Finding David

16 Feb

I would like, if I may, to share with you my very innermost, deepliest secrets and thoughts. This is because I think you need to fucking learn something about life. I mean, look at you. You’re a bit of a tool, aren’t you, if we’re honest. You slouch too much, you don’t really know a great deal about anything in particular, you’re a bit of a dick in social scenarios and you’re probably considered to be expendable by most of your friends.

But don’t worry, because I’m here! And I’m a remarkable human specimen. So if you find out what makes me what would have been called a philosopher king in the olden times, then you might be able to pull your cunting socks up a bit. Christ knows you need to.

How will you do this? Through a regular item on this blog called Finding David. It will feature unedited extracts from the notes taken during my regular therapy sessions with Dr Sidebottom (pronounced ‘siddy-buh-toom’).

Dr Sidebottom's couch. Where I spend an hour a week being fucking awesome. Sometimes in tears.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Why does an envelope-pushing paradigm shifter like me need therapy? Well, that’s what I said when professionals from my local Police station, my local A&E, my local psychiatric unit and my local pub sat me down and very, very strongly recommended a lifelong course of intensive pschyological assessment. Then I realised it got me out of work one afternoon a week and kept my gob shut! Dave Knockles ain’t stupid!

Hopefully, what is revealed here may help you find your own path to individual greatness.

January, 2001.

Dr Sidebottom: So, David. How have you been feeling this week?

Dave: Pretty fantastic, as usual Doc. I don’t know why I have to come here every week!

Dr Sidebottom: Have you been limiting your alcohol intake, as I suggested last week and every other week before that?

Dave: Absolutely! Today I’ve limited it to a bottle of claret with lunch, a pint of Malibu and a couple of fingers of scotch in the car on the way here. Fuck all, really. I feel absolutely magnificent.

Dr Sidebottom: David, it’s noon. That’s a lot of alcohol for an entire day, let alone a morning. What did you have for lunch?

Dave: I’ve told you: a bottle of claret. Are you fucking deaf or stupid or deaf-stupid?

Dr Sidebottom: (Counts to ten) Let’s move on. Have you been experiencing any of the unpleasant episodes that have occurred in recent weeks?

Dave: No, no. All gone. Unless you count the dreams about the monster with four vaginas that looks like my grandmother, or the fact that I seem to suffer an uncontrollable anal prolapse when I see a certain shade of brown, or the constant, unrelenting urge to spit and swear and call women cunts, or the nagging voice in my head that says ‘Dave’s a prick! Dave’s a prick! Laugh at Dave!’, or the slight issue I have with needing a wank every four or five minutes, or our old favourite Mr Roaming Hands, or the fact that I can’t look my own mother in the eye without releasing a tiny squirt of urine.

Dr Sidebottom: (Counts to thirty) Let’s move on. How has work been? You mentioned last week some anxiety about a board meeting. How did it go? Did you try some of the coping mechanisms we discussed.

Dave: I did! Brilliantly effective they were, too. I did just as you said and spent an hour before the meeting by myself breathing deeply and calmly and pushing all negative thoughts from my mind. The Dog & Hog wasn’t busy, see, so I just propped myself against the bar and did your breathy stuff while I polished off a couple of pints of gin and port. Worked a treat. Although I did faint and cry and shout a little bit. Especially at Big Alan Cockson, our Financial Director. Apparently, I called him a dirty cunt, a fuckwadge and a dildo-waving fuckbucket. He didn’t seem to mind, once the paramedics arrived. I sent him a card in hospital. Although I hadn’t fully sobered up and it was written in shit. Thought that counts, though, eh Doc?

Dr Sidebottom: (Counts to fifty) Let’s move on. Our time is nearly up, David. Is there anything you’d like to ask? David? DAVID? Oh, fuck it….(tape ends).

I hope that gives you some insight into my mind, a mind that has often been termed ‘utterly unfathomable’. More will follow, including revelations about my childhood, my private life, my sexual preferences and the source of my incredible business drive. There may also be some stuff about dogs with prehensile penises, but you can largely ignore that stuff.

I am Dave Knockles. And I have found myself! (I was at the bottom of that nice, big bottle, since you ask. Burp.)

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5 Responses to “Finding David”

  1. David Everitt-Carlson February 16, 2011 at 9:36 am #

    That’s more like it, you fuckwit. Looks like you’re finding you sea legs again.

  2. Barrel Bottoms February 16, 2011 at 4:52 pm #

    Dave, like you I have found my individual greatness. It mainly resides between my legs. Instead of calling women cunts, I call them cumtoilets. It works like a charm. That and I put some rufies into their fifth appletini. After they pass out I pay for the dinner with the money I stole from her wallet. Just like a true gentleman. Once we arrive in my love nest she’s way beyond passed out and I’m free to demonstrate how good I am in bed. I have a recorded tape of moans from various educational movies (like Ass Blasters 1, a classic) to make up for her unconsciousness. When she wakes up in the morning on the floor I tell her how wild she was. Like an uncontrollable beast. That I made them have orgasms in parts of their vagina they didn’t even know they had. Usually they come back for more of that. And some rufies.

    I am Barrel Bottoms and I have found my own cock.

  3. David Everitt-Carlson February 16, 2011 at 5:24 pm #

    Oh my Gawd Barrel. What a twisted piece of manliness you are. In the 70’s women like Betty Freidan and a fucking host of other not-worthy cunts lined up to shoot asses like yours over dimwit ideas like ‘sufferage’ and ‘womens lib’. Jeezuz. Sufferage? You’ve got that right between the ole man-pins. Letter rip! Make em’ suffer, like the true clam spearing cunt that you are! Viva la sausage master! A chip of de ole Knockles methinks!

  4. daveknockles February 17, 2011 at 11:24 am #

    Holy cow, men. And I thought we wang-waving brutes were a dying breed!

    I mean, I can’t REALLY condone all the drugging, raping, abuse and theft. Personally, I prefer to woo in the traditional sense.

    You know – paying for it.

    • Barrel Bottoms February 17, 2011 at 2:27 pm #

      Wow Dave. You PAY for that shit? Like how big oil companies pay for the damage they cause? Like how the bankers got bailed out and the taxpayer is still the dumbfounded idiot? Wake up man and start doing whatever your heart desires. There are no consequences in this world as long as you are sitting on the top of the marketing empire of Knockles Incorporated. By the way, my company ain’t treating me right. They put a limit on my expense account, the fuckers. Can you believe it? How is it over at your shindig, can you get me a highly paid and well respected job? I promise I won’t put rufies into your WKD’s.

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