The sign o' the times

It has been a while since I posted any of the text messages between myself and He-Who-Cannot-Be-Named, so here I present a few from the last couple of days:

6 June:

Him: How many chips do you think you've eaten in your life so far? Something for you to calculate while you sit around on your arse.

Me: I think it's somewhere around nine.

Him: Craig says you're lying to yourself. He says he knows for a fact because he's seen you eat more than nine.

Me: I said ABOUT nine. It might be a couple more.

Him: OK, that makes sense.

7th June:

Him: In this enlightened day and age, why are people still allowed to play bongos in public?

Me: I know. They need to be flogged in public.

Him: They need to be anally violated with their own bongos.

Me: And strangled.

10th June:

Him: Which do you like best, black metal or being bum fucked like a little bitch? I'm asking because I'm assuming you're familiar with both.

Me: Both equally, but I would prefer to watch you being burnt at the stake.

11th June:

Me: Would you prefer to be persecuted as a 17th century witch or a 20th century Jew?

Him: Not sure, I'll have to think about that one and get back to you.

Me: Don't take too long, I've got a bunch of people here who are getting pretty agitated.

Him: I'd rather be the witch, because then at least then I could use my magic to defend myself.

Me: OK, we have to decide whether to burn you, drown you or crush you under an oak door. I'll get back to you.

Him: I told you, I'm using my magic to defend myself by turning myself into a cat.

Me: No, you see, your magic doesn't really exist and you're just some lonely middle aged eccentric woman that the rest of the village have taken a dislike to. It's mob law and I can't do much about it, even though I'm the local Squire.

Him: Why are you such a dick even in hypothetical scenarios?

Me: You can't talk to me like that! I'm a Squire! No wonder you've got yourself into this situation. You've only got yourself to blame old woman.

Him: I'm gonna turn you into a newt, mother fucka.

Me: Your magic doesn't exist no matter how many magic mushrooms you take. How many fucking times?

Him: Then why the fuck are you threatening to burn me at the stake?

Me: It's the rule of the mob. As Squire I have to keep the village happy and they want to burn you. Or drown you or crush you under an oak door. I don't make the rules, I just abide by them.

Him: This is fucking bullshit, I want a lawyer.

Me: We burnt him last week. Someone said he was using magic to increase his cow herd's milk yield. I think it was just jealousy, but it's mob rule. 

Him: Soon the mob will turn on you. You realise that, don't you?

Me: No they won't. They love and obey their social betters. You do own a cat, don't you?

Him: No I don't own a cat.

Me: Hmm, that's a bit of a shame. It would have strengthened our case against you if you had a familiar. Never mind, there's probably loads of other stuff we can pin on you. I'm sure you'll have a wart somewhere.

Him: Is this how you spend your time now that you're on the dole? Persecuting innocent people?

Me: You're not innocent. You are a lonely middle aged eccentric woman who probably has a cat and a wart. You're banged to rights.

Him: I'm going to put a hex on your ass. I'm going to tell everyone that you made me use my powers on numerous occasions to deal with your chronic impotence.

Me: Your 'powers' don't exist and you won't be heard above the braying of the crowd. They can get pretty rowdy when they're mad!

Him: They're all a bunch of cunts and I hope they die of AIDS.

Me: At least they won't be burnt, drowned or crushed under an oak door while a braying crowd kill your cat. Anyway, I'm at the cinema now, so I've lost interest in you and your idiocy. OK BYE!