I'm Fucking In
Yeah, I know I fucking said I was done cleaning other people's fucking pools, but there's one out there that's fucking haunting me, man. Fucking haunting me! I think you know which fucking pool I'm talking about, too. That's right, it's fucking Cher's pool.
Her pool is fucking legendary. Fucking nine sections, covers half a fucking acre. Cher claims to fucking clean it herself, but you only have to see her fucking pretend to eat once to know she's not a clean fucking person. That pool has to be a fucking sight, man. I can't fucking stand knowing it's out there all fucking soiled up. I was born to fucking clean pools; I can't let one fucking go from fucking fear.
When I first told Jon about it he fucking freaked. "You can't fucking go there, man!" But I told him, "Jon, what if someone needed a fucking brilliant song written and they were fucking, I don't know..they fucking trying to do it themselves by imagining they were fucking Barry Manilow or something. Could you just let that fucking happen?"
"Fuck no!" he said. "I understand, man. We take fucking pride in what we were born to do. But you can't fucking go there alone. Let me fucking help."
"Jon, Jon. You were born to write fucking brilliant songs, not clean fucking pools. You'd never fucking make it. We can't lose your fucking songs. If I go, at least I'll go doing what I was fucking born to do. It's the fucking risk all us pool cleaners take. We never know when someone will turn on a fucking pump, or throw a fucking appliance in the fucking pool while we're cleaning. We put our fucking lives on the line every fucking time we clean. But the sparkle is fucking worth it."
"Man, you are so fucking awesome. So right fucking there. But you're still going to need some fucking help."
So Jon volunteered to fly one of my mates and a fucking right good pool cleaner himself, Gil, in from London. Unfortunately without the fucking Concorde it's fucking going to be a bit.