Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?
Mark 'Rent-boy' Renton
No mas, no mas! That's what I found crazy Mrs. Sphincter (can't remember her name, but damn the woman needed to relax a bit) screaming while
|Picture that sat on Ms. Sphincters desk|
Alright, that's a lie but truth is, Spokane hardly has a problem with illegals flooding across the border, beings we're a mere 70 miles from the Canadian border, where they only talk in hockey jibberish washed down with Kokanee, so unless you follow hockey, you won't know what the fuck those whacky, toothless bastards are slurring on about.
So, I didn't feel the need to learn a 2nd language.
Now I do. I'm not going back to school, nor am I going to listen to a monotonous voice drone on through my headphones the proper way to conjugate a taco (again, Taco Bell people!) or whatever senor narrator might be saying. (How the fuck do you make those little squirrelly things over letters? Another reason I wouldn't make a good Mexican.)
No, this time I'm going about it in a way that will be fun in order to keep my attention. I'm going to learn a language that I want to learn, not one that is required to move on to the 11th grade. And, in all actuality, I'm not going to learn a language what-so-ever!
Ha! Gotcha, ya wee tatties!
What I plan on learning isn't a language at all but an accent. You see, this makes more sense. I've alreadies learned how to talks good, so whyn't i just add to what what I allready knows?
Now, I've considered an accent from the south. That wouldn't be too hard. I have family from southern Georgia, dad having been raised in little old Ludiwici. Problem with a southern accent, though, is that it seems everyone is doing it. I refuse to conform.
I thought Rastafarian would be cool, but dope makes me paranoid and voodoo dolls scare the shit out of me.
Pirate talk? Nah. Pirates just look like they smell bad, and I for one, like to shower at least once every third day or so. Hey, Johnny Depp, dude, really? Soap even comes in a bottle now, buddy!
*Editors note - This Johnny Depp comment was tossed in nonchalantly, knowing this will get the biggest reaction and bring the most comments and hate mail. Ron, may or may not be smarter than he thinks.
So...I pick Scottish slur. And this is how I plan on going about learning to talk like a Scott. First off I'm running out to the pub, having eight or nine pints, before getting into a knock down brawl with a gang of Manchester United hooligans. (fuckin snaggle toothed Brits!) After that, I'm going to tune into the Craig Ferguson show every night until I figure out why in the hell he thinks that it's funny to open his show using a sock for his opening monologues. Once I figure that out, I'm sure I'll change my mind about learning my new accent, but I promise, at this time, to keep trying. Next, I'll check out every Irvine Welsh book I can find at the library, and when I can't translate anything Irvine has written I'll dig out my copy of Trainspotting and have a week long marathon, studying the intricacies of diving into a shitty Scottish toilet, swimming after heroine nuggets in order to have baby head-spinnin' sweat trip.
Okay, I know what you're saying. Ron, you've forgotten the most important aspect of Scot talk. The way a real man from the homeland would communicate with their loved ones. The gentle, sweet and considerate way he might send flowers or slip a love note into their sweethearts Braveheart lunch box.
Well, no, ya doss cunts, I haven't.