My boy you’re going about it all wrong. Get their attention,
‘straight out o’ the box,’ as Pastor Thunberg was wont to opine.
Wha? Horses, boy, horse racing. One of innumerable perversions of
our language attributable to that ignoble pastime. The horses
started the race in boxes . . .but no! Do not divert me. I was
saying.
Grab their attention, and abjure the hackneyed tropes of self-description. Men of your ilk are ten a penny. Do you imagine them raptly reading the tedious recitation of your equally tedious opinions? Scouring the litany of truisms and platitudes you vainly term a “personal philosophy” to sniff out the glimmer of truth? Help me off with these braces. No, they care not a whit for your self-applied epithets. “Oh how intriguing,” will she say, “he’s a ‘laid-back guy!’ What a refreshing change from the proliferation of self-styled ‘genocidal maniacs’ and ‘scurrilous blackguards’ on this site.”?
Umph, goodness. Sitting, my boy, becomes a hallowed and cherished thing at my age. No less so its near homonym. And now, tenderly, mind you, tenderly, the right boot first. Ahhh. Tenderly, I say. Nor is it an especially enchanting conundrum that, as you claim, you “love livin’ large and tearin’ it up with [your] boys, but can also really be into a quiet night at home with some wine and pizza.” Everyone likes the outdoors. All men hate haters. That will never set you apart. Now this is the difficult part, all at once, and the devil take tenderness. AH! Damnit boy! No no, my maledictions are for the pain, not for you. Now the left one.
Wha? A fair question. Open with the unvarnished truth, the worst of it. Your apostate sister lives in sin with a rotating bevy of sweeps and guttersnipes. You defrauded the cobbler’s guild and are now persona non grata in Wolverhamptom. You left a lass up the duff and moved to the city to dodge her calls. Immediate disclosure absolves you from any guilt at later discovery. Good good, now the hose, tenderly again. Yes, my boy, there is an odor, and no, it’s not entirely healthy.
Don’t stare boy, it’s gout, just gout. Podagra. Your gawking shames you, and does naught to flatter me. Close your flapping jaw and tell me then, what past ghastliness can you put your hand to? Nothing? Well there must be something. A little wickedness in a past life is just figs in the pudding. Ah, I thought so. Go on then, let’s have it. Oh? Ah. I see. Well . . . erm. No, my boy, no. Not that. Never that. Perhaps just keep that to yourself.
Grab their attention, and abjure the hackneyed tropes of self-description. Men of your ilk are ten a penny. Do you imagine them raptly reading the tedious recitation of your equally tedious opinions? Scouring the litany of truisms and platitudes you vainly term a “personal philosophy” to sniff out the glimmer of truth? Help me off with these braces. No, they care not a whit for your self-applied epithets. “Oh how intriguing,” will she say, “he’s a ‘laid-back guy!’ What a refreshing change from the proliferation of self-styled ‘genocidal maniacs’ and ‘scurrilous blackguards’ on this site.”?
Umph, goodness. Sitting, my boy, becomes a hallowed and cherished thing at my age. No less so its near homonym. And now, tenderly, mind you, tenderly, the right boot first. Ahhh. Tenderly, I say. Nor is it an especially enchanting conundrum that, as you claim, you “love livin’ large and tearin’ it up with [your] boys, but can also really be into a quiet night at home with some wine and pizza.” Everyone likes the outdoors. All men hate haters. That will never set you apart. Now this is the difficult part, all at once, and the devil take tenderness. AH! Damnit boy! No no, my maledictions are for the pain, not for you. Now the left one.
Wha? A fair question. Open with the unvarnished truth, the worst of it. Your apostate sister lives in sin with a rotating bevy of sweeps and guttersnipes. You defrauded the cobbler’s guild and are now persona non grata in Wolverhamptom. You left a lass up the duff and moved to the city to dodge her calls. Immediate disclosure absolves you from any guilt at later discovery. Good good, now the hose, tenderly again. Yes, my boy, there is an odor, and no, it’s not entirely healthy.
Don’t stare boy, it’s gout, just gout. Podagra. Your gawking shames you, and does naught to flatter me. Close your flapping jaw and tell me then, what past ghastliness can you put your hand to? Nothing? Well there must be something. A little wickedness in a past life is just figs in the pudding. Ah, I thought so. Go on then, let’s have it. Oh? Ah. I see. Well . . . erm. No, my boy, no. Not that. Never that. Perhaps just keep that to yourself.
