Janis was intervieing Sarah about her new home for Ballyeffin’s ‘Fancy F@##*n Homes’ magazine. She was listening to Sarah’s life story. Sarah considered herself a victim. Bob never listened to her. He never understood her. Bob never made her feel special. All I do is lay around waiting for him to treat me good. And all the while that twat sits there, after getting home from his 9 hour workday, and his 2 hour commute, getting drunk and listening to effin Pink Floyd and The Doors, Peter Green and shit like that. Janis flinched as the ‘shit’ word appeared.
“The house?” asked Janis. So Sarah went on to explain about how the oak house came about. She had heard oak was mighty timber. As hard as oak, apparently. Bob wouldn’t wreck an oak house. So Sarah got it designed and built by some timberwright bloke and that was that. Then she got back to her favourite subject. Bob.
Bob kept wrecking the house. Drunk. Sober. Stoned. The slightest little thing would set him off. He would explode like Covid cases. Surely it wasn’t planned; the surreptitiosness of it; I mean Bob’s surreptitiousness. He’d say things like, “Stop f@##*@g nagging me. Three f@##*@g hours ago you started. Three f@##*@g c@##*@g f@##*@g hours.” He was so unreasonable.
Suddenly, the reporter headbutted Sarah. She had noticed Sarah’s music collection. It contained artists like Mariah Carey, Paula Abdul, and fucking Kylie whats-her-face. The Red Mist had decended. The reporter, Janis Joplin-Jones, then went crackers on that whingeing b@##*@s head.
Janis and Bob are now living in a blissful utopia. Loud music. Relaxed vibes. No bitching. No whingeing. No Sarah. Happy. Ever. After. ‘Fancy F@##*n Homes’ magazine didn’t get their article after either.
