Hands fucking off

Hey tumours, it’s bad enough rosy-cheeked rich people got their grubby little hands on my favourite jacket, but I’m going to fucking explode if any more of you vacant, poser art students puts your stinky ink-stained fingers on the Barbour.

Zezaurians have been wearing these things since before the time of dragons. They belong to us, not you and your stupid electro-pop poser band mates. Next chump I see wearing one gets a kick in the graphic design portfolio. I’m fucking serious. I would rather join the TA just to endure them over you. OVER YOU. Can you imagine? The fucking dorks in the TA beat you for a personality.

And what could you possibly need all those sensuous, quilted and spacious pockets for? Your poetry about that drip you poked on facefuck? Shoot me dead. Unless you actually carry around a ball of string, an air pistol and a pen knife that your granddad used to kill a Nazi with, the Barbour is not for you. You’ve already stolen pork-pie hats; you’re not allowed to have these as well.

P.S. You all smell of toe jam.