Yes, Sam, when you wrote that women hate you because you’re beautiful, I knew just what you meant. After all, here’s my song:
Responsibility sits so hard on my shoulder – like a good wine, I’m better as I get older.
Susie Wong from Hong Kong commented today at the Mail but of course, as you and I know, Sam – Wong is Wrong:
I didn’t comment yesterday but today I cannot hold back. Even through the backlash she cannot reason that it isn’t jealousy that motivates so many to comment, but incredulity!
Oh, I’m all man, Ms Brick – these flaccid man boobs ache to bounce off yours, my paunch heaves up and down for you in concert – bounce yours off mine and let’s get this two-walruses-rutting thing going, in an explosion of ecstatic foreplay.
Join the women at this site, falling down at my feet avec nose plugs, crying: “James, James, one whiff of your garlic breath and unique, toe-crud foot aroma and I swoon.”
Sam, I swear, I’ve not had all that many rotted teeth removed and the black ones weren’t my fault anyway – that was down to discrimination in this cruel society which keeps you far away from me.
Tell me, turtle-dove, that you’ll be mine as soon as that hubby of yours shoots himself in error, doubled up as he must be with laughter and I promise I’ll trim some of my luxuriant nose hair and might even dewax my ears for your delectation – you can web-cam it and we’ll make a packet.
Sa-man-tha, light of my life, fire of my loins, my sin, my soul. Sa-man-tha: the tip of the tongue taking a tortuous trip of three steps round the mouth – abandon your pyriform womanhood to my atrophied arms and geriatric white flanks, lose yourself, enraptured, in gasping breath, hacking cough and deep expectoration, gift me a spiritual heart attack, Muse of the Mail and inherit my limitless estate!
Here’s a stubbled cheek for your Cheshire cat lips, here’s a neck to gouge, let me grip those perfect love handles, give it to me today, woman, right here on this desktop! Fear not, bewitching wench – embed those hickey fangs, let’s bathe in an abdominal-trampoline orgy of unfettered blood-lust.
Ooooooooh! [Aged pseudo-orgasmic cry of diminished faculties and forlorn hope, difficult to transcribe into prose and anyway, I only cleaned this keyboard yesterday]
Alas, ma Melpomine, you must remain eternally, for all men of maturity, not forgetting li’l old me, a wet-dream, a boys-own fantasy:
[P.S. The Mail did that one very well actually and she seemed a good sport about it all.]