LGBTQ’s growing inclusiveness is rather hijacking the alphabet; and so, before the movement takes up any more letters than the near quarter they have already monopolized, I want to draw attention to a hitherto little discussed group to which I belong: SOFMI. Straight Old Female Minuscule Immigrant.
It started out like any other addiction. At first, a small pleasure, with me innocently signing up to what appeared to be a great bargain. A mere $35 for a $60 meal? What could go wrong?
As far as I can make out, the basics of American Football are that a lot of men in Hannibal Lecter style masks and Dallas style shoulder pads run out onto a field and throw something the same shape as a rugby ball. Then, just as they’re getting into their stride, they are tackled and brought to the ground. Next, everything stops. I have no idea why. Is there a tea-break?
I suspect that Eva Whatsherface, like every other thin woman in LA in particular, enjoys playing with the occasional salad – without dressing (are you crazy?) – and, to this end, I am now perfecting the art of steering a leaf around my plate, without ever consuming it, while giving the impression that I am stuffing my face.
It’s a thin line between being a Buddhist and a serial killer: that’s what I’ve learned in my quest for the spiritual enlightenment that most people I meet appear to seek.If in doubt, buy the book: that’s always been my motto.
But I’m hooked now. Tier Points are my drug of choice, and I would have to spend at least three months in Air Miles Rehab to wean me off the scheme. My only hope is that Sir Richard Branson might read this and, for the sake of my health, give me a Lifetime Gold Membership as a result of the acres of free publicity I continue to give him and his airline.