I don’t drink fizzy pop, so my experience of products flavoured similar to that red fizzy Santa Claus drink or that I-Think-She-Is-One-Of-The-Kardashians Police Juice is limited to poorly flavoured sweets, which are almost always spelled with a K rather than a C.
Naturally this gives me an instant dislike of anything deliberately misspelled with a kicking k instead of a curly c.
Therefore, I would ask you join me for this short, ranty post, in which I shout mean things at inanimate objects, purely for their choice of stylised language.
What exactly is ‘krazy’ about you then? I bet when the adhesive Christmas party comes around you’re the one in the novelty tie, shouting at the DJ to put that fucking Oops Upside Your Head song just for the opportinity to get sat between Ms Pritt Stick’s akimbo legs.
A triple offender here, probably to make kids think that your piss and sand covered balloon houses aren’t anything but health and safety death traps or the excuse for a dad’s creepy friend to ‘accidentally’ bump into a teenage girl’s breasts.
See, this is just half arsed k-for-c-ing. Might I suggest either Krazy Kakes Café, Bacery & Koffee or alternatively, just fukcing off.
Oh yeah, look at you in your krazy jumper advertising some rap album you’ve listened to once because you think it makes you look urban or some nonsense. Go and khoce on a kappukhino you shitty kokc.
No Keith. You’re not Kool. You’re a kunt. AKA Black Elvis and Dr Octagon? Fuck you in your stupid face. You too, Kutmaster Kurt. I hope you get run over by a karavan.
See, this is why nobody likes the Klu Klux Klan. I mean, the racism and silly hats are bad enough but all those Ks. It’s just deplorable.
And don’t even get me started on replacing the final letter of plurals with a Z. Bunch of bastardz.