It is worse

Next time you’re about to utter the words “it could be worse” to someone, look around you for a vertical, solid surface. Something made of bricks preferably, or concrete. It needs to be a fair distance because you’ll need a run up. Start far enough back so you’ll really work up some speed by the time you get to it, but not too far, you don’t want to be out of breath by the time you reach it. Start running towards it, increasing your pace as it gets nearer. You want to be at maximum speed on impact.

You’re aiming to either knock yourself out or at least lose a couple of teeth. If neither of those things happen, you weren’t running fast enough you lazy fuck, so go back and do it again.

What we’re trying to create here is an association in your mind with that arse-rippingly wank piece of anti-advice and extraordinary levels of pain, a sense of imminent danger and the threat of possible disfigurement.

Had I the time, I would decorate a leather glove with some broken glass and roam the planet tracing every utterance of this phrase. Wearing my glove, I would land a series of jabs on the faces of the wankers who said it, until they resembled a raw beef patty. I would deliver each blow with the words “It could be worse! You could have a nest of live spiders living in your abdomen!” or “It could be worse! You could have just married Katie Price!”.

As I don’t have the time to mete out such punishment to each and every inane idiot who confuses clichéd nonsense with sound advice, I’ll trust that you’ll take care of this yourself. Whether you’re the type to use this phrase yourself (in which case get off this website now, I mean it, fuck off, we don’t like your sort round here) or you’re a victim of this and have had your pity-party gate-crashed by this drivel, it’s time to take a stand.

Let me tell you something; when I feel shit I reserve the right to feel as shit as I want as much as I want. I want to dwell on it, and be insufferably self-indulgent for as long as I can stand the over-powering stench of my own self-loathing. You are not invited to help me start composing a list of all the things that could be happening that are worse than whatever it is I’m fucked off about. And god forbid, don’t you dare start trying to make me think about other people and how much better off than them I may or may not be. Because I can tell you, without exception, I do not, in any way, give a fuck.

We have got to put an end to this. And if we can’t do that, then we will at least be able to see these cunts coming a mile off with their terribly scarred faces. Does anybody know what sort of glue will do for sticking glass shards to a leather glove?

Coming next; why the use of the phrase “Cheer up! It might never happen!” should result in the speaker being dipped in ox blood and chucked in a room with a wild tiger.

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