Don't let the mushroom know. He'll want one too, and then they all will. By then, you'll be up to your ass in forks.
Style. Fashion. It implies something invented and ephemeral. Whereas the reality is that I'm simply bitter, short-tempered and have a thing about homosexuals.
Can't a person's style be a realistic expression of their internal desires for self-expression? That's what all the women's magazines tell me...not that I read them for the articles, you understand.
You know... One of these stereotypical guys who put down homosexuals, but really, they can't get enough of their mothers porno collection...
If you're going to swan about expressing your 'internal desires for self-expression', you'd better be an artist, a poet, an author, a musician or some kind of designer - and a good one at that. In any other circumstances it will simply mark you out as a legitimate target for violence and public ridicule.
We're legion - the mobbish majority with no discernible talent. We're frightened, confused and shot through with a nameless, directionless anger. You need to respect us for that.
Or what? Face the concerted wall of your disapproving frowns? I sneer in the face of your respectable massed citizenry. "Oooh - neighbour'ood's gone t' th' dogs, it 'as, since that Geoff moved in." Could be said of sciforums as well, really.
...trying to think of a suitable response and I've got nothing. Something a housewife in Dorset would complain about. No idea. Didn't put the old newspapers in the bin, just let them pile up. Ah well.
Wait: Graham Chapman as the judge. "Do you have a license for those words, Mr. Jenkinson? Why Jenkinson? Because they're all bloody Jenkinson. Jenkin the piratical Norseman got around, it seems.
'e were a horny old bugger and no mistake. Many a Dorset housewife has fallen to his lavish promises and guttural whispers. Forgive my misapprehension but I was rather under the impression that a licence isn't necessary for non-scientific, only moderately-polysyllabic words like ecumenical, maldistribute and perspicacious, which were the only ones I clouted him with, your Honour.
After it again, innie, yer Honour? I wuz in shop, just about ter serve 'im 'is chips an' pie, when he up an' attacked me wi' disreputable and u-u-unpalatable... beggin' yer Honour's pardon. *takes off cap* Sticks at noffing, 'e don't.
