Thursday, 24 September 2009

Dear Mika (II)

Okay seriously, some local-radio cuntskewer played that hateful fucking song of yours while I was in Cash Generator earlier and now it's lodged in my brain like an immovable tumour.


I've tried everything, but it looks like the only way of shifting it will be with a shotgun blast to the head. Just so you know: if I go, you're coming with me.

You ARE what I think you are. You're dogshit.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - Put some FUCKING TROUSERS ON, before I'm forced to commit a hate-crime.

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