No, I did not meet or see an orphan at Asda, nor was there one on the shelf to purchase. No, this was not a stock deficiency (for a change) as I believe orphans are not generally available as a standard sku, even at the largest of the stores. The reference to an orphan is quite simple. For my sins, I found myself last week wishing that the kid by the yoghurts was as orphan. This revised status would have meant an inability to demand attention by the constant calling (whining) of a single word: "Mum!"
This spoilt little cunt was a cunt, and the parenting skills of his parents were non-existent, so they were raising him (successfully) as a little cunt. I am quite sure that in time, he will grow to be a bigger cunt, and eventually a big cunt. When he reaches adulthood, he will of course be simply 'a cunt'. If there was a remake of the film 'Big', and this five year old was cast as the child who turned into Tom Hanks, then the updated and more accurate title for the film would be "Cunt".
I should not have to endure a kid shouting "Mum" non-stop for minutes on end. It was horrendous. As horrendous as the kid's behaviour was his parents' own behaviour in tolerating such an awful display by their offspring. The nonchalant cuntism displayed by Mrs & Mrs Cunt was truly cuntish, and perhaps an indicator as to how the little cunt came to be thus. The daughter (circa 13 years old) seemed relatively unaffected by the other three, although she for some reason found the nagging by the little cunt to be amusing.
The parents continued to chat, standing idly by the earache coming from waist level. His relentlessness was as amazing as it was annoying, but the father (Big Cunt) said "What?" at some stage, and it brought a temporary lull in the verbal onslaught. Quite why he answered when the demands from Little Cunt were multiple calls for attention from "Mum" rather than "Dad". Maybe Mummy Cunt only answers to "Cunt; cunt; cunt etc. Give it time, and her wish will no doubt come true.
I escaped with Junior to the next aisle, and the metronome (for Little Cunt had started again) was left behind. As I looked over my shoulder while turning out of the aisle, I saw movement of the herd of cunts, past the milk at the far end. The wilderbeests (or should that be wilderbeasts - or better, wildercunts) were on the move. In the biscuit aisle, I was forced to get within hearing range once more. Junior wanted chocolate biscuits, and this necessitated our presence within a few feet of the Cunts. I use the term as though it was their surname, as in "The Richardsons" or the "Greens". "The Cunts" were playing unhappy families again, with Little Cunt employing a tried and tested tactic to gain attention. "Dad; dad; dad; dad; dad; dad; dad; dad; dad; dad; dad; if I were able to use a mathematical approach to typing now, I would put dots over each letter 'd' to denote the recurrence of the three-character set.
Mummy Cunt was in a world of her own, as was Daddy Cunt. Unfortunately I was not in a world of my own, and had to inhabit the one shared by Little Cunt. He needed a kick. Big Sister was still mildly amused, and said something to Daddy Cunt as I was passing, laden with as many biscuits as Junior had seen fit to load into the trolley while my attention were diverted by cuntism. The spoilt little cunt was simply allowed to be a cunt.
It was at this stage that I considered his being an orphan would have been beneficial to all parties. For him, because he could then get some proper guidance, and would also have no reason to use the words 'Mum' or 'Dad' in such a manner. For his parents, because they did not deserve to have Little Cunt if they were not going to do something useful, like teach him how not to be a cunt - and because they were cunts. For his sister, so she was not brought up thinking it was okay to be surrounded by cunts. For Junior, me and the hundreds of people in Asda who were suffering under the cunting chanting.
There you have it - my admission. I should be ashamed for thinking this way, but am actually not. At least I never acted on my frustrations even though I had the perfect opportunity. Junior and I left the store and loaded the shopping into the car. As I was driving off, the Wildercunts were in the car park, crossing the lane in front of the store. I could have eliminated any one of them, or all of them. Instead, I concerned myself with how Walkers Crisps multi-packs include Prawn Cocktail [or to give its proper name, Prawn Fucking Cocktail] in both the 'classic variety' bags and the 'meaty variety' bags. That's no fucking variety is it! Especially if you don't like prawn cocktail.
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