:puke: :puke: :puke:
:puke: :puke: :puke:
Throttle the little **** m.
I believe the traditional way of disposing of such unwanted creatures was to tie them in a bag and lob the bag in the river. Of course, fingers straight into your ears lest its pitiful wails of despair tug at your heartstrings and cause you to do something silly like jump in and rescue it.
Now as you know, I would die befoire I would impugn a lady's reputation or pass any sort of moral judgement, but to marry that little ***** she can't have been exactly choosy, can she? I suspect the orifice in question has been reamed from ársehole to breakfast time by half the population of Golders Green, and that by the time that little **** got to it, it was flapping like a windsock in a gusting squall.
*I mean our own dear Monty, may the Lord bless and protect him.*
*Little ****.
True enough. Talking of which, I heard the following monologues from a woman while having a quiet pint last week. I noted them down for posterity.
‘The only thing with Brian is his schizophrenia means he doesn’t like to leave the house...’
‘And I’m like ‘I want to go out for dinner’, but with his teeth, he can only eat soft food...’
‘He’s a good-looking man, though. I’m very lucky.’
Brian sounds quite the catch n’est ce pas? Personally I’m glad he doesn’t leave the house :hehe:
Then she came out with this and I had to leave the pub I was laughing so much.
‘So I lost my dad. Four years later I lost my mum. Then four years after that, my marriage ended. All in Olympic years.
I won’t watch the Olympics anymore.’
:hehe: :hehe: