Asshole central.

I want it to be known across the land, well across the tini-tiny piece of blogland that I occupy, that I, Fatmammycat, am up disgustingly early and am hungover like a fox. My brother arrives back later today, how nice that he should find me much as he left me.
I also want it to be known that every time I wake up singing Kayne West songs, that I am
A) cross.
B) hungover
C) puzzled.
How do I know the lyrics? This is what I woke up singing...
'You mean Tarib, lyrics stick to ye ribs, I mean, that's my favourite song that I play in my crib, I mean, you don't really know him Nonchalant, Hey Ty, she don't believe me, please pick up the line...'
'Cheeep cheeepp.'
WTF? I cracked open and eye and said. 'Shut it you sparrowstarling bastards! I'll cheep you, I'll cheep you good and proper!'
Then I got out of bed and drank a gallon of water.

I shouldn't drink beer, it dosen't really suit me. I also shouldn't drink beer on an empty stomach. I also shouldn't drink beer on an empty stomach, go to bars, watch Barcelona v Milan in the company of an asshole.
Well actually, he was there already. We just joined him at his table.
This asshole is a friend of the paramour, well wait, friend is stretching it, they play soccer together. He is a know-it-all and has consistently got on my nerves for some time now, with his knowitallitness. You know the type, he's in his forties, living in a shared flat because he doesn't want to settle down, hangs around with much younger men, does coke a lot (because yeah, hey buddy, that's gonna make you less of a fucking asshole) blah-blah-cheedi-ra.
Normally I can let this kind of stuff slide right on by, but, after an afternoon with my mother and too much beer, somehow his utter knowitalliness and notshuttingthefuckupiness just rubbed me the wrong way.
And when he started to 'tell me' how the paramour is, and how the paramour was 'too nice' to be something or other, I found I had listened to enough.
'Don't start telling me about him, I don't want to hear it.'
'Yeah that's right. you don't want to hear it because you know I'm right.'
'I don't want to hear it because you're such an asshole' I may have said loudly.
'No you're an asshole.' He might have said.
'Fuck you.' Someone probably said.
''No fuck you.' Might have been the rejoinder.
'Asshole. I'm going home.' Ah, the favourite of the ladies.
So I left. Poor paramour, he came too, because he is a gentleman.
But I didn't go home, I went to another bar and spent an hour drinking more beer and giving out about the asshole that I'm still giving out about now.
Between the headache and the bloody Kayne West songs...sigh, I don't know which is worse.
Oh no wait, I do.
"you know the type, loud as a motorbike, but wouldn't bust a grape in a fruit fight."
How do I know this shit, and before anyone bothers I know that wasn't Kayne, it was Jay-Z.
Jesus, I'm going back to bed.


Now that I can at least keep a mouthful of coffee down, some
HOLLYWOOD TAT- possible June 25th wedding on the line for Nicole Kidman and her country crooner boyfriend, Keith Urban. All righty then.