Billy “Two Shits” Big Bollocks

We’ve all met one, haven’t we. Mr Big Bollocks. A man of wealth and tastelessness. If you ever say you’ve had a shit, he’ll say he’s had two. Mr Two-Shits requires a spacious car to house his obese ego. His car is better than your car, it’s faster and it’s worth more. Not that he paid the full amount, because he KNOWS SOMEONE and doesn’t get mugged off. He might not be able to squeeze this over-sized shiny cock-bucket into a parking space (which is why he parks diagonally across two, usually parent and child or disabled ones) but he’ll squeeze it into any conversation.

And these conversations tend to be one-way. You’re not more than his verbal wank-sock. He knows more than you about everything that’s he’s interested in and anything else is of no worth; so he’ll nurse no curiosity for what you have to say. Prices are his only conversational Viagra, so he’d only want to know what you’ve paid for something so that he can belittle you for owning a less expensive thing than he has or paying more than he did for the same thing because you don’t KNOW SOMEONE. Plus, he’s probably got the PROPER one and you haven’t.

Generally, he will know the cost of everything and the value of fuck-all. Because in his little piss-puddle of materialistic self-aggrandisement, the whole concept of values would drown like a sea leviathan in such shallow waters. Value is also statistical. He’ll bark numbers at you like an episode of Sesame Street. How many people he manages, how much he earns, how many other measures of cock-substitute THINGS he has a mountainous surplus of.

With the aesthetic appreciation of an arid SHIT-BRICK, he will own the biggest flat-screen wall-mounted surround-sound fucking full of do-dahs telly box going and he will watch NOTHING on it, because he’s always out making money, working hard and playing hard, like a cunt from a manly deodorant advert. Whatever obscenely costly gadget-infested music player he owns, he will play his Coldplay and Lighthouse Family downloads on; because he is so barren of musical taste that only something so insipidly vacuous but stylishly crisp and emotionless could provide the wallpaper to his life. Every other album he downloads is a greatest hits compilation.

You bullied him at school and so it’s all your fault. Now, get out of the fast lane, because he’s topping 100, on his mobile and tailgating you like his Land Cruiser’s about to sodomise the boot of your inferior existence.