I hesitated about whether I should take up Punk's invitation - after all, this has become the Gentility Board as of late. However, in light of this sick burn, I felt a response was appropriate. You see, I don't even dislike the guy - I just wonder if there's any substance behind his sub-Quagmire schtick he's been dining out on for so long. Thus, I was intrigued to see what he could come up with. In essence, it was this;Punk wrote:I don't find that character to be retarded.
If you've got a problem with me, which you clearly do, start a new thread. Otherwise, take your limey lips and suck a fucking dick, thesaurus boy.
1) I am British
2) I should, perhaps, suck a cock
3) I have a decent vocabulary
As you may well imagine, I was reeling after such a strong - and original! - denouncement. But, brothers and sisters, at heart I'm a consensus builder. An appeaser, if you will, and so if I must play Neville Chamberlain to Punk's Adolf Hitler, or maybe That Japanese Mook to his Comissar Molotov, I shall. In supplication, I have written a short piece of creative prose about a hypothetical meeting betwixt Punk and I.
A Punk For All Seasons: Or, An Englishman Abroad - A Romance
The arrivals lounge was full. I glanced around in exasperation, trying in vain to find my connection. How, oh how, in this sea of humanity would I meet my host, Mr. Punk? Just as I began to feel the first undulations of resignation rising in me, I felt a presence - of sorts - at my elbow.
"Weeeell, howdy thar, pard'ner! Ah'm mighty pleased to meet ya, Mr. Byford."
"Mr. Punk, I presume," I replied.
"Y' darn tootin'!"
His dialect was alien to mine, but nevertheless I resolved to persist. He seemed, after all, an agreeable fellow, if utterly incomprehensible. He led me to his automobile, a beastly machine with blacked out windows. Mr. Punk assisted me into his vehicle and climbed into the driver's cab.
"Now we're buddies, ah've got a proposition. Why don'tcha suck a cock?" Alarmed, I searched his eyes for meaning. Surely he wasn't requesting that I apply suction to a rooster? I knew of strange and savage customs outside of Britannia, but this one proved particularly perplexing.
"I beg your pardon, sir," I said, a note of anxiety creeping into my voice, "but I feel unable to carry out your request, on account that you appear to be bereft of poultry at this moment in time." Mr. Punk guffawed at such naiveté.
"P'raps you'd like to meet Li'l Punk," my host replied. Aha! Obviously he meant I was to encounter the issue of his loins, Punk fils, a juvenile. At this moment of comprehension, I brightened.
"But of course, Mr. Punk. I would be honoured to meet your child and heir. No doubt he will grow to be a fine, upstanding citizen, not unlike his father."
"Y' darn tootin'", said Mr. Punk as he reached into his trousers, "jes' don't look him in the eye - he gets kinda nervous..."
To be continued...?
