There's this one who smells of stale whisky coal tar soap and cigarettes.
Hair sprouts from his nose, eyebrows and sideburns in ridiculous clumps.
His arse is as flabby as his mind.
7 comments:
Anonymous
said...
I find the hair that used to grow on the top of my head has mostly migrated to my right shoulder blade which now resembles a burnt gorse thicket. I have no idea what the attraction of that particular area is.
I, on the other hand enjoy the company of old people. I keep thinking any minute now he will impart a great pearl of wisdom that will change my outlook on life.
Mr X, my hair continues to do late-1970 footballer right on top of my head for the world to see. I wish it would migrate to my feet, so that constant shaving and a pair of 14s would constrain the problem.
As for my lunch-box, I fear there will be no Michelangelo to sculpt me - the artist will suck his teeth and talk about having to extend the gallery for another thirty feet, the British Museum Ways and Means Committee will dither about the amount of plaster-of-paris involved, and there will still be no Homo sapiens sapiennsesses who want want to get involved, let alone down and dirty, not even out of charity.
I exude pearls only when I have a gritty bit of sand under my shell, hence the stupidity of this blog.
I really don't like old people.
7 comments:
I find the hair that used to grow on the top of my head has mostly migrated to my right shoulder blade which now resembles a burnt gorse thicket. I have no idea what the attraction of that particular area is.
I always like that statue as it reminds me that I am not alone and that others also have pathetically small lunch boxes.
I, on the other hand enjoy the company of old people. I keep thinking any minute now he will impart a great pearl of wisdom that will change my outlook on life.
It never happens, hence the cynicism.
I didn't know that you had met our client.
:(
Yours sincerely
Nose-hair & Snot
Solicitors
Mr X, my hair continues to do late-1970 footballer right on top of my head for the world to see. I wish it would migrate to my feet, so that constant shaving and a pair of 14s would constrain the problem.
As for my lunch-box, I fear there will be no Michelangelo to sculpt me - the artist will suck his teeth and talk about having to extend the gallery for another thirty feet, the British Museum Ways and Means Committee will dither about the amount of plaster-of-paris involved, and there will still be no Homo sapiens sapiennsesses who want want to get involved, let alone down and dirty, not even out of charity.
I exude pearls only when I have a gritty bit of sand under my shell, hence the stupidity of this blog.
Met, NH&S? AM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
Oh look italics and a capital. Collect your gold star at break.
And my 1/2 pint milk I hope. Do they still have milk monitors?
With enamel badges?
I doubt it.
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