RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT RANT – And More RANT

 

I’ve been calm lately, haven’t I? Calm like a calm thing, all sweetness and light and peace and serenity like a zen buddha’s comfortable old ARSE. Politeness personified.

 Nice Dotty.

Mild Dotty.

TAME Dotty.

 

And then yesterday some IGNORANT FUCKER OF A SO-CALLED PROFESSIONAL HAS TO GO AND SPOIL IT ALL. AND INSTEAD OF BATTERING THE BASTARD WHO NEEDED BATTERING, I ENDED UP BATTERING THE FUCK OUT OF MY LITTLE TELLY TO MAKE THAT SMUG DIRTY BASTARD DER FUHRER CAMERON’S FACE (SPIT SPIT SPIT) GO AWAY.

Yesterday I waited THREE AND A HALF HOURS for a phone call – can you imagine what state I was in by the time the phone finally rang? I’ll tell you, NOT A FUCKING GOOD ONE – panic attacks BEFORE the due time of the call, panic attacks WHEN THE CALL DIDN’T COME, panic attacks in the THREE AND A HALF HOURS until the call DID come. And in between the panic attacks was the VOMITING and the FRUSTRATION – a nasty, pacey, shouty frustration that turned into A MURDEROUS FUCKING RAGE but no one was here for me to murder so when I saw that BASTARD OF A NAZI WANNABE (SPIT SPIT SPIT) on the news I SNAPPED and I picked up the first thing to hand (my brass candlestick) and I MURDERED MY LITTLE TELLY and I HALF MURDERED MY NICE CHAIR and I KICKED THE FUCK OUT OF MY NICE SETTEE and I BROKE THE GLASS CABINET my stuffed owl, Bartholomew, lived in and DIBBLE came banging on the door but the wankers couldn’t TOUCH ME because I have IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE (I can’t be arsed doing a link so you’ll have to do a search for DIBBLE in my search box if you want to know how I got IMMUNITY FROM THE POLICE). Dibble fucked off sharpish after I’d put in a HARASSMENT COMPLAINT against the NOSEY TWATTING ARSEWIPES NEXT DOOR who’d reported me – AGAIN. Don’t fuck with Dotty, NEIGHBOURS, or you’ll come off worse, everyone does.

I’m sick of it. SICK SICK SICK SICK SICK SICK SICK of it. No wonder this country’s going to SHITE.

Why do PROFESSIONALS always make people wait? Why do they have no concept of PUNCTUALITY? Why do they TREAT PEOPLE LIKE TWATS? It doesn’t matter what profession they’re in, they’re all the same – FUCKING RUDE, DISCOURTEOUS, BAD-MANNERED SKANKS who think their time is more important than anything else. And when they’ve made you wait they expect you to be GRATEFUL they deigned to deal with you at all.

I’m not happy today. Not happy at all.

 

 

I’m In A Bad Mood

 

I’m fucking foaming.

I want to batter someone.

THE BASTARD HITLER CAMERON, that’s who I want to batter.

With a metal bar, a big heavy rusty diseasy METAL BAR.

And all his TORY CABINET DEMONS, I want to batter them.

And all the FUCKING SANCTIMONIOUS MIDDLE-CLASS BASTARDS who voted THE CUNT into power.

Because that’s what he is, a CUNT.

I hate that word.

I never use it.

You won’t find it ANYWHERE in the posts or comments I’ve made, it’s the foulest, nastiest word in the English language but it’s the only appropriate word for him because he’s the FOULEST NASTIEST FUCKER in the country.

CAMERON THE CUNT.

If karma does exist and if it’s true that what goes around comes around, he’s in for it, BIG time. If the additional suffering he’s causing to people is added up and given back to him HE WILL SCREAM FOR ALL ETERNITY.

Roll on eternity.

CUNT.

 

 

DOTTYGEDDON

 

Today I am practising POSITIVITY and SELF-CONTROL.

I am controlling myself and I am being positive.

 

 

Yes.

 

I am.

 

 

I woke up in a bad mood, not a seething, sawing limbs off slowly bad mood (not my own limbs, some other fucker’s), a RAVING bad mood, a MURDEROUS bad mood, a DOTTYGEDDON bad mood.

 

BUT I have decided to fight it and instead of going off on one I will be a composed ME, a calm ME.

Today I will be THE MODEL OF SERENITY.

 

 

Yes.

 

 

I did a positive thought to negate some negative thoughts —

I CAN’T GO OUT, I HATE THIS FUCKING HERMITITIS, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT, HATE IT

but

at least I don’t have claustrophobia.

 

See, I can do it. I CAN get through this bad mood day without being arrested.

 

And I have a new trick to use when I am in session with my brick. I have a MANTRA to use and now I am going to use it –

 

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

Little Emily is not my best friend, she’s a FUCKING TRAITOROUS BITCH.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick is my best friend.

BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH BITCH I’M GOING TO RIP HER FUCKING HEAD OFF AND FEED IT TO THE HOUND OF THE FUCKING BASKERVILLES.

My brick is my best friend.

My brick

AND THAT SMELLY LITTLE FREAK KUMBLANT, I’LL KICK HIM ALL THE WAY BACK TO SMELLYVANIA OR WHERE EVER IT IS HE COMES FROM BUT FIRST I’LL STAKE THE BASTARD WITH HIS OWN STAKING STICK, I’LL RAM IT AND TWIST IT AND TWIST IT AND TWIST IT RIGHT THROUGH HIS STINKING ROTTEN HEART AND I’LL MAKE HIS FUCKING MOOR-WALKING GIRLFRIEND WATCH IT ALL AND I’LL

 

 

 

 

My br

 

 

 

*

 

 

The Egg Is Nowhere To Be Found But I’ve Never Reblogged My Own Stuff (Or Anyone Else’s)…

 

… and I’m not going to start now even though I have nothing to say. Wordy block is back, big time, but it’s not MY fault, it’s little Emily’s fault and Kumblant’s fault and whatever they are plotting’s fault and the gasmen’s fault and Lottie’s fault and Photoshop’s fault and my Cumberland sausages’ fault and the egg that rolled out of the egg carton under the cabinet’s fault (I CAN’T FIND THE FUCKING EGG, WHERE IS IT? AN EGG CAN’T JUST DISAPPEAR, CAN IT?) and the grey day’s fault and something else’s fault that I can’t remember right now but whatever it is it’s to blame.

And why is there only ONE programme on telly for the whole of the week? Fucking FOOTBALL. Not just British football, but foreign EUROPEAN football. AND THEY’VE TAKEN THE SOAPS OFF TO SHOW IT. Even if you don’t like the soaps you have to agree with the fact that soaps are the bread and butter of the telly companies, they attract regular loyal viewers, but when it comes to showing SHITEY SPORT they treat their regular loyal viewers with disdain and contempt. And there’s no excuse for it now everything is on digital tellY, they could each get their own FREEVIEW SPORTS CHANNEL to show all the shitey sport they want to show. If you want to see how much fucking football is on telly this week go and look at my guide. FUCKING WANKING TELLY BASTARDS.

Will the egg hatch under my kitchen cabinet? I’m scared of chickens, they give me the creeps if I see them in any form other than just roasted.

And why is it so cold?

OY, WEATHER, WE’RE IN JUNE, YOU STUPID TWAT. GET WARM.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HERE, CHICKY-CHICKY-CHICKY, COME TO DOTTY!

 

 

HA HA HA HA HA HA – Up Your French Canadian Arse, La Popinjay, You Twat

 

I’ve got you sussed, you sad old SCROTE.

You want me to write a post about you so you can steal EVEN MORE OF MY FOLLOWERS and PRETEND THEY WERE YOURS TO START WITH and that’s fine, here I am writing a post about you because I’m nice and kind like that, but really, all you had to do was ask.

So go on everyone, go and join the old goat’s blog, he NEEDS you, he’s DESPERATE, so DESPERATE he copied my 200 FOLLOWERS badge and pretended it was his own because he couldn’t bear to think I’d beat him to 200, just like he copies EVERYTHING of mine. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery – NO IT’S NOT, IT’S JUST COPYING, YOU NUMPTY so find your own ideas, stop nicking mine.

And he called me a THIEF. Well I’m NOT a convicted thief, Dibble gave me Cautions each time.

Is he hopeless?

Is he useless? 

Is he desperate?

Is the Pope waterproof?

YES to all of the above – but pity La Popinjay, please, my lovelies. Charity is good for the soul.

 

P.S.  You’re probably thinking, ‘Why should I bother going to see a blog written by a BABBLING INGRATE?‘ and you’d be correct in thinking that so to be honest I’d advise you to GO HERE INSTEAD.

 

P.P.S. OY, ARSEWIPE – I don’t live in a flat so GET YOUR FACTS RIGHT. Shows how much you actually READ.

 

Normal Dotty Services Will Soon Be Resumed

 

I haven’t written a post for my blog yet, I didn’t get up till after midday. Not that it’s any of your business, why do you want to know what time I got up? I don’t ask YOU what time YOU get up, do I? It’s just plain nosiness that’s what it is and I’ll ask you to remember whose fucking blog this IS, it’s MY blog, I’m the BOSS OF MY BLOG and I’ll get up whenever I bleeding well WANT to get up, my name’s DOTTY HEADBANGER not fucking ROYAL MAIL or whatever the American or Canadian or Australian or Netherlandian or Colombian or whatever country you are on my list version of ROYAL MAIL is – if you want your post to arrive on time RING THEM UP AND ASK WHY THEY’RE SUCH TARDY BASTARDS.

You’ll get a new post from ME when I’m good and ready so stop nagging me, I’ve been INCAPACITATED you know, didn’t you read THE FUCKING MIGRAINE POEM? What do you think THAT was all about, do you think I wrote it for your ENTERTAINMENT? – no I did NOT write if for your entertainment I wrote it because it’s all I COULD write because nothing else had happened to me while I was lying there IN FUCKING AGONY.

Fucking blog. Can’t a She-Hermit sleep in on a Saturday morning after being INCAPACITATED? nag nag nag nag nag.

 I NEVER sleep in, I’m up between 5.30am and 6.30am every morning, weekends included. AND THE ONE TIME I SLEEP IN BECAUSE I WAS INCAPACITATED THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY AND IT’S WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE give me a post, I want a post, if you don’t give me a post I’ll just nag and nag and nag, do a post, do a post NOW, do one do one do one.

NO I WON’T DO ONE. So fuck off, I’m going to make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast now, I haven’t had anything to eat for two days – no it’s more like THREE days. Do you want to see me STARVE?

I might be back later with a new post, I might not, it depends if I can be ARSED TO DO ONE. I might have other more interesting things to do like EXAMINE MY ELBOWS.

So there. Stick THAT up your blogging WordPress and swivel on it, fucking nagging fucking BELL-END of a fucking blog.

 

Why Do I Bother? Eh? Tell Me, Because I Don’t Know

 

Right, to start with I’ve put my newest fascinating collection on display here —

 Dotty’s List Of Collected Countries

 

Next, I want to ask why loads of you have just rudely dismissed the work I put into making YOUR  new page

Dotty’s Pet Blogs 

Have I got MUG written across my forehead? Do I do these things for the good of my health? NO I FUCKING WELL DON’T –  SO, FOLLOWERS, READERS – GO AND ADD YOUR BLOG TO THE LIST and other people will visit you and follow you and we will all be like ONE BIG HAPPY FUCKING FAMILY.

ALL RIGHT?

WELL GO ON THEN, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

 

 

I HAVE  850,492,786.5 FOLLOWERS AND ONLY 17 OF YOU HAVE POSTED LINKS TO YOUR BLOGS ON DOTTY’S PET BLOGS. SHAME ON YOU ALL.

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT EDIT —- If you’re wondering, the Dotty’s Pet Blog page is working, I’m seeing more clicks than ever before. So I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to add YOURS to the list, unless you don’t want anyone to read it, but in that case MAKE IT PRIVATE.

 

 

Dotty Is Slightly Miffed With The Boilerman

 

 

 

 

OY, BOILERMAN – see that writing in the picture? It’s for YOU, you LYING FIBBING SHIRKER.

Just you wait till morning – that’s if you ARRIVE in the morning and you don’t make up another excuse not to come. ILL? yes right, what with? DOUBLE PNEUMONIA? BERI-BERI? E-COLI? THE BUBONIC PLAGUE? ill my fucking granny’s gums, you are NOT ill if you’ve got anything wrong with you it’s MAN FLU, you woosy-arsed whiney fucking WIMP. If you want to see ILL you should have seen me today WAITING FOR YOU TO COME AND FIX MY BOILER but just you wait, tomorrow I’m not taking ANY of my FUCKING PROPANOLOL and tonight I’m not taking my FUCKING MIRTAZAPINE AND MY FUCKING NIGHT BETA-BLOCKERS AND I’M NOT TAKING ANY FUCKING PILLS AT ALL TONIGHT OR TOMORROW SO IN THE MORNING YOU WILL GET THE FULL EFFECTS OF ME NOT TAKING MY FUCKIGN PILLS AND THEN YOU WILL KNOW WHAT BEING ILL IS YOU LYING LITTLE BASTARD AND i WILL LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR SO YOU CAN’T GET OUT AND YOU’LL THNK YOU ARE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND YES YOU WILL BE LOCKED IN WITH A RAVING LOONY AND THAT FUCKING LOONY WILL BE ME. 

 

The Wind That Blows Between Their Ears

 

 

Oh, but they are stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. STUPID. When I tell you who I’m talking about you’ll agree with me and if you don’t, if you’ve ever said this thing that they say, which I’m about to tell you – well – well I don’t know what I’ll say to you if you have ever said it except DON’T EVER SAY IT AGAIN because it’s one of the most stupid things you could ever say. Saying it makes you look stupid, and I know you’re not stupid or you wouldn’t be reading my little blog.

Imagine you’re watching a game show. It doesn’t matter which one, just make it one that has a quizmaster, a contestant and a question.

The contestant is in his twenties. He’s answered most of his (or her) previous questions, he’s been to university, he’s got a good job. He doesn’t SEEM stupid –

UNTIL

the quizmaster asks the next question and the  next question is something like one of these questions —

 

In which year did England win the world cup?

In which year did Elvis Presley die?

How long did Queen Victoria reign?

Who was the first man on the moon?

How many Number One songs did the Beatles have?

 

 

 

And the contestant’s answer is 

 

‘I DON’T KNOW, I WASN’T BORN THEN.

 

 

On how many levels of STUPID does this contestant live? ALL OF THEM, that’s how many. I was going to do a long post about EACH LEVEL OF STUPIDITY but I decided not to because if you don’t know how STUPID this answer is then have a little think about it and if you still don’t know – DON’T ASK ME because all I will say is YOU ARE VERY, VERY STUPID AND YOUR STUPIDNESS WILL ONLY BECOME MORE STUPID AS YOU GET OLDER, YOU STUPID,STUPID PERSON.

 

 

 

 

P.S. Did anyone notice the absence of swear words in this post? Did you notice how well I did? Not even ONE swear word. I deserve a treat for that and I’m going to have one. Now.

 

 

My Head-Shaped Brick

 

It broke. Last night. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t got another one here in the house. To get another one I’d have to go outside and dig one up from the edge of the parsnip patch, but doing that would leave a gap in the edging and the parsnips might escape and do sick things to the onions. I don’t know what to do and I need to do SOMETHING but the house will fall down if I start dismantling any more walls, and really I don’t want to dismantle the walls that are left, open plan living is WRONG and only RAVING EXTROVERT EXHIBITIONISTS live like that. I don’t know what to do. I need my brick.

Why did it have to break, Dotty? It was forming nicely, a few more weeks of headbanging and I would have got it exactly right, it would have been perfect, THE perfect head-shaped brick, a NORI brick and they’re so hard to come by nowadays I don’t know when I’ll find another. It was only the third one I’d ever had. Somebody must have weakened it at some point in its life, whacked it with something to see if it would break but it didn’t, did it, until NOW you fucking BRICK KILLER whoever you are, some big lumbering maggoty-brained TWAT of a builder-with-arse-cleavage-that-would-scare-a-baboon, go shove your TINGLE PLATE up your nasty arse. That’s the only reason I can think of, it’s been sabotaged, there’s no other way it would have broke like that before it was formed, my bricks last for months, sometimes a year or more, they NEVER EVER break before they’re properly head-shaped even my BROADMOOR brick lasted 9 months and a NORI brick should have pissed on a BROADMOOR brick for durability.

 

 

 

I’m trying to PRACTICE PATIENCE here but it isn’t going well, not well at all. I NEED MY FUCKING BRICK. My Shopping Person won’t be here until Tuesday. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, three days until I can send them to the reclamation yard.

I can’t wait that long.

I have to go into the garden.

Today.

Or tonight.

Or at 3.33 am tomorrow morning.

I’m going to go and prepare.

There are things I need and I can’t remember where I put them.

I’ll let you know what happens.

If I make it back.

If I don’t make it back my will is inside the Cumberland sausage that is inside the Snap-n-Click container that is on the BOTTOM shelf of the freezer behind the McCAIN’S CHIPPY CHIPS.

The cause of death will be HEART-A-FUCKING-PANIC-ATTACK.

Or DEATH BY SLIPPING ON CAT-SHIT.

Or who knows what else.

 

Think well of me when I’m gone.

 

 

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