From:     martin@wefail.com
Subject:     Short shorts
Date:     26 August 2010 19:54:56 BST
To:     abercrombie@abercrombie.com

Dear Sir/Madam,

I recently took my wife to the cinema and dressed myself in my usual attire of combat shorts and a t-shirt. I’m rather anal (more on that subject in a sec!) about what combats I wear and now have a wardrobe full of Abercrombies, maybe 10 pairs, collected over the years. Anyway, for our night at the cinema I threw on a pair of camo shorts that I’d bought from your NYC store last year. They’re relatively unworn due to England being the most miserable country you could ever have the misfortune of finding yourself in.

So after parking up we begin our walk to grab Pizza before the film. We’re walking and chatting away when I suddenly become aware of a really strong draught around my buttocks, I instinctively feel down the back of my shorts and to my horror, grab a handful of my naked man ass. I panicked and felt along the tear in my shorts for damage limitation…but this was fatal. The shorts had ripped from one side of the left buttock all the way across to the groin. My bare bottom cheek was out on show for any unlucky members of the public walking behind me.

How this could have ever happened I dont know. I’d not been doing any acrobatics in the shorts, and only worn them over a couple of months…but the material on the back felt super thin and fragile.

I made the wife walk an inch behind me, shadowing my steps. To an outsider we undoubtedly looked strange, but no stranger than a guy walking about with his bare bumflap out on display. We dived into Pizza Hut and I came up with the idea of tying my hoodie around my waist. It kind of worked and covered up my shame, we ate pizza and then went to see inception, I thought it was pretty boring in parts. Especially the ski section, wtf!? Plus my Mother says never to trust a short guy, and De Caprio is like 5ft 1.

Anyway, thanks for reading. I’m pretty bummed (lol!) about my shorts, but sometimes my life sucks.

Martin Hughes

It’s always depressing when another badass goes, because in today’s miserable world, up and coming badasses are over managed, restyled, toned down and homogenized into something uniformly fucking boring. We are a generation of grey people.

Though to be fair, Speed fucking sucked.

I was training on my bike with 2 other gentlemen, approaching a valley we saw another cyclist descending at speed. Hatefully we dropped into the valley after him and pushed hard to get a good speed up. The man was lame, going half our speed and about to get a fly-by that would knock him off his stupid fucking bike. He looked all ungainly and bandy legged, pedaling like a clown in a circus.

We curled up to gain speed and hammered forward, rocketing swiftly up the sloth like moron’s arse.

It was then that I noticed the man had no legs. He was cycling on carbon prosthetics from the thigh down, painfully pushing his stumps into each pedal revolution.

We shot by in unison, a perfect machine, and high fived each other as we left him for dead.

McDonalds

Customer Services Contact Form

Dear Sir/Madam,

I have had a bad day today. Work’s driving me out of my mind due to dealing with idiots, so at 2pm I decided I had to get out of here for a break. This is where my troubles multiplied. You see I drove down to the Rowlandsway House McDonalds Drive-through for a burger. I know it doesnt sound troublesome, it shouldn’t be. Alas, no one had explained that theory to your Staff.

First of all I sit in my car for 10 minutes at the empty order window. The place is deserted, I’m not sure what to do and consider driving to the next window when out of the blue, what looks to be a member of the living dead  decides that maybe they should do their job for a minute and serve me. The young deathly looking chap mumbles some incoherent apology, takes my order for a 1/4pounder with Cheese, gives me my change and away I go (albeit without straw or napkin, or a will to live), to window 3.

At window 3 a rather excitable young lady directs me to Grill1 parking, I imagine it’s because my extraordinary burger isn’t ready. So there I sit, and unfortunately, there I stay. The time passes and it gets to the point where you know everything’s not quite right, about 15 mins I’d say. But I sit there, thinking how miserable my life is, and how this McDonalds experience kind of reflects it. 20 minutes go by, 25, 35 minutes. Sweet Lord, kill me now.

It’s at the 40 minute mark that I begin to study what’s going on inside the restaurant…nothing….there’s maybe 8 staff, 1 customer…. and me, me sat in a world of my own, a world that your employees cannot see, even though my world is only 15ft from them and my head’s now puce in anger and radiating like a beacon. After 55 minutes it strikes me that there’s 1 part to this idiots job, which is:

1. Serve me my food.

Nothing else, the undead fellow that was off with the fairies at Window 1 took my order and processed the money transaction. So the girl at Window 3 has 1 singular task to remember.

Yet she couldn’t even kick start her brain into doing that without cocking it up.

I gave in at the hour mark and drove out, leaving the chimp’s tea party in full swing. 8 staff staring into space, breathing through the mouth, and most probably trying to remember part 1, of the 1 part job they’re employed to do.

I don’t want any kind of refund, just want to share my day with you..and perhaps get all of the Rowlandsway House staff fired for being so completely useless.

Martin

I chose the wrong cashier. I could hear him from 4 people back, telling each customer he was serving that he hadn’t found the right man to love. To shout such things out in front of complete strangers …well it’s too open, it’s not the English way. You may not have found the right lover, but for God’s sake, is it really something you should be telling an old man that’s buying toilet rolls and grapes?

He carried on shouting about his sex life, at double speed, to each new person. It seemed to me that he got somekind of titillation out of forcing each person he served to listen to his sex stories . I got really anxious as I drew closer and closer to his horrible, chicken like arms and filthy whore mouth. The arms clawing each food item, scanning it and throwing it aside. Horrible fucking beast, I don’t want a conversation with you. I don’t want any part of your sexual dialogue.

And there I was, stood before him….”Do you want me to serve you slow, medium, or fast?” he asked. I accidentally looked at his crotch, my eyes lingered in panic. I looked up and he was looking into my eyes and smiling. “I’ll take it that’s a slow” he said. I said nothing. He then raped me with his words.

why is my throat closing up?
I feel illness on my doorstep
rap a pap rapping.

maybe I should ask the stupid coughing idiot
that lives in my house.

I got outta bed too quick this morning and stepped on my own dick.
I didn’t even know that was possible.

I’ve never understood the appeal of a TV series, you know, the CSIs, Criminal Minds, House, Without a trace. Whenever anyone tells me they watch such shows I note them down in my little book of fucking mental people. To tune in, twice, sometimes even more, per week..to watch rather bad actors solve tonight’s fabricated national threat, or diagnose thorax AIDS caused by cat fur….it’s banal. I can’t begin to fathom what level of utter fucking loon would sit for an hour watching these televisual turds slowly squeeze from the depraved anus of entertainment.

“no really, give it a go…last week Al Qaeda had infiltrated the Pentagon with remote controlled wig bombs, but Rock Rockwell saw sparks coming from one of the terrorists foreheads and he shot the hairpiece off just before it exploded.”

You are then obliged to politely fake interest.

“Ohhhh? No…I haven’t seen that, what night was it? I’ll try to watch it this week”.

Right after I shit into my open hand, and smear it all over the television screen.

but if it came down to you or me, you better belief it would be me.