still deserves to be punched into oncoming traffic. Or at the very least, slapped. By me.
3) Jordan. She made her boobies bigger. Then she made them smaller. Now she hasn’t got a face. For the day job I’m ignoring to write this, I stand in one spot in WHSmith. I am positioned between a mountain of expensive and, for legal reasons, inaccessible confectionery, and the ‘lifestyle’ and ‘gossip’ magazines. The former only feeds my agitation. The latter makes my blood evaporate with sheer rage and agony. Adorning the front of every single one, never smiling, lifeless behind her plastic eyes, is Jordan. And yes, I will only refer to her as Jordan. She’s done nothing of value as Katie Price and so Katie Price is a dead entity to me. I am sick to death of her pre-menstrual quibbles with equally vapid men she marries on a whim with money that she shouldn’t be allowed to have. The idea of marriage as a commodity is disgusting, and I don’t want to know it exists let alone have it burned onto my retinas accompanied by garish pink and yellow text every week. I don’t condone violence to women. But one of the main conditions of being a woman is that you are a person. And Jordan is no longer a person, she is a symbol of emptiness. RIP Katie Price.
4) The Twisted Individal Who Recently Stole My Really Nice Glasses. You stand to gain nothing from owning them. The prescription will make your eyes bleed if you put them within five metres of your face. Would you steal a hearing aid? Or a wheelchair? Or a colostomy bag? No? Then give me back my eyesight you dirty shit.
5) Michael McIntyre. Again. This horrific individual is the worthy recipient of 40% of my final, parting slaps. He has a very special place in my heart that was previously occupied by Hitler. Sort of like Poland.
Should the world not end, I’ll avoid partaking in any excessive violence towards (un)popular public figures, slinking out with my tail between my legs. The world will end though, right? Mayans said so, and they invented knowing stuff. If not, they’re on the list too, and I’m going to call them Aztecs the whole time.