“I urge you with all the PR at my disposal to report any neighbours you might suspect of smoking to the police immediately,” bellowed Professor Terence Stephenson, president of the Royal College of Ickle Pretty Children. “These repugnant creatures dream of fucking a child’s ickle pretty lungs up. If you want my informed medical opinion, I’d burn the sick bastards’ genitals off with their own lighters.”
|Let's find out where she lives, and burn it down|
“When a doctor pointed out what everybody knows, i.e. those lung-molesters at FOREST are in cahoots with the murdering profiteers who run the tobacco industry, that twisted pervert had the bloody nerve to wonder if the pharmaceutical companies were making anything out of their holy patches of good nicotine,” screamed a typical caller. “Right now I can see the bloke over the road loitering outside his front door, furtively ramming his disgusting smoke down my unsuspecting kids’ throats while they’re out playing innocently in my ex’s back garden on the other side of town, the dirty fucker!”
“Where did I put my carving knife?” she added thoughtfully.
Meanwhile, a spokesman for the government urged the public to forget about fuel and pasties and concentrate on the vitally important task of living in a permanent state of blind, terrified rage.