FUG IT - Mo Ali

When obtuse men came that silvery morning to end my witty banter permanently, I was looking up at an orange ceiling and thinking about Wogan.

Was he for real? Such thoughts were perverse it is true, but then, in the end, so was I.

The sound of feet upon my door, urgent feet--you know the sort, attached to meaty fools with meaty-flavored fists. I reached under my broken bed for some futile comfort but found instead an old condom, seven pulp comics, and something with furry legs.

I yawned and farted in melodious synchronicity (which really buggered things up), and the feet became insistent as a result. The door parted unnaturally as a heavy grunt grunted heavily. Peering up at me through splintered shades, he recognized my infamous socks and bleated in alarm