Come on, mate. Get a move on, we yell! She’s halfway up the wall creeper, skirts hoisted up, and you’re flirting like Adam in the Garden of Eden before he realized there were other women in the world other than bunny boiler/snake charmer par excellence, Eve.
Looking at her life trajectory with our feet struggling on the bottom rungs of life’s great ladder, we can only gaze longingly at the hem of one of her tiny skirts disappearing ahead of us, one rung at a time.
What are these men trying to prove? Are they competing for Stud of the Century, defined by their ability to produce the greatest number of kids?
Charles had grown so increasingly red throughout, he looked in danger of self-combusting and you had to wonder whether it might be better if everyone hung around for a bit and avoid having to RSVP to forthcoming funeral invitations.
Seriously. Why did anyone ever think they were a good idea? Do you really want to sleep where you p**s? What are we? Cavemen?
Every morning, I have to shave my upper lip. When I wake, the area between my nose and my mouth is a veritable flowerbed of black bristles. I look like Adolph Hitler’s less attractive distant cousin.
The hard truth is, the vast majority of obese people in America – of which there are a staggering 70million – have got there through bad eating habits, a lack of exercise and inadequate self-control.
He’s poor. She’s rich. He’s disenfranchised. She’s entitled. And they’re both really, really angry. Two people. Thrown into each other’s paths on their own very different, very bad days.
To me, it smacks of a woman trying to make herself relevant, when her dullness put her in danger of being booted off.
The days of sitting down to enjoy a coffee are over. Heaven forbid that you should take two minutes to boil your own kettle and make your own coffee, when you can queue for 20 minutes in Starbucks and pay $5.95 for a Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino.