I used to enjoy sitting on buses or in a pub and just eavesdropping on people's conversations - it's a great source of material where you can sometimes pick up a great one-liner or characterisation for your writing needs. Now, though, listening to most people scares the hell out of me and if I wasn't already contributing to a Spanish villa for a therapist, I'd go for counselling. Sometimes, though, doctor, I imagine that the people on those buses are all in the employ of my therapist!!
See if you are more like me than you care or dare to admit...

People who...
by Prozac

Take their pets to the vets.

I had the cringe-making experience of being forced by my daughter to take our cat to the vets recently. If I'd had my way an "...aspirin and if it isn't better call me in the morning!" would have sufficed.

What a mind-blowing experience.

Regular readers of 'People Who...' will know my views on people and the lengths I'll go to to avoid them. After visiting the vets, other people are my best friends!!

I seated myself in the corner - furthest away from anyone who might want to make eye contact and buttonhole me with inane chatter. That way I could also eavesdrop and gather material for any japes or jocular rantings to bring to you, the dear, gentle, readers who share my world vision.

Every so often the vet would open the door, shout out a name, and one of the waiting room occupants would depart, straining with the leash on their rabid hamster and avoiding the lunges, barkings and roars of assorted beasts.
Then the nutter arrived with her entourage.

Within a few minutes her 'boyfriend' (who wore a suit jacket, had his hair combed over the massive bald patch, and had glasses like jam jar bottoms) struck up a conversation with those nearest to them:

"Hiya? What's your lemming's name?


"Oh, we had a kumquat called Horace, di'n't we, 'Shell?"

''Shell' is then inveigled into the conversation and the trap is set for anyone dumb enough to talk to these kind of people.
Not only that but they then take it upon themselves to act as the hosts for this session and attempt to proceed to introduce everyone in the room to everyone else, as though we were all dying to meet one another but were afraid to make the first move.

"How old's your armadillo?"

The armadillo owner, caught between social niceities and terror at the thought of conversing with the 'Shell from Hell stutters like a backfiring two-stroke moped, "S-s-s-eve-e-en."

"Oh, we had a microbe that lived 'til it was seven, di'n't we, Babe?"

'Babe' gets matey: "What's your name, then?"


"Hi, Eric," says Babe, turning to the lemming owner - "This is, sorry 'di'nt catch your name?"

Lemming owner does an impression of a rabbit caught in headlights and - British stiff upper-lip - dooms himself by replying.

"Barry," repeats Babe.

For the benefit of the hard of thinking who've not noticed all this going on, 'Shell then goes and sits next to Eric.

"Barry woz just saying, his lemming's been coughing up green bits, di'n't you, Barry? I'n't his fur nice? Hey, Babe, I just said to Eric, a'n't Barry's lemming got nice fur?"

"Gary Glitter?" shouts the vet and five people risk severe injury to dive into the back.

I hold my ground.

Babe the Bald sits next to me.


I fix him with a stare that manifestly screams at him that I'd rather practise gonad topiary than strike up a conversation.
Nonplussed, or believing that I'm some form of masochist - which I suppose is partly true as I'm sharing the same continent with him, he carries on. "What's wrong with yer cat, then?"

"I was rather hoping the vet would tell me that," I reply.

"Oh, er, yeh. 'Shell, this bloke doesn't know what's wrong with his cat."

"Is it ill?" 'Shell drops the bombshell.

"Damn!" I feign intense angst - "And I was going to pay the vet."

"We had a cat once..."

"Was it ill and you took it to a vet's?" I say, looking into the distance as I rub my temples in a mysterious manner.

'Shell and Babe open their mouths in amazement.

"You were fond of it?" For a second I'd be willing to believe that 'Shell and Babe are about to bow down and offer me baubles and pieces of mirror.

"It's dead now and you miss it?"

'Shell tells me, in genuine admiration, that the astounding revelations coming from the hazy, ethereal, catty afterlife are, "freaking me aht!"

"You'd get another but it would only remind you of it?" I go on.

'Shell, with tears in her eyes, asks if there are any messages.

I screw up my eyes and tell them it's very faint but I can just make out the words, "another vet's".

And as the sun sets on another day in the life of yours truly, I stretch out, burp, scratch my nuts and relish the serene stillness that can only be derived from the absence of fuckwits!!

People who...
by Sertraline

Work in marketing and manipulate you using words.

Let me demonstrate. You're at the cinema and you fancy a drink so you go to the concession stand and find that the drinks come in three sizes. Now when I was a kid these would have been nominated as Large, Medium and Small because......well simply put that was their relative sizing.

No longer, at least not entirely so. The biggest drink, and believe me it is big, is designated as large; the medium sized one is designated, surprise surprise, as Medium. The smallest however is not referred to as Small because the marketing people are concerned that this might suggest that you're getting less than your money's worth. That's why nothing is ever referred to as small anymore because the word "Small" is no longer a comparative referent but embodies an inherent value judgment and when you read the word a whole Roget's Thesaurus of unflattering synonyms floods your mind: Paltry, Miniscule, Tiny, Insignificant.

Macdonalds circumvented this terminological embarrassment by referring to their "small" portions as "Regular" but the cinemas have excelled themselves in this department by referring to their small servings as "Children's". Now this is a double-whammy because not only does it avoid the pariah-like "S" word but it also encourages you to spend more of your hard-earned that you might reasonable have expected or wanted to.

The process goes something like this.

You're a bit thirsty and you fancy a drink while you're watching your movie. You cast an eye over the price list. Large: 2.95. Whoa, way too expensive! Medium: 2.50.A lot less drink for only a little reduction and still too expensive at that! Children's: 1.95. That's more like it.

Hold on though, if I walk up there and ask for a children's drink and it's obvious I haven't got a kid with me then I'm going to look a right tosser - a grown man with a kid's portion. What's more I'll come across as a real cheapskate and as other people's views on me are of vital importance to me I simply can't have that. I'll get a medium, that won't look so bad, will it? Hang about, though I only need to put another 45 pence to it and I can get a Large one. Fuck it I might as well have a large one then.

And there you have it! By a subtle combination of semantics and pricing policy you have gone from wanting a quick slurp to wet your throat with, to a drink you could drown a sperm whale in and which will ensure that you miss a good ten per cent of your movie during the half-dozen trips you make to pee in zero seconds flat. And why? Because some slick marketing man decided to call a small drink "Children's" size.


People who...
by Mike Thorpe


If you’re a regular reader of this site, clicking on the “children and swearing” link probably made you believe you were about to be greeted with images depicting foul-mouthed youths. Wrong.

I’m going to take a (temporary) break from joking about poo, wee, sick and sex-things. You see, I’ve recently had many dealings with stupid, fucked up morons bringing down the quality of life everywhere.

Before I launch into my tirade, I want to clear something up with you. I believe that swearing has a place. In the right place, it’s fucking funny. In certain places it can be creative too. There are lots of places a 'Fuck' can cause amusement. Putting a 'Cunt' in the right position can be pleasing. And a perfectly juxtaposed 'Twat' can bring the house down. The Cyber Sanatorium website is littered with swearing, as you know. There’s more vulgarity here than there are factual inaccuracies in your average tabloid. I frequently swear at work when something I’m trying to do doesn’t work out. I swear when I’m out with friends. BUT… telling my 3 year old son to, “Stop acting like a fucking dickhead!” isn’t on my “to do” list.

My problem is with “shurrits”.

“What the cockety-twat is a “shurrit”, Mike?!?!?”

A “Shurrit” is a brainless, ignorant, loudmouth with kids trailing along behind her like a string of crap from a goldfish’s arse. She complains that she’s skint, even though she smokes, she drinks too much, she wears high-street “designer” clothes, she has hair that’s been dyed so frequently that the peroxide has seeped through her thick skull, melting away the last microgram of whatever common sense she had in the first place, and on “nights on the piss” she dresses in clothing far too revealing for someone of her appearance, that she should have ditched once the stretchmarks made an appearance. My, I’m such a bitch!

Her most notable feature however is her call to her offspring. A twisted version of “shut it”. Too lazy to say “Please be quiet”, “be quiet”, “quiet!”, “shush” or even “shut up”, almost artistically skewing the local accent and dialect to a ridiculous level, she abbreviates “shut it” to “shurrit”. Genius, no? This may be a particular phrase local to the North West of England, but I’m sure you all have your regional variations. You’ll have met a “shurrit”. I know you will.

So yes, this lovely word “shurrit!” is usually followed by a four letter word, screamed totally unnecessarily into the face of someone who’s so fucking obviously too young to understand the difference between right and wrong, especially considering who their parent(s) is/are. Most of the time the child has done nothing wrong, just playing like, well, a child. Hey, parent, do something with your kid! No, I don’t mean tell him off, I don’t mean smack her in the face, I mean do something with your child. Play with them. Read them a story. Draw or colour pictures with them. Watch their favourite TV programmes, videos or DVDs with them. Don’t sit them in a fucking corner playing with broken old toys whilst you smoke your lungs away!

So, there I was, taking my son to nursery, when, in the background, I heard the unmistakeable call of the product of one of nature’s bad days. Her improvised prose filled the air like the sunbeams glistening on a tropical sky. I’ll never forget the moving experience I felt when I was treated to the acapella masterpiece entitled “stop being an arsehole” and its sequels: “Darren, stop acting like a fucking dickhead” and “I’m sick of you, you little bastard”. All performed with one recently manicured hand (evidently treated to disguise her fucking talons) grasping a Benson & Hedges finest, the other hand gripping tightly onto the poor little sod’s face.

I hate them. I really hate them. Underneath my sweary, puerile and childish exterior, I’m really a big softie, who cares about his family and wants the best for them. I want my son to be brought up in an environment where he is loved and cared for, and where he’s taught the difference between right and wrong in a way other than lazy, violent confrontation. So I’m not going to be stabbing him in the eyes when he does the slightest thing wrong.

There are caring people throughout the world who are desperate to have children, people that will love and respect them, treat them well, nurture them and take an interest in their activities, yet are unable to do so, for a variety of natural or medical reasons. So, they have to go through a heart-wrenching legal nightmare of social services checks, privacy-invading questions and other minefields, whilst some couple who only have a fully functioning cock and cunt, and not a single redeeming feature between them to speak of can squeeze as many babies out as they so desire.

So I recently came up with a foolproof idea. An idea to ensure that the Earth’s future children will actually understand respect.

Next time you’re out in public, look out for people screeching at their offspring for no good reason. Then simply, calmly and quietly bludgeon the abusive bastards in the face with bricks.


Drag them to somewhere secluded. Wait until they wake from their masonry-induced slumber. Just as they regain consciousness… DO IT AGAIN. Hard. Don’t forget to scream unimaginative obscenities at them as you do so. Mop up their blood with a used handkerchief and stuff it in their mouth. Ignite said handkerchief with their novelty cigarette lighter. Don’t forget the insults. Really mustn’t forget the insults.

Gouge her fallopian tubes out with an apple corer. Lance his vas deferens off with fishing line. I’ll do it! DIY sterilisation at no cost! These people don’t deserve, and shouldn’t be bringing up kids. Here’s your answer to bringing down crime! Cut it off at the source! These brainless cunts do nothing for the human race, have absolutely no purpose, other than to piss me, and other great people off (for what it’s worth, I am actually great, it’s been scientifically proven, and that’s a FACT).

Give me a crossbow. Let me sort them out. I’ll patrol the country, following every pram, buggy, trolley and stroller. What’s that? “Shurrup or I’ll brain yoh!”?




DIRECT HIT BETWEEN THE EYES! WOO! Yes, don’t worry, I’ll donate all your possessions to a Childline charity sale!

Eh? “You little shit, ge’ ‘ere now!”




Cool! Straight in the glans! He won’t be ejaculating any time in the foreseeable future!!

Pardon? “I’m gonna fuckin’ deck you when we get ‘ome!”?




SCOOORE! Straight through the labia! Nothing’s gonna penetrate there for a while!

What did you say? “Stop pissing around, I’m sick of having to look after you!”?




WOW! Straight through the womb and out the other side! It’s lucky the foetus had fucked off already because you WEREN’T PAYING ATTENTION, isn’t it?!

I want to see them writhing and wriggling in pain. I want them to experience the pain they inflict on society over their lifetime, in physical form, in the space of 30 seconds. I want to watch their faces as they collapse, painfully screaming to the floor, as spasms envelop their body creating a scene not unlike a horizontal depiction of Riverdance, then gleefully observe memories of years of total incomprehensibly brainless neglect hypodermically squirting into their grey matter, making them lose control of their bodily functions, and epileptically convulsing in a puddle of their own shit and piss, with the intense, furious electric rage of thousands of proper, caring parents coursing through their sacks of bones. I want to watch their faces as I violate them with their dog-eared back issues Max Power and Heat magazines, and destroy their videotaped copies of “Married with Children” (IRONY, IRONY, IRONY) by cracking open their ribcages with a spoon, followed by slicing the tape of the video on the sharp shards of bone protruding from their deservedly brutally butchered chests, and force dictionaries and thesauri right down their oesophagi, as that is evidently the only way that multi-syllabic words will ever be resident in their bodies.

People that scream abuse at their children are fucked up. Yet we don’t get the News of the World campaigning to get these people executed, as we did with all the Paedophile frenzy a while ago. And you know why that is?

Because half of their readership would disappear.


PALMER ON PROZAC is a freelance writer from Stockport, England. He is also the main author of this Web Site. You can see more of his observations and Rants on THE SITE FOR SORE EYES soon. His views and comments do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of the owners of this Site. When dosed with high concentrates of lithium, anti-depressants and alcohol he has been known to tolerate other individuals for several seconds before launching himself at their exposed areas. SOMERS ON SERTRALINE is a freelance writer from Stockport, England. He provides additional material to the SITE FOR SORE EYES. You can see more of his observations and Rants on the SITE FOR SORE EYES soon. His views and comments do not necessarily reflect the opinions and views of the owners of this Site. When not stalking other cinema-goers and sitting outside their houses wailing theme tunes from current blockbusters on his customised kazoo, he likes to relax in the bath with magazine pictures of Tom Cruise. MIKE THORPE is the creator of Team Fishcake's CYBER SANATORIUM - a site that should only be viewed when you're good and ready to be confronted with in-your-face realities about the world you thought you were living in! If scenes of donkey penetration, slug stroking, yak fondling and other allegedly illicit acts between consenting mammals is your thing - what are you doing here? Go on. Fuck off and leave us to offend normal people while you log on to


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