No Squirtle spared

A slightly angrier counterpart put the world to rights in his last post, leaving the rest of us with almost nothing else to say. Thanks, Chris, for that drop-the-mic massacre a few days ago. God, he thinks he’s the only angry person in the fucking world. I’m angry as well you know, you aren’t that fucking special, even if you do pay my wages.

For one, I’m angry at all these people, let’s call them bellends, playing Pokemon Go. I know, we’re scrapping the bottom of the barrel now, cheers Chris. But why the living fuck must we suddenly be surrounded by idiots playing this infantile game? And not just anywhere, but everywhere, including in my bloody local.

It’s fucking ridiculous – grown men wailing in the corner because they’re failing at catching a single cunting Pokemon let alone catching them all. Grown women screaming at the top of their lungs because they aren’t a level 5 and they deserve to be, while a baby that must belong to one of them screeches its imminent starvation into our ears. What comes after level 5? Nirvana maybe.

To try and get over the urge of wanting to kill every other fucker in the pub with my bare hands, I decided I’d go and play the fruit machine. You know, an adult game, where your mortgage is on the line, yeah I have a problem and no I don’t need help.

Anyway, one of these pricks came up to me during my game on the fruit machine, saying “Hey, you know you can’t level up on a fruit machine right?” and laughing like a pretentious, hipster cunt as he pushed his Harry Potter glasses up his nose for the fifth time in a minute, before strolling back to his phone and his pretend friends in a vastly more pointless game. No, but you can make some spare to feed the kids you balding, skinny jean wearing dickhead. After my Monk from Mean Machine moment subsided, I looked around the pub again to see my fellow patrons still gazing at their furry little friends. I knew, at that moment, this place isn’t for me any more and I mean this fucking planet.

As I left the pub, now scout hut, thinking of how I could get to Mars, the rage I was experiencing started to subside in the warm evening air. Until I came face to face with a bunch of halfwits sat in their cars in the pub car park, battling each other in the hope of fulfilling their lofty levelling-up dreams. The same people that were sat in the pub only a week ago moaning, like me, about adults playing a fucking game designed for infants.

Levelling up in Pokemon Go means levelling down in fucking life. As technology moves forward in leaps and bounds, we are devolving back into apes, pushing sticks into fucking holes trying to find some weird fucking creature to love us and make us feel better about our miserable fucking lives.

You want to know when the zombie apocalypse is going to happen? It already fucking has, we are in the heat of it. Think about it – the virus started in some faraway country and spread with staggering speed out into the rest of the world. Now the entire fucking world has been zombified, with only a few survivors. People thought it would be a nasty government releasing some dreadful chemical contagion into the world that would destroy it, but no, turns out it was some arsehole programmer from Japan.

It won’t be long until we are looking for the last Cornettos and Twinkies. Something has to be done. I want my friends back, I want the miserable cunts down the pub back, I want the shitty fucking world I used to live in back. If I hear one more fucker talk about a Pokemon like it’s real, it’ll push me over the edge into a Pokemassacre with no Squirtle spared. Pokemon Go fuck yourself.

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