Here is something you can’t understand. How I could just kill a man.

Chicken are evil and must all be killed. Well, eventually, they all are (no hen dies of old age) but I think the authorities need to step up the pace and either kill them all NOW or, at the very least, damage their throats so that they are unable to crow at my window at five fucking a.m. every morning causing dark and gothic and murderous moods that I end up having to take out on the little intern, Trevor, at the desk next to me.
The other morning I punched him to a pulp and he had to have his jaw re-set. And to think he had just returned from hospital. The stitches from the other incident when he was humming Shania Twain (Froom this momeeeeeen…) and I temporarily lost control had just been removed when he unwisely sat in my line of sight on a morning when the roosters had dragged me out of bed at five thirty.
He says this time he is going to press charges. I hope he isn’t serious. Cos if he is, I may have to take drastic measures. I may have to take him out.And I don’t mean take him out for dinner.