Purple Realm

WARNING: This rant starts out simply enough - usual, look at Kimmie fuming, it's funny sort of thing - but ends on a very very angry note. Consider yourself warned, mmm-kay?




In the town we used to be stuck in we were unfortunate enough to share buildings with perhaps the stupidest, most dishonest people on earth. They've told the most unbelievable of lies, shown tremendous stupidity, thought their dishonest ways were sly and cunning whereas in reality, they're blatantly obvious, and idiotic to boot. Top that all off with a big pan full of unlikeability, and you've got a soup fit for a moron.

One of the first imbeciles we met was in a very large shared house. It had thirteen rooms, only one cooker, washing machine, et cetera. The guy, (we'll call him Gareth) was 33 years of age when he moved into the same building as us. Did I mention this was his first place? He'd just moved out of his mother's house.


Incident 1:
(Gareth, looking all solemn and sorry for himself) "No, honestly, when I was little I had problems. The left side of my brain was a bit paralyzed and so was the left side of my body."
(I look completely fed up, Mik speaks it), "That's impossible. If the left side of the brain is paralyzed, the right side of the body is compromised."
Gareth - "Oh, I mean that it was the right side of my brain was paralyzed and the right side of my body!"
(I slap my hand to my forehead. Mik and I stare at him and wait for him to realise. The waiting is futile.)

The amount of times he told that story to people the same way? At least 15 times.


Incident 2:
A number of us are in the kitchen, eating and chatting. Gareth enters, starts rummaging around loudly in his cupboard. A few minutes later he squeals: "EWW I'M NOT EATING THAT!!!"
I get pissed off, look up, and see that he's holding a tin of hotdogs.
"Not eating what, Gareth?" I sigh.
So he pulls a face, and spells out loud, "B R I N E."
Me: "That's brine, Gareth."
Him: "Yeah, but what the fuck is that?"
Everyone looks at each other in disbelief.
Me: (incredibly fed up) "That's saltwater, Gareth."
Him: "Oh."


Let me put a break between the incidents to say:
YOU STUPID LITTLE MORON! YOU'RE THIRTY-FRIGGIN-THREE! I've met your mother, she's nice, although she babies you a little! You have no illness or reason to be so damn stupid! AAAARGHH!!


Incident 3:
Gareth: "How do I cook this tin of soup?"
Mik and I: "READ THE LABEL!!"
Gareth: "I can't be arsed."
(let me just tell you, the guy could read. And well, too!)
Me: "Just empty the tin into a saucepan and put it on the hob on a low heat for five minutes. Keep your eye on it and don't let it boil."
(Puts it in the saucepan, and puts that on the stove)
Fifteen minutes later we're all disturbed by the blackened burning coming from the saucepan and soup.

This guy even gave his mother a key to his room, and told her to clean it and do his washing - and she did! Stupid arsehole parent! Your son is a grade A MORON!!! I've not even told you half of it, you know. But enough of this gross little imbecile...

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Lighter -
(thing that you use)







1. Small flame producing item. Good for smokers, campers, pyromaniacs or people who need to toast marshmallows on the go.

2. Often brightly coloured, attracts children. Produces pretty flame. Thought to cause juvenile pyromania.

3. Idiotic invention that works perfectly until you leave the house, when it decides it's tired of living as a functional tool, and would rather start life anew as a small explosion on the pavement, followed by an angry foot jumping up and down on the shattered remains of its body. The last words it seems to wish to hear are not nice ones, screamed by a very tetchy thing in black with a red face and purple hair.

It really hurts when you are cleaning the worktop where your fridge has been sitting for almost two months, the same surface you have cleaned twice a day for that time, you end up doing something stupid and pushing your hand forward slightly diagonally to both ram your fingers underneath a narrowing space and hit the back foot of the damn thing at speed and force, leaving half of the nail on your index finger slightly unattached from the flesh, so sore and swollen you can't move it, and then, the following day, to repeatedly end up smacking the damn thing in just the right place, the one place it does and will hurt (seeing as you've tested your capabilities, you're a naturally curious sort) over and over again accidentally while performing careful tasks so that as you're unable to sleep well your brain does not handle pain and such so well in its exhausted state, making for a digit throbbing painfully as you're trying to finally rest your weary head.