I’ll stay the way I am

Dirty Dave is having a fancy dress party tomorrow night. I am, naturally, invited. So I have to choose between dressing up in a costume, standing around in a room full of witless clits dressed in costumes all going ‘Oooh, your costume is soooo funny!!!’, or sitting at the bar in Ron’s drinking pints of plain.

It’s a tough decision.

I do wonder why people choose to get dressed up. Apparently it’s ‘fun’ but I’m not sure I understand what’s so fun about it. As a small boy I remember having to go to a fancy dress thing and I went as a cowboy with my rifle which went ‘bbbkkkeeeeeewwwww’ when you pulled the trigger. It was an awesome rifle but I did not enjoy the costume side of things.

And the idea of hiring a costume makes me want to barf out of my anus. Costume hire is like bowling shoes x 10000000. Disgusting.

Some other idiot has been secreting their goo and ooze, their goooze if you will, all over the inside. I’m sure they claim to clean them after each hire but I am dubious about that. Maybe they get a young Chinese girl to give them a bit of a dust-out but repeated washing of such clothing would render it useless in no short space of time and when you need to maximise profits by getting the most hires as possible out of one outfit then I’d say they err on the side of not cleaning.

So this weekend, when you’re dressed as a womble, you’ve got Ciaran from Ballybrack’s gooch dandruff nesting in your pubes.

Lovely.

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