“Get a load of my friend here. He showed his dream girl scans of his brain damage to try and impress her!” The waiter burst into laughter. “She call you back?” the waiter added. “She show you her mammogram?” asked Alex.
Oh Maureen, Maureen! I thought I knew you! Gone now, are your glory days when you were the answer to my most pressing exigencies; when on a wall by my bed, affixed to a glass box containing a towel, hand lotion and your cherished daguerreotype nudie, you were the answer to every midnight crisis, and every 3:00 a.m. call. Gone now, are the days when every time I pass by a fire hose encasement I stop in my tracks and remember our secret covenant: “In Case of Emergency Break Glass”. I would remember your coy little monochrome grin, your inviting, ample bosom, your freakishly enormous pudenda, beckoning me behind a similarly marked glass. How many times did I shatter that glass with a mighty swing of my love sausage? I can’t count that high.
If ignorance is bliss, why is Ann Coulter so bitter?