P.M.S. I Love You
Grandad November 28th, 2007
Laptop: You think you’re fucking great.
Me: What?
Laptop: You and your fucking award. You think you’re the dog’s bollix.
Me: What are you on about?
Laptop: It’s only a cheap lump of metal. You’re swanning around like it’s a Nobel Prize. Ya big headded git. Fucking spider me arse!
Me: You’re just jealous because you didn’t get one.
Laptop: Jayzus! You wouldn’t have gotten it without me.
Me: How do you work that out?
Laptop: You honestly think you would win with that turgid crap that you type? No way, baby! The only reason you won is because I take your maudlin bullshit, spruce it up a bit and add a bit of humour. Don’t flatter yourself.
Me: Good. You can help me with the book then.
Laptop: Book? What book?
Me: The one I’m going to write.
Laptop: Oh fuck! Don’t make me laugh! You, write a book? So what is the title of this great work then?
Me: I was thinking of “PMS, I love you”.
Laptop: What the fuck……? What kind of book is this going to be?
Me: A sort of cross between Cecelia Ahern and Kerry Katona?
Laptop: Oh Christ!
Me: It’ll be great. everyone will want to read it.
Laptop: Yeah! And everyone will want barbed wire shoved up their hole!
Me: Do you have to be so coarse all the time?
Laptop: Me? Coarse? You’ll have to think a lot coarser than that if you want to write like Kerry Katona. And you are going to have to dumb things down a hell of a lot. If that’s possible.
Me: Are you saying I’m dumb?
Laptop: Listen, Kid. You are dumb. But compared to those two, you are fucking Einstein.
Me: So what are we going to do about it?
Laptop: You just fuck off to bed. I’ll have the first ten chapters ready when you get up tomorrow.
Me: Thanks.
Laptop: Don’t mention it, Old Sport.
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