I'm feeling quite smugly happy at the moment. After all the worry about me being thick I certainly got cheered up from the feedback I received from my two wasps fucking blog. Some people liked it and that made me very happy indeed but what really put a spring in my step is that not one single person has let me know how wasps mate. I am not alone! No-one in the entire world knows how wasps make wasps and, seemingly, not that many people even care how they do it.
Thank the Lord that everyone is happy being thick and I can hold my head high and say "DUH!" with pride. Ignorance is bliss, I've learned. Well, sometimes anyway. Last night as I was on my way to perform at London Comedy Improv I saw a massive arse drop the cardboard packaging that his sandwich came in and an empty plastic bottle that once contained juice. He did it on purpose. Not because he is evil and just feels like littering but because he is so monumentally thick that he doesn't know that throwing crap on the ground makes litter and litter is bad. He is just like you are with the wasps fucking thing but infinitely more anti-social.
As his rubbish hit the ground I imagined him being hit by a lovely old steam locomotive or being raped by a thousand piss-drenched robo-skeletons that fired their poisonous lazer-cum directly into his exploding heart. It just helped me come to terms with his horrible lack of social skills. Luckily there are about 12 utterly beautiful people in this world and last night I saw 1 of them. A dark haired woman in her 30's saw the stupid man drop his litter and went over and picked it up. I thought what she had done was at least a very nice gesture that, although taught the idiot nothing, meant that there was slightly less rubbish on the ground. She picked it up and, I assumed, was on her way to put it in the bin.
I was wrong.
She walked behind the man and with incredible skill (she was laughing as she did it so it can't have been easy) carefully placed both items of rubbish in the idiots open backpack. The bottle went in easy but the sandwich pack took a bit of an extra effort and when it was securely in the bag she turned to her friends and jumped up in the air in utter triumph. Some people who saw the beautiful even applauded. I was one. It's days like this that make you feel that living is very nearly worth it.
Of course, it isn't. I embarrassed myself greatly at London Comedy Improv. After angrily correcting Tara Flynn ridiculous mistake of Alfred the butler referring to Bruce Wayne as "Mister Wayne" and not "Master Bruce" I then openly and clearly said that the name of the first Doctor was William Troughton. I should be shot dead.
I could barely get out of bed this morning after making the greatest blunder of all time. OK, I hadn't killed a baboon but I completely let myself down. I felt so bad that I wrote PAEDO on my head and walked around Lewisham shopping centre waiting to get beaten to a pulp. Sadly nearly everyone I saw had named the first Doctor as William Troughton also by the looks of things.
Thanks, human race. I'll never be thick and alone ever.