WARNING! Adult content!
There are no ladies left anymore.
But I don't mean to cause offence to any females reading this (and I know you sometimes do. Your husband might have allowed you to use the internet. Maybe it's your birthday).
It dawned on me this week, after having to politely discuss periods (made me see red), urethras (which was taking the piss), riding thongs (or should that be chewing?) and thrush (which was quite a burning topic) with female co-workers.
Why would we, as gentlemen, remain chivalrous when faced with such crudity? Thinking of arguing? That you might know an actual lady?
Right. Here's a system.
Who is the only real lady still alive to this day? That's right, the ultimate Doley, the Queen. She lives on benefits, has many inbred kids and her husband complains about foreigners coming and talking all our jobs. Dole scum, obviously.
But still, a purebred lady. Fellas, if you think your girlfriend/wife is indeed a true lady, always think, would the Queen do this? For example, you are stood together at the checkouts in Aldi, and an elderly man asks your girlfriend if he can go ahead of you. After all, you have an entire weeks shopping, and Mr Flatcap only has a loaf. Your girlfriend politely allows the frail old codger to go ahead, filling you both with the warm fuzzy feeling of doing what's right.
Would the Queen do this?
The Queen? In Aldi? **** off…
Okay, maybe that was a bad example, for a true lady is polite at all times. Then again, I once knew a girl back at Maxime's Rock Nights in Wigan. She shagged three separate men in the toilets, despite her bad feelings. When asked why she did it, she simply said "well, it would've been rude not to." Hmm. So maybe politeness isn't the way forward. But while we're on the subject, I find spitting very inpolite. Most men do.
Just a tip, girls.
THE 'SECRET' PLACE
I had a conversation with a woman (again, I won't say lady) the other day about the correct and polite term for what I call a secret place. I like to refer to it as a secret place. It should be akin to a spot on the beach where you shared your first kiss, you know, something romantic where only the two of you know.
The response I got was 'gammon hanger'.
I'm all for the alternative descriptions, normally used by men who have precious little experience with such things, for example: wizard's sleeve, clown's pocket and my own favourite, bean in a spam purse.
But gammon hanger? Again, this is another example of how there are no real women left in the real world. What would the Queen do, I hear you ask? "Philip, pass the cream please. One's gammon hanger is stinging like a bitch …".
Like the readers of my book, I'm not buying it.
Another thing about the gammon…secret place. It's joined the ranks of topics that women brag about, alongside money, clothes, how fast they can iron, etc. Nothing is too taboo in this day and age, including the most intimate details of one's talents when it comes to that oh so sacred of areas.
I overheard three women sat at a bar the other night, discussing, well, I say discussing, more pitting their vaginas against each other.
One said you could fit four fingers up her.
Jesus, I thought.
The next one, a whole fist!
The third just laughed and slid down her bar stool.
Actually, a friend of mine met a girl who would have them all licked (which really creates a wonderful image). He slept with a girl, and she didn't feel a thing. Like flying a jumbo jet into the Grand Canyon, apparently. So he went in with his fist, just wanting a response. Nothing. So he climbs on the bed and sticks his foot up there. Finally, she starts to moan and writhe. He ends up knee deep, thrusting in and out. She finally has a wailing orgasm, and he went home.
Week later, he notices a kind of rash on his leg, so went to the doctor. The doc ran some tests and eventually sat my friend down.
"Turns out," said the doctor, "that you have a case of herpes on your leg."
My friend was quite taken back, as you can imagine.
"Amazing," he said. "Is that the strangest case you've ever come across, doc?"
"It would have been," said the doctor, "but I had a girl in this morning with Athlete's ****."
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