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Diary of a Pimp - Part 2

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    Diary of a Pimp - Part 2

    They say that 94% of men approaching the age of 40, change their career completely. Such is true of John the guy who used to be a techie then became a Pimp (which lasted 1 day).

    In the years that he had been in IT, he went from Trainer, to Head of Training, to Central IT, to Head of Central IT and then inexplicably Head of Facilities.

    Head of what? Yes, I said facilities. You know loo roll boss type of thing.

    Then when he found out due to his new role of being a pimp wasn’t exactly what he had thought it would be, and that senior management had decided to downgrade from 2 ply toilet paper, to single ply, he could take no more.

    What shall I do with the rest of my life? he pondered. Then it happened. I’m gonna breed rabbits!

    It’s 05:30 in the heart of the Lincoln Countryside. An alarm clock crackles into life with the dulcet tones of the local farmer DJ.

    “Oooh aah” went the clock, followed by fourteen moo’s and a couple of cocky cockerel squawks.

    Pimp John sits bolt upright in bed with a grin the size of the Grand Canyon on his mush. He springs out of bed, and with the eagerness of a champion greyhound, rushes down the stairs, trips over his own feet on the last step, and rapidly heads for the front door in a manner he hadn’t quite anticipated.

    Grabbing and yanking furiously at the front door knob, Pimp can’t quite manage to contain his excitement. This is what it’s all about, he thought to himself. Open air, the countryside, aah, total bliss.

    The front door finally swings open and he rushes into his front garden, readying himself for a deep sniff of the clean Lincoln air.

    He breathes in, just as his neighbour stops at the end of his drive. His neighbour, an old lady, runs faster than Linford Christie straight for him and faster than you can say “What’s up Doc”, she levels him with her handbag.

    “What the hell are you doing you mad woman?” he shrieks. She glares at him them drops her glance to his lower regions.

    Tim doesn’t look down. He realises exactly what he’s done. He blushes.

    He lowers his hands, scoops up his tackle, walks gingerly backwards towards his house, and gently closes the door as he attempts an apology.

    Pimp John bursts into the bedroom, still tackling a couple of items.

    Pimpette, Pimps wife, groans and looks up. “Did you go out Pimpy?, because I swear I heard the front door?” she enquires. “Me? No, no at all dear. You go back to sleep. I got a few small things to sort out!”

    He manages to dress himself, however he spends the first hour of the day trying on various different outfits of clothes, checking himself in the mirror each time, until he stares into the mirror for the umpteenth time and sees Pimp John the Rabbit Farmer, Breeder bloke staring back.

    With renewed vigour, Pimp decides to have another go at breathing his first proper breath of good old Lincoln air.

    He bounds down the stairs, 3 to 4 steps at a time, whips open the front door again, rushes out and takes, not one small breath for man, but a breath for all mankind.

    His nostrils flare angrily on his face as the smile gradually disappears when he realises his lungs, nostrils and smelling senses are all filled, not with sweet smelling roses and clean air, but pungent rabbit tulipe.

    Man that stinks” he screams in anger and frustration.

    Sheepishly, he wonders back into the house, then into the kitchen.

    “Well, time to start with the rabbits then?” Pimpette queries. Pimp stands up quickly, surveying the area like an army major. “Absolutely, see you in a couple of hours”.

    Pimp turns, smiles at his wife, opens the back door to his kingdom and marches out of the house.

    He makes his way down to the rabbit area. He stops, looking over his rabbits all doe-eyed knowing that in a few minutes he’s about to make dog meat out of a few of them.

    He leans over the fence to grab one. It jumps and hops as though it thinks he’s playing a game with it. “Damn” he cries as he can’t quite reach it. He opens the gate and walks into the rabbit pen. They all scatter into the corners.

    He notices a real meat beauty, all on its own in one of the corners of the pen. As he moves forward, he skids on rabbit crap, sticks out his hand to grab something to hold himself up with and unfortunately, he chooses the barbed wire fence that he installed to keep the foxes out.

    He cries out like a werewolf as the shriek echoes across the Lincoln hills and valleys.

    Pimp surveys his cut hand as blood pumps furiously from a deep laceration. His mind wonders for a moment. He thinks back to the comfort of a swivel chair in a heated office in the middle of an industrial estate where each of his colleagues are stabbing each other over a contractor who dared ask for an IR35 friendly contract.

    He quivers and shakes his head to bring himself back to real life, trying to dispel the nightmares of the office that still pursue him.

    “Right you little git”. He lunges forward to grab the rabbit again. It growls. Well it makes a p*ssed off rabbit sound anyway!

    Pimpette steps into the kitchen. She sees her husband stood with his back to her, facing the kitchen window, his arms resting on the sink unit.

    He sobs.

    “John? Pimpy darling?” Pimp J continues to sob. Each sob gets slightly louder until they reach a combined crescendo of complete wailing.

    “What the ruddy hells the matter? Couldn’t you do it? Couldn’t you do one of’em in?”

    He slowly turns to face his wife. Her eyes open wide in disbelief, as he turns completely and she sees a rabbit, dangling like a demented sporan from his manly bits.

    There it dangles, gripping tighter and he cries and whimpers.

    “Get it off………please get the bl**dy thing off” he pleads. Pimpette runs around the kitchen, wondering what implement to use to bash it with. She grabs a hairdryer and a brush and steams straight towards the bunny.

    “What the hell are you going to do with those? Style it to death?” he squeals.

    It releases its grip and hops and jumps through the cat flap in the back door. John collapses in agony.

    She crouches down to him, unsure whether to comfort him or laugh.

    “We did do the right thing didn’t we? You can do this can’t you?” Pimp nods in between the quite unmanly sobs of pain.

    “Listen. The best way to get them is to grab them quickly by the ears” she explains.

    “And then what?” he replies. “Then you stand there are swing them round and round above your head until they’re dizzy, then you can use whatever method you want to finish’em off.”

    “Fantastic idea” he excitedly agrees.

    He jumps to he feet, makes a stupid charge of the light brigade sound and steams off out of the kitchen towards the rabbit pen.

    Pimpette watches out of the window, her hand over her mouth, trying desperately to contain her laughter. She sees her hubby shove his arm up in the air triumphantly, with a rabbit firmly gripped by the ears in his clenched hand.

    “Look, I did it!” he bellows. “Well, swing it round then!” she shouts.

    He starts to swing. He swings with all the force of Bella Emberg.

    Round and round he goes, faster and faster, all the while unaware that he’s starting to bury himself in a nice neat hole in the ground, where his feet are carving up the grass.

    Suddenly, the rabbit hurtles through the air, over the fence and smashes straight through his neighbours greenhouse.

    The old lady next door shrieks like a banshee. “Oh my god, oh my bl**dy god”. Pimp John looks down at his hand and sees two bunny ears, but no rabbit.

    The old lady comes to the fence. She hands over the ‘ear less’ body of the still kicking rabbit.

    “Yours I believe?”

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