STOP SHOWING ME PICTURES OF YOUR KIDS

A picture of you and your children.

This is becoming quite tedious, especially when it is some twat in a pub, who, within a minute or so of accosting me and talking complete bollocks, begins waving his wallet in my face going 'these are my kids, look at my kids' etc. etc. in a slightly disconcerting manner.
What the fuck are you meant to say to that? 'Yes very sexy, you are a lucky man'?

OK. So your belief appears to be that you have done the most magical thing in the world and created a life.

The hard truth of it is though, that you stood or laid down in a toilet cubicle or similar choice location, with another wrong'un, slipped your ungodly ding-dong inside it and spat your white hate tadpoles into her rotten fleshy baby grower.

For a variety of possible reasons the homunculus was carried to full term, I don't know which, maybe the chemist was shut that day.

Nine months later you achieved what mongs & third world bin-scavengers do day in, day out.

Produce another thing for me to hate.

So grab your pictures, along with your brats, jam them back inside the bubonic arse-womb of your wailing whore, throw all of them into a spiky fire-pit of death and then throw yourself in afterwards.

If you had any sense you would realize that this would be considerably less painful than what will, almost inevitably, happen to you, which is that the slag will get bored with you (as she is genetically programmed to do-in a feral state females have a 4 year mating cycle, the final stage being abandonment of the male) & piss off with your kids and, thanks to feminists and bastard lawyers, all of your money.

And you will be left sitting in pubs bothering strangers and showing them pictures of your kids. Which, I believe, is where I came in-
except now your eyes will be glazed over with tears and you will end up going back to your bedsit to cry.

Now fuck off. Thank you for not smoking.