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A policeman I met at the Goose Green roundabout today told me that the best way to kill a wolf is to get him off his tits on little pigs. They are so moreish he goes mad for them, and will do anything to get his next fix.


So, make sure your house is made of bricks, and the only available ingress is a chimney, and then tether your remaining little pig inside. If you can find a little pig with a hairy chin then that is ideal, but not essential. Your wasted wolf will be compelled to attack the piggy, but will have to climb down the chimney to do so. Heat a chip pan up to the highest setting over the open fire underneath, and soon you will have deep fried wolf.


Then you can torch the whole gaff with grenades and that, before getting down the Capitol with a slab of coke and loads of guns and ammo and shit. The authorities will just assume an internet blow hard has been at the grape juice a bit hard, and take no further action.

Oh ha ha Ted, very funny. For some unexplainable and unfair reason I can't dedicate threads to your fictional demise so I'll do my damnest to describe the desirable senario.


It was professor Plum in the dining room with the candlestick


A literary screenwriter I met recently at a prestigious book launch advised me that the best way to destroy an online undesirable would be to sabotage his broadband.


Once you located your target who should ideally dwell in Peckham at just a stones throw away from east dulwich road on a road that begins with the letter M. Approach their nest from the east or west so as not to arouse any attention. The lock on the ornate sash window shouldn't present any difficulty in manipulating since the owner is far too embroiled in the notoriety and critique of his online face. Don't be intimidated by the swaths of weighty tomes the target keeps in order for his online character to thrive. They're mainly for show


By this time of night he'll be in full swing, chanting his humour to the masses and gently stroking himself in a place I'd daren't publish. Creep up on him with the empty bottle of Henricks Gin or Crawfords vintage port he invariably drinks himself quiet with. Tap him on the shoulder of his dressing gown whilst holding your index finger to your lips, you don't want him to signal his distress with a withering, womanish, celtic war cry. Indicate him to sit down on his comfiest of chairs and restrain him. Go to the east dulwich forum account page and change the password of his account.


He'll eventually commit suicide due to his gagging on his account.


Then...


Get in a slab of charlie and fire of a couple of bursts from your Kalashnikov in celebration whilst preparing to meet your pals down the Capitol.

The Grandma gambit is a controversial dual queen-pawn sacrifice, Quids, requiring the timely deployment of the famous "woodsman" ending. It's an expert ploy that can end with satisfying amounts of claret all over the gaff, but can backfire too.


*Bob*, ever feel like so low, and that, that you wanna just fire one of these beauties


(picture of a gun and stuff)

Ted Max wrote:-

Then you can torch the whole gaff with grenades and that, before getting down the Capitol with a slab of coke and loads of guns and ammo and shit.




This is a momentous occasion for me, as Teds description made tears of laughter course down my boat race.


Brilliant Ted.

"A bit like BBW fantasising about creeping into my boudoir, tying me up, and making sweet love to me in my dressing gown."


You wish.


Although in all fairness to Ted I should've seen this coming with my vapid singling him out as Celtic Quisling.

Mick Mac Wrote:

-------------------------------------------------------

> Ted Max Wrote:

> --------------------------------------------------

> -----

> > It's all hypothetical, Mick Mac.

> >

>

>

> I thought we were really going to get to eat him -

> damn. I'll have to make do with chilli nuts.


Not so fast there, they're the tastiest bits.

"Or you can just petrol bomb every rank bedsit in Forest Hill and hope for the best."


I must say Brendan, that is dash strong.


Oh O.K, fair enough. Yes I'm not old or indeed responsible enough to be deemed as a reliable customer for a mortgage so along with all the rest of the vagabonds and lowlife am forced to rent.


However...


Although I can forgive you for asuming I reside in a bedsit I'm afraid you're wrong B. I live in a studio bedsit. Even if it's a tad on the disreputable side of the hill, it's salubrious enough for me. My dump consists of a rather large combined living room and kitchenette that are furnished with my sofa's I got for free on the Gumtree.com and my rather large T.V which I'm rather proud of getting from a clearance after a fire at a Curry's warehouse in Essex.


My boudoir is a pleasant affiar that has a cosy salle de bains attached at the eastern side of the bedroom.


I've even got a picture of The Afghan Girl so any other bohemian guest will feel at ease.


I've also got stunning views of the capital that can't be matched by anyone from east Dulwich, no matter how high you pay. Suckers!

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