Gobfabbler on Black Friday

Back in em bad old days, our Black Friday was when's the scrufftraders'd do their rounds, end of every week, looking to make a pretty profit off the poor as was starving and on the edge of being turfed out on the streets. Ain't that much different now, I suppose; it's still the merchants and masters rooking the desperate for all's they got, in coin or credit. And the rest of us, beggars and buskers and outright burglarisers, cause sod it, we's only stealing back what they stole from us, eh?

Guinea for a gamin, that were the going rate. Give me a child until he is seven, so they says, and I'll give yer an indentured worker what's Fixed in his hunger and misery, and like to do anything for whatever sorry scraps yer throws at him. If them fuckers still had the Stamp, like as not all yer Walmart workers would be scofflaw slaves, they would, chained behind their counters and with a cattle-prod at their back to make em smile ever-so-politely and tells yer to have a nice day. Healthcare? Oh, we'll Fix yer right up, they'd say. Food stamps? Oh, we'll give yer Stamps alright! The way they treats their so-called human resources, ain't no question as they'd still be trading us in chains if only they could get away with it.

And oh how them groanhuffs would slaver at the store doors, and rush inside to squall and scrabble in greed, to snaffle up the scamps and scrags at bargain bin prices! Black Friday, eh? Day after Thanksgiving. They oughts to celebrate Fucksgiving, them American groanhuffs. Like, one day a year all em groanhuffs as has already sorta sold their own kiddies in a way, sold em for a song as sounds good but ain't got an ounce of truth in it, one day a year them groanhuffs could actually give a fuck. And maybes even not go right back, the next day, to hoarding all em fucks, keeping all em fucks to themselves.

That's the thing about fucks. They ain't worth nuffink if yer don't gives em. Ain't worth fuck all.