With neither quill nor qualm, Els quothed:
Yeah, I know.
If you can make me believe that 'hole' and 'knows' are French words,
then it could be a French version...
It's a transatlantic dichotomy.
[bacon]
That's what I keep telling my girlfriend but she doesn't see the light.
Like how - you let her wait and she keeps insisting you're
intelligent?
Oh har har hardy har har! The point *was* that waiting ain't good for
no one.
Anything pre-packed has a home made version afaik.
At least anything pre-packed originally must have been invented by
someone, making it home made to begin with.
I think many packaged goods, like some cereals and snacks, began their
careers in factories.
Whether they're better depends on taste really - they're a bit tougher
and fatter.
I can make home made crisps (chips) too, but I do prefer the
artificially flavoured pre-packed supermarket ones
Artificially-flavored vanilla wafers taste better than the natural kind.
Will only help if you're determined to go inside your own house. What
if you're invited into someone else's? Really, the only true solution
is to remain conscious.
If I did that, how could I dream about Wynona Rider uninterrupted?
Afaik they didn't. They're still called Scotland, not England.
Only because England conceded the point that it would be awkward to call
the Scots Engs.
I'd say the unguarded nuts would have been enough to be
distinguished...
For sure, but they didn't want all the women to go around lifting up
their skirts.
Trick question = hyperbola? <g>
Actually, a hyperbola is sort of like a flatter parabola. A parabola
may be compared to a woman's buttock when she's on top.
That's not travelling, that's living on the edge!
Hah, you should see me on a skateboard.
[bathroom atmosphere]
Men don't really much notice the decor in such places. If it's got
something porcelain, you just sort of aim at it and proceed on from
there.
"sort of aim at it" - that explains a lot every time I had male
visitors :S
Men don't have the luxury of just sitting there and letting it all fall
akimbo (-except, of course, in the other expulsion mode.)
I hope the adrenalin doesn't keep you awake at night.
Only if I stimulate it somehow.
Erm.. I disagree
Of course, women always disagree. But ask them to use the same
handkerchief over again even once and it's "Oh no! - I can't do that."
No! Anything but a place that starts its name with "Chez"!
Just don't have it that fluidic. Balance the fluid and the chow so
that you don't need the dog later.
Then I'd have to walk around half-crocked with acid indigestion.
Whenever I'm faced with such "delicate" questions, I ask myself "Now
what would my Cro-Magnon ancestors recommend?" They always respond
"I ask myself [...] They always respond..."
You refer to yourself as 'they'? How many of you are there in they?
Neredbojiasi? Oh, thousands. We like to say there's one for every
occasion, but my allies seem to conveniently vanish during more
difficult times.
Nothing wrong with clubbing. Just make sure you leave your club at
home, as the use of it for picking up women is frowned upon these
days.
Uh, they usually pick themselves up. The club is for knocking them
flat.
Seriously, do you think I'd really bop a woman in the head with a big
hunk of wood whatever the affinity of each is for the other? I'm a
sensitive kind of guy, and to prove it, I shall forthwith post yon ode
to which I erstwhilely referred.
A long time ago, said ode was perfidiously purloined from my dominion
and distributed in an altered form. Despite the fact that this inferior
version offered a rather lackluster vision at best, it gained
considerable notoriety among the tea-sipping set who like to peruse
literature in small swallows. Had they read the original, however, they
undoubtedly would have choked on their pekoe for it is the real classic
and something to be remembered evermore! For your pleasure and
edification, I present simply....
To Ellen
Ellen, thy booty is to me
Like those sleazier babes of yore
Who wandered 'long a putrid sea
In wayworn skirts they waywardly wore
With backsides turned to shore.
On desperate knees I'd shake and moan
To mind the hyena's hairy face.
But naked stares did send me home
To a gory spam of grease
And the blandness of corn pone.
Lo! in yon twitching, itching niche,
A psycho calls, but do I jump?
Ah, no, my taste is for thy rump,
Which may present a piled ditch
But styled hump!
