BMW. Oh, poor, poor BMW. I can’t really bear to look.
Jesus. What have they done to you? Your face is all smashed in and…oh, sweet Jesus! Have they…oh my Lord…they’ve….they’ve cut your balls off!
Those…monsters. Those utter, utter monsters.
Just look at this. I can’t stand to anymore.
Words are usually my friend. But when I saw this execrable piece of horror, they deserted me. All I could do was take a glass, smash it with a stick plastered in human remains, stir in some cancer-causing chemicals and keep eating it until my insides liquified and sweet, sweet death carried me away me on its wings of blessed release.
I didn’t actually do it, obviously. I had a lot on the next day.
So I just lamented the once massive-bollocked one-eyed Godzilla of brand girth that BMW used to be and wondered why someone, somewhere had decided I don’t want an ultimate driving machine anymore. Apparently, what I want is to mince about near a fountain experiencing the ‘joy’ of nearly getting wet. Joy flows, you see? Flows. Like water. In a fountain. With a…oh, fuck it.
I am Dave Knockles. And I am fucking depressed.