busking with your own filth ain’t too bright

Two colleagues were sat on the bus on their way home after a long week of absorbing corporate clichés, insincere pledges and generally soul-draining enterprise. Their hopes of a smooth commute were foiled by the boarding of some youths swathed in sweat-crunchy polyester clothes clutching begging letters and pushing boisterously.
“I wonder where they live” asked Daisy.
“Probably in a huge oil drum of their own filth, by the smell of the fuckers. I imagine they start each day with a shit fight and frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if their entire society revolved around how much they stink. I have a vision of an Elvin and the Chipmunks style cartoon world, but with these gypsies bobbing in and out of tubs excrement like agile rodents, clutching laminated notes proclaiming their terrible luck and asking for any spare change so they can get just one more can of budget dog food to rub into their sodden pores”.
Daisy wasn’t ready for that, but I just had to let loose and we pissed ourselves, causing a few paranoid glances and I suppose some emergency skank venting amongst our motley fellow passengers. One of the benefits of living in a foregin country is the ability to be able to do this though and there is no regret on my part.
Viva la weekend, congratulations to everyone reading this for knowing what soap is and death to political correctness concerning the smelliest pikey change scroungers I’ve ever met. Their odour had transcended what you or I would call BO, and has reached what my all too sensitive nose belevied to be a mixture of engine oil, human chod and fish guts.
Is it a full moon? I sense the bolo rising.