"Well its obviously come down to the fact that you're going to have to sell your arse."
"Fuck off! I'm not selling my arse! You sell your arse! Your arse is better than mine! Anyone who tries to penetrate my back passage is likely to get lost."
"I'm not denying it's a touch on the portly side, but as the old adage quite rightly has it, when in Rome...sell your fucking arse."
" I hardly see how the sale of my anus is going to provide our pockets with funds suitable to sustain the drinking habit we are currently enslaved to."
"Well let's give up drinking then."
"Don't be so fucking naive!
"What's so fucking naive about it?"
"Have you looked in the mirror recently? You look like a Rutger Hauer after a 10 year Methamphetamine addiction. Do you honestly feel we're in the correct frame of mind to 'give up drinking'?
My acquaintance's delusions of grandeur irked me.
" I see no other option. We spent the last of our cash on a tin of sardines and 2 litres of Scotch, you're into several bars and shops for sums vast enough to see you dragged into the jungle and shot in the bollocks, and the incorrigible fucking landlord isn't going to give us back our deposit unless we fix the ceiling fan."
"You're the fucker who headbutted it! You should've known it wasn't rotating briskly enough for a quick and concise decapitation. Why didn't you just hurl yourself out of an 8 story building like everyone else?"
"Admittedly, it was one of my lower ebbs."
"Anyway, what's that bastard landlord doing charging us rent to live in a fucking shed? We may as well sleep on the beach, it's less prone to flooding."
Times were indeed tough. My acquaintance's attempt at suicide, to be administered by a wheezing ceiling fan, was somewhat more than a cry for help. The situation clearly needed to be immediately altered...
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