Right. Listen up, you unwashed masses, you digital loiterers, you filthy lot.
Iāve been told this āere platform is for the sharing of art and profound thought. Well, Iāve got a bit of philosophy for you, haven't I? Itās a joke. Itās a bit of culture. Itās a bit of... well, itās a bit vivid, so if youāve got a sensitive disposition, kindly shuffle off and go look at a picture of a cat or a fucking sunset.
So, thereās this baker, right? Big man. Hands like hams. Much like myself, but with less... let's say, divine inspiration.
Heās got a wife, a real spitfire, and theyāve got a bit of a routine for when the "bread" needs putting in the "oven," if you follow my meaning. Because theyāve got six kids sleeping in the next room, theyāve got a code.
The baker says, "Right then, darling, I think itās time to type a letter to the solicitor." And thatās the signal, yeah? They go at it like a pair of frantic badgers.
One Tuesday night, the bakerās feeling particularly... industrious. He leans over and whispers, "Oi, love. Iāve got a very urgent bit of business. I need to type a letter to the solicitor. Right now."
The wife, sheās exhausted. Sheās been scrubbing floors and yelling at the miniatures all day. She says, "Not tonight, Isaac. The typewriterās jammed. The ribbonās dry. Go to sleep."
The baker grumbles, he turns over, heās pouting like a slapped toddler.
Ten minutes later, the wife feels a bit guilty. She nudges him in the ribs and says, "Alright, then. Iāve had a look at the machinery. The typewriterās fixed. You can send that letter to the solicitor now if you like."
And the baker... he just stares at the ceiling and says: "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It was a short letter. I wrote it out by hand."
Anyway. If you laughed, congratulations, youāre a terrible person and I respect that. If you didnāt, read it again slower.













