Fucking Bastard Motorway Cunts

[CCArchive]

So, I picked my eldest up from her work 13 miles away and it's fucking nose to tail in both directions on the M8. Ordinarily, I'd put this down to rubberneck cunts slowing down at the scene of a pile-up, or to gawp at some fucker who's been caught speeding and being humiliated by the traffic cunts, but no. Eleven lanes of immovable traffic, because there's some drizzle, all lanes open, no speed restrictions, no accidents, no bastard traffic cops, no coach-load of screaming kids on fire, no fucking Polish lorry driver with the IQ of a cunting coat-hanger driving in the wrong direction. It was like a queue of Sunshine Coach cunts at Alton Towers waiting to get on the Kingston Bridge, I think the fucking mouth-breathing, drooling bastards just stop to look at the shiny, shiny lights of the city below, in open-mouthed wonderment. I had to scream myself hoarse at some cunt in Lane 4, who'd stopped to apply some fucking mascara and was too pre-occupied with some shite she was singing along to, that the fucking cunt-tard forgot she was actually driving. A journey that usually takes me 15 minutes each way turned into nearly hours of soul-destroying ennui that had me wanting to fire-axe every cunt in front of me. FUCKING BASTARDS. When I get made guv'nor, I'm going to firebomb Paisley so intensely, it'll make wartime Dresden look like a model village. Patrick McGoohan was a cunt.