Do I Need Help?

Comet, Curry's, PC World. To some extent, you can forgive them. Thomas Cook? No. Next? Not a chance. B&Q - just a little. What am i talking about? - the staff who work there.

Not the security staff or the people on the checkouts - the hawkers. The greasy-haired plebotrons who pounce on you like a fucking cougar the second you set foot on their premises. You see - part of being a bloke is the acting out of the hunter role. Bringing back the bacon, seeking what you need, completing the mission. So why the fuck is this always spoilt by a shop-assistant uttering those immortal words "Do you need any help at all?"

I often say to them - "Not at the moment, but if i DO need anything, i'll know where to find you".  At times though, the knowing where to find them bit is all too close. Usually about 10 feet away. Not close enough that they are actually ignoring your request for solitude and offering you the assistance you've already politely rejected, but close enough to let you know that they are there - observing, listening, smirking, sometimes you suspect with a hidden erotic pleasure, knowing that the very second you dare fucking TOUCH that microwave oven door, it gives them the full-on permission to come sauntering over, mister fucking know-it-all, ready to rattle off every specification, how long it takes to defrost 400g of coarsely-minced turkey, the wattage output, and of course, the ever-so-precious extended warranty details.

You can be walking down the fridge isle - and up they pop... "Is it anything in particular you were looking for Sir?".

Yes - a set of wooden coat-hangers you irritating fuckwit, but due to my ongoing battle with dementia, i've mistakenly found myself in the white-goods section of a Comet superstore. I want a fucking fridge you dickhead, but I am paying for it, I am using it, so I'LL FUCKING CHOOSE IT...... is that okay? Pretty please?

Likewise in men's clothes shops. They usually send a girl over when upstairs in the men's department. I don't know why, but my guess is they probably think men are more comfortable with a youngish lass assisting them as opposed to a metrosexual he-she type bloke slaggered in hair wax and sporting sculptured bumfluff all over his face like an identity parade of vulvas. Why is it young males in their early 20's want to look more and more like girls these days? Anyway i digress.

The clothes shop - "Need any help love?". Yes, i'm trying to find some straight-legged jeans but i need them to be quite relaxed around the crotch area as i've got a permanently hard cock with an unfortunate kink in it and i don't like people staring. That usually gets them summoning the manager and out of your face for a few moments.

The best one though, which i saved in my debut blogesque rant until last, is the apologetic checkout girl, after you've queued and queued for ages. "I'm sorry about your wait sir". I love turning this around. "My weight?.....There's nothing wrong with my weight, and you're not exactly a stick insect yourself are you?"

"No - i mean WAIT - you've been waiting a while Sir, that's all i meant"

"Good fucking job really isn't it - otherwise i might have been tempted to raid a fucking VENDING MACHINE somewhere to help satisfy my lust for chocolate - yes - yes, isn't that what you are implying, bitch?"

Do i need any help?

Probably far too much.





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As if you'd want to.

Dead Pie takes to Bloggery. Enjoy !!

Well, here it is. Why am i blogging? Who am i? Who gives a toss?


Why am i blogging?

I'm blogging because there are things i want to say that i cannot say using me real name - so i have to be a Dead Pie. Corporations frown upon employees being filthy, controversial, non-PC and all that other bollocks, so for fear of being targetted, sacked, ostracised or whatever, i'm doing this somewhat anonymously.

Who am i ?

A man, 42 years old, living in England UK, with plenty to say but not things that people would willingly want to hear in a converstation (A converstation is when you get chatting to someone on a train just because you happen to be sitting next to them. It was a typo at first, but i've tried to cover it up). Besides, if i spoke the things i wrote, i'd sound like a mentalist and nobody would associate with me. They'd all get off the train.They wouldn't be chuffed.  Yes, the train i accidentally created a few lines ago.

Who gives a toss?

Undoubtedly somebody out there will like what i write, even if it's just one person, one crazed, deluded sympathising groupie. One is better than none at all. Maybe that crazed, deluded, sympathising groupie is you?


So, as things stand, i've introduced myself. Sort of. Over the coming days, i'll vent my spleen a little, spew out a few things for you to digest, and with any luck, the authorities will take appropriate action. On me that is.