Funfiltered Episode #049 - "Nascence of the Fourth Reich"

Pfidze Lanka and Dexter Chisp are set to pledge their troughs on July 3rd. Under the sentinel of approx. 70 witnesses, they shall conjugate. In the eyes of the Lord and the state, that is. If the yecchy hoots and jibbers emanating nightly nether my chamber affirm anything, it's that those two are biblically conversant in what one imagines to be a uniformly unlovely interlock. And one can't HELP but imagine lest you impute depravity. Hear an oink, picture a pig. I am not a puritan. God knows. He knows... But ofttimes, the old fashions are the best. I do not insist on abstinence (she is an autonomous dame - if not a citizen - and carnal considerations were unhappily overlooked in her contract). I DO insist on basic decorum. It is displayed clearly on the Sub-Zero Luxury Refrigerator* in magnetic letters: "NO RUTTING UNDER THIS ROOF OR IN THE SHELTERED PADIO [sic]"†. Of course, it won't be a problem for much longer. Pfidze and Chisp are prepping their new flat for occupancy. Soon, I shan't have to eat muesli with that horrible sleeping bag, with its lardaceous stench and doubtless iridescence under blacklight, in my eyeline. She must know wherever she next goes will be a dip. I don't even want to LOOK at pictures of her stupid, accursed rental. Visit "when it's all done up", is it? Degrade myself to be hosted by a DESERTER?! Maybe I'll get a dog. On Tuesday, as I left M&S with an exquisite new set of cotton Argyle socks, I clocked a poster affixed to the window of a charity shop: an advertisement for a one-year-old St. Bernard. I have always found their goofy majesty unusually compelling. An embodiment of the sacred and the profane. They were bred to rescue people from lofty heights, to return them to solid ground. I am MAN enough to admit I cannot continue this commentary without tears. *If the algorithms don't bone me and an employee of said company sees this, it'd be nice to augment the rainy day fund as I move from Funlimited to the next (and, let's face it, final) phase of my life where the weather is, at best, uncertain. Come on, just a few quid. †I ran out of T's. GREAT SCOTT, DID THEY EXPLOIT THAT LOOPHOLE?!