Despite your image management – the macho man in red sluggos, the lycra-clad warrior, the hero with a hose, it is obvious to all except the gormless and callow that you are phoney, Tony. The staccato cackle, the clammy, tight-skinned visage of a carp wrapped in cling film, the sleazy smile, the ludicrous bow-legged affectation bringing to mind a rodeo cowboy leaving a port-a-loo; it’s all counter-productive Chuckle Head and subliminally reminds us of your ape-like swaggering approach to unsuspecting victims – the lunatic grin and manic chuckle, the far-too-close, double-handed deathgrip cutting off easy escape. We could read the minds of the hapless recipients of this faux chuminess, Tones, we could see it in their eyes – “Fuck, I want to turn away but if I do he may kiss the back of my head. But if I don’t he may go for the mouth.”

You’re King Midas in reverse, Tones – everything you touch turns to shit. For your own self-respect, it’s not too late, give it away.

Gratuitously yours

Grumpy Geezer

via Dear Tony – » The Australian Independent Media Network