Fucked Up Conversations

Myself and SB were having a quiet drink last Friday and conversation turned to a house we had shared some time ago. More accurately, discussion turned to the "war criminals" who lived next door (so named because they had a German accent and were around 70 years old).

SB: I can't believe you gave that fucker my bike.
PO'P: Dude, you never once rode it and it had a flat tire.
SB: I bet that fucking war criminal's riding round Nottingham on it now.
PO'P: Yup. That's how he'll be celebrating the Holocaust - getting one up on your kind.
SB: That fucker.
PO'P: After all, it's not far from misappropriating a bike to gassing a couple of million people, is it?
SB: And you let it happen.
PO'P: Shit. I reckon I fucked up there. Sorry Jews!
SB: First they came for the bike and Peter did not speak out, because it was not his bike...

PO'P NOTE: Just in case, SB was playing on the famous Pastor Niemoeller poem.

Sadly, we then realised that we were in a very quiet pub which had suddenly got a lot quieter, except for the sounds of two people giggling like maniacs. I ordered some Vodka Red Bulls and ignored the stares.