Bubble wrap.

I was looking for a piece of wire to allow me to break into a house the other day. It was a simple scam – the letter box was deep enough to get your hand into, and the Yale lock was old and shaky. A nudge on the inside door handle would gain me entry to the hallway. I’d tried kicking the door open, but it was sturdier than it looked, and the dealer down the road probably wouldn’t have appreciated any extra attention. I just needed a piece of wire, or a stick or something.

I scoured the street. I knew it well, for it was in the street I live in. In fact, it was my house I wanted to break into. I strode instinctively to the corner of the street – there was always a fetid pile of rotting waste there. It had adorned the street corner for many months, and I felt sure that there would be a coathanger or something in the pile. I was surprised to find the pile gone – perhaps a nice man in a council lorry had whisked it away.

I did manage to find a package of bubble wrap though. I was a little disappointed, as it wasn’t wrapped in bubble wrap (to protect the bubbles), but instead in flimsy plastic. The urge to jump on it and burst the packaqed bubbles passed. I found a stick. I broke into my house.

I went to work, and checked the internet. I was disappointed to find that this site ranks lower in the search for scantily clad girls than ‘gals and guns‘. To be fair though, I had never realised that my general sense of anomie could potentially be vanquished with ‘the two things that every man wants’ – big guns and beautiful guns. I’m off to the firing range.

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