by Bob Jacobs
This morning I wrestled a pregnant woman in Morrisons. We both reached for the last Mars bar at the same time. I tried to reason with her. She was eating for two and there was only one Mars bar. I almost had her fingers prised open, loosening her grip on the bar of chocolate, when I got dragged off by a bunch of interfering do-gooders who felt that she should get it. It's the kid I feel sorry for, saddled for life with such a selfish bitch for a mother.
Bob Jacobs, whose full catalog is here, lives in the south-east of England with his wife and kids and Sony Vaio. In his spare time he likes to lie motionless on his back, whistling and staring at clouds.