Ignorance is Lisp

“Oh, look everybody it’s Sholgush.” These words echo from the other side of the soulless floor, surging through my cranium. A strange move for a Monday morning. Or any morning. Sometime after lunch I could handle. But this? Hmm. Do the people usually announce my arrival? Smells like disrespect. If I were king, I’d have these commoners executed. How dare they insult me, yes, the old eye contact may not be great. 

But one sentence out of a hundred is guaranteed to make you do the exhale of breath via the nostrils when something is kinda’ funny. . . so, all of you mathematicians out there can grab a protractor or two and throw them at the immigrants. It’s time to take back the country! 

The real time is coffee time – black. A disgusting way to take a brew but I read a post on Instagram that said 17 black coffees a day is guaranteed to double your penises girth. . . call me pencil dick now, Marie. 

“Trying out the black coffee life. Tastes like shit har, har.” I say to a colleague.  

They unenthusiastically raise their eyebrows and say. “Yesh, Sholgush.” 

Bush, shhhh shoulgush. It couldn’t be, could it?  

My good god. 

How did I not know.  

So unaware, so naïve.  

I go into the toilets, look into a mirror and there’s condensation, which I guess could be described as the mirror’s lisp. Could it though? That’s what someone with a lisp would think. 

You have a lisp 

No, you don’t 

Yes, you do 

No, you don’t 

Yes, you do 

Sometimes you do and it’s ok. No, it’s not, learn how to talk properly you fucking loser. How can you work at a fucking call centre, which is a place for losers and still be the biggest, lispiest loser? 

I am a joke to these matcha morning drinkers with their self-righteous Instagram stories – well done, the drink is green and trendy. You’ve cracked it. Wish I could crack my pronunciation of the fucking letter s. 

When you’re sad just fucking scroll on your iPhone already. The instant dopamine is fantastic and who the fuck cares about having an attention span anyhow? Just the Chinese, and they manufacture the iPhones so keep off TikTok and keep up the good work my little Asian ninja amigos. 

Boxing adverts keep popping up on Instagram because Dave in accounts doesn’t stop going on about heavyweights of the past. He’s got a point too as everything in the present time is shite and everything about the past is better. 

And you know what Dave, you’re right again, there’s only one thing to do when developing a lisp and that is to start boxing. Embark upon a journey that results in a beautiful cocktail of brain injury and Parkinson's. Carrying hot drinks across rooms? No thank you. 

Excessive masturbation utilising the wonderful shaking motion that Parkinsons has bestowed upon thee? Count me in. 

Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab. Jab.  

If anybody dares to mock my speech impediment, then they will be punished by the Heavyweight champion of the lisp division. Sponsored by Parkinsons and sliver. 

I do take up boxing though and it’s surprising because I’m really fucking good at it. Footwork is a tad stiff granted. . . the jab however, oh does it hold some power.   

My gloves are consistently moist from the drool pool of that lispy mouth of mine, so I like to think of myself as an aquatic warrior who is conquering the dry land. 

First fight is coming up and I’m incredibly nervousch. For the most part I have no fucking idea how to prepare for a fight. It’s all you can think about which is exhausting. I can’t even enjoy the tastiest meal on god’s shit green earth. . . McDonalds, in front of the tv. 

Double quarter pounder tastes like shit fuck. And I can’t enjoy these fucking nuggets either, BBQ, sweet chilli, ketchup, doesn’t matter. I fucking hate everything and love having a lisp. Wow. Amasching.  

And the training is so fucking boring. I hate it. I hate the fucking lisp. Such lisp anger. You will train nonetheless, you no good lispy little prick. . . 

Lalalalalala, sit ups yeah 

Lalalalala, press ups yeah 

Nanananana, punching yeah 

Shalalalala, hopefully her pussy is nice and fare 

Nice and fare 

Nice and fare 

Shalalalala, hopefully her pussy is nice and fare 

When I’m heavyweight lisp champion of the world, I’ll provide such good pussy licking to the finest bitches because my mouth is always wet with what, well quite frankly I can only describe it as a disgusting combination of dehydration and being old.  

Few more training sessions and tonight is the night. 

My first fight. Surreal. Knees are weak and I fucking hate spaghetti. It’s so bright here in the ring and he’s getting the better of me. Why the fuck did I do this? 

It would have been lovely to sit down with a nice pack of beef Hula Hoops, a batch of ketamine and rest these sweet cheeks of mine. But no, I decided to do dis. 

Jab. 

Jab. 

Jab. 

All of those punches were his and they’re landing on mis.  

That mis was written instead of me, I’m not sure if that was clear or not. Maybe it was a bit of a stretch and bang. I knock him clean out. The lispy champ has arrived.  

Nananananananana. I have a lisp. 

KAKAKAKAKA – I perform my signature pterodactyl celebration 

I leave the conquered ring with my hands held up in the air displaying my dominance and letting everyone know that I’m really cool, yet a great listener.  

Tender 

Supple 

My oh my, a spicy lady catches the eye. This senorita is of Latino descent and she smiles. I also smile. Then she fucking disappears. Jesus, a sexy Spanish sorcerer. And yes, it’s true that I like nachos and burritos and anything that has a fucking jalapeno on it. . .  jalapenos are mistletoe, anything underneath thy pepper shall be punched by me. The Lisp champion of the world. 

I go through the next fights like I go through sliver when pronouncing S’s.  

The lispy rewards come through thick and fast and before you know it Mike Tyson calls me out. 

“Sholgush I was the original lisp heavyweight back in 83. I’m calling you out motherfucker. Bring your A lisp game because I won’t go easy on you.” 

10 Million, Jesus fuck. Never have to step foot in the call centre again. With Kerry, God is she a grouch. My success would make her person and sagging breasticles even more bitter and droopy. If that’s possible. The bitterness vibrates from her breasticles daily, whenever I ask Kerry what’s the status on a return, she replies with such grace. . .  

“Hor you lil cunt, you think my saggy breasticles are here to process the returns. I’ll show you, I’ll fucking show you.” 

“Can you process the return please?” 

“How dare you?” 

Hitler 

9/11 

North Korea 

Vladamir Putin 

“So, does that mean you’ll process the return, Kerry?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ok, thank you.” 

The good news is that I’m soon to be rich and, all those mocking the lisp now have nothing on me. May Kerry’s breasticles of doom get even saggy-er and may she bore more nipples on each breasticle, providing a 1:5 breasticle to nipple ratio. That will show her. 

The fight between me and Mike is taking place in Saudi. The country is so clean and doesn’t look like a real place. Everything is extravagant and maybe I could settle down here after receiving the fight purse.  

Me and Ronaldo would become friends and then enemies after a failed attempt at shagging his missus. I thought she was dishing out the fuck me eyes but all she did was ask me to pass her the pepper. Sorry Cris.  

Anyway, the time is nigh, me and Mike Tyson touch gloves. . .