Sunday breakfast is usually bacon, sausages, cereals and eggs. A fine English breakfast you’d think. Only the sausages don’t agree with me. They stopped agreeing last Sunday when they tore up our agreement and flushed it down the toilet.
I have half a mind to sue them for the physical and emotional torture that they put me through. For the longest time after the ordeal, it felt as though there was nothing left inside me. We had a wonderful working equation until last Sunday when they decided to let it all go to shit.
All I want to tell these sausage scumbags is that it’s not too long before the shit gets real and hits the fan. They better hope that the fan has stopped, or at least that the power is out, because otherwise, it’s going to be a shit storm for them to handle.
I guess the pressure is getting to me. I’ll be right back…
