Now I’ve entered my seventh decade, it’s time to settle down. My tarnished 1970s medallions have got tangled up in my sparse, wiry, battleship-grey chest hair for the last time.
Happily there are no fewer than three buxom lovelies queuing up to spend twenty-five years filling my hot water bottle and adding a delicate froth of saliva to my post-prandial Horlicks. But how to choose among them?
CAROLINE’s unfortunate life has left her gaunt and ravaged, a few lank rags of hair dangling above her threadbare 1950s school blouse and gymslip. The continuous chattering of her teeth, plus the convulsive starts that prevent her from holding any object securely for more than five seconds, may hitherto have counted against her in the arena of romance. However, she has a charming singing voice, and her unconventional religious perceptions could make her a diverting companion.
JOANNA has devoted many years to exploring ‘inner space’, since her morbid obesity no longer allows her to leave her dank, flock-wallpapered, naked-bulb-lit bedroom. For two decades her only source of information on the outside world has been the editorial column of Class War, faithfully snipped out for her by a senile neighbour, now deceased; but she means well, and her impish smile has triumphantly outlived her teeth.
MARIETTA has enjoyed a dazzling career in the world of finance, latterly at Morgan Stanley as Supreme Director of Fund Interception and Retention, although Tatler and Vogue persist in regarding her as ‘a supermodel manqué.’ She attracted media attention last year by purchasing Castle Howard as a weekend hideaway. Marietta has a passionate, generous, instinctively loyal nature and is deeply in love with me. An enthusiastic Raelian, she claims to have given birth to a cloned baby which immediately fell to pieces; she is on intimate terms with leading figures in the British National Party and Column 88, and keeps herself fit by hurling bricks through asylum seekers’ windows.
How to proceed? Any advice would be welcome. After all, you can’t seriously expect me to look after myself…
― Rex (Rex), Friday, 24 January 2003 02:13 (twenty-two years ago)
Go for the singing voice. Get her to sing an acoustic version of "Mad World" and everything will be fine. At least thats my philosophy at the moment. Happy birthday Rex.
― Lynskey (Lynskey), Friday, 24 January 2003 04:05 (twenty-two years ago)
The one dedicated to inner space. Anyone on such good terms with Martin Short
andDennis Quaid has got to be something special. Many happy returns.
― Matt (Matt), Friday, 24 January 2003 11:12 (twenty-two years ago)
Here's our Jarl with a quick reminder,
All fires are going out, everyone dies, Life is entropy, Even celebrity pathetodrone Les Dennis is cooler than you.
― Jarlr'mai (jarlrmai), Friday, 24 January 2003 12:13 (twenty-two years ago)
You keep getting that one wrong, Jarl, he's cooler than
YOU, not the rest of us.
― Lynskey (Lynskey), Friday, 24 January 2003 15:13 (twenty-two years ago)
the sad truth is that, in the end, you'll be much happier with a steaming spool of doner kebab than any of the charming lovelies you describe. the hot rounds of drizzling warm compressed lamb can be had at a number of specialty restaurant supply houses. bore a 1/2" hole six inches from the bottom, slap a pretty hat on top and get ready for some real fine lovin'. the best news is you don't even have to get up for a nosh -- AND NEITHER DOES YOUR LADY. just sink your chompers into three stones of spicy mashed lamb parts when you get the urge. even joanna would feel that you betcha!! a jaunty college wrap completes the look for a nite in the stalls (and hides your "love bites," at least for a while). trust me on this one.
― hurley (hurley), Friday, 24 January 2003 16:37 (twenty-two years ago)
Marry the money Rex. You can always two-time her with the other two; especially Joanna, who never gets out of her room. The chances of the three of them meeting and you getting caught are negligible.
You see, there's a cad deep in all of us, even me. No wait, maybe that didn't come out quite right.
Or that either, if you're a really determined seeker after double-entendre.
Oh blast it Rex, who am I to give advice? I'm not even in charge of my own sentences any more.
― Pete Andrews, Monday, 27 January 2003 16:35 (twenty-two years ago)