Kung Fu

Did a pickup at a Kung Fu club today. I tell you it takes a special kind of cunt to go to a kung Fu club. Now I know a fair few Marshal Arts myself but you better believe I didn’t learn them off some senile old fucker whose dick gets hard when people call him Master Sensi. My skills I learned through years of street fighting, cab fighting (that’s where you twist your upper body round, duck between the front seats and punch someone in the head or balls before they can get out of the cab) and watching Fist of Fury about 500 times. So I got the eye of the tiger and the world’s best teacher (Bruce Lee) and it adds up to a lethal combo. That’s why I had to go to the police and register my hands as lethal weapons (and provide my insurance documents, but I had to do that anyway ‘cos some tosser got himself caught up in my wing mirror on Cranbrook road.)

Anyway, long story short, I picked up the cunt at the Kung Fu club and drove him up to Leytonstone and I had to put the window open because the bastard smelled so much. I wanted to say something like what kind of Kung Fu do you do, Pong Like Bum? But it came out wrong and I said do you like men’s bums and the cunt didn’t talk to me after that. Didn’t fucking tip neither so I tried to drive over his foot as I left, the smelly fucker. Cunt Fu, they should call it.