by Creep on Tue Dec 16, 2003 2:48 am
What the hell is wrong with the birds in this town? 24/7 all they do is complain about how 'there are no decent men' *whine* 'women outnnumber men three to one' *whinge* 'they just expect us to take the lead' *gripe*'none of the men here have any sense of adventure' *sob* 'I can't remember the last time I met a man who could make me laugh' *impassioned wail* 'they're all so boring' *boo-hoo boo-hoo boo-hoo*.
So here I am, guts enough to put myself up on auction, announce to all the St Andrews Bridget Jones' that I'm out here. Not that sophisticated perhaps but I ain't no poof neither.
I'm not going to criticise your hairdo or your clothes and if you're fat, so what? I'll just tell you straight - then we'll move on, no hassle, no emotional fuckwittage; just hard, fast, rough and regular stuffing. And when I'm done, I'm done. And afterwards, I'll pet you, scrub you up in the shower, even light your fag whilst squarely regailling ancient tales of the Colonel (my father), his wives and how I used to wrestle lion cubs back in the old days; before independence.
I mean what do you expectl, f*****g Heathcliffe? If you're really desperate I might even wear a wet shirt for you and grow sideburns.
Mind you it'll have to be the pink shirt as the white one's got curry stains. And the last time I grew sideburns they came out fuzzy ginger. Plus I don't really like them cos they make my face go flakey; always little bits of dead skin decaying in the fluff.