Lord above us! It's Friday 13th. Where is Jamie Lee Curtis? I don't really care where she is, frankly, just so long as she's not in my house. Or exposing her breasts.
Why do straight men get off on looking at/touching/tasting boobs? I just don't get it. Or gay men, for that matter, why do they go for other men's nipples or like to have their nipples mucked about with? It's horrible, ticklish and painful. For me, anyway. Of course, there are people who get off on being spanked, tied up or made to dress up as French maids. I have no understanding of that, either. I should have taken psychology at some point or another. I suppose, in Kylie's words, it's never too late. As far as adult education programmes go, though, dear reader, my first intentions are to take courses in photography and pottery. I always fancied fingering something brown. I can see myself, now, like Demi Moore in Ghost, with skank all over my hands - and Patrick Moore between my thighs! Oh, no, not Patrick Moore. Or Patrick Kielty... What's his name...? Ah, Patrick Swayze!
That was not, my little maid, a Freudian slip. I have no desire to have Patrick Moore or Patrick Kielty touch me sensually, aid me at the potter's wheel or lick my nipples.
Nipples make me heave.
Though nipples were on full display this lunch time in Morningside. I went into Caffé Nero for a coffee, piece and bag of crisps. At table, Minge was joined by two ridiculous bints who thought they could think for themselves. And it wasn't cold in there, but both of them had nipples like coat hooks. I don't usually look at women's nipples, but these were difficult to avoid.
Their conversation, however inane an nonsensical, was interesting. It seemed they worked for a charity, though which, I couldn't make out. One of the women claimed that they pay for a certain amount of space in The Daily Record every Tuesday. Some kind of story or report is submitted as if it were actual news. No, really! It's not news at all. Directly or indirectly, these people pay to promote themselves in some shape or form - and it's paid for by The Scottish Executive! I wish I wasn't so shy, I'd have asked them who they were, if they felt no guilt in duping people in believing they were reading a genuine news article when they weren't and how much their so called news stories cost every week.
"We have to be careful what we put in for the next four weeks," said the fat one. "We can't be seen to be supporting The Executive or electioneering."
"Aye," said the glaikit one.
So they understood, then, that people might see through their pretence. But how? I really should have found out who they were, who they represented.
Their constant use of abbreviations and initialisms worried me along with other such things. The worst was BL. The fat one used it several times, the glaikit one seemingly understanding what it meant. Then she interrupted the fat one with, "What's BL?"
Why not just say bottom line?
The rest of their conversation was XXX hardcore for the feeble minded. I could tell the fat one was trying to play devil's advocate, but it was a fruitless exercise. The glaikit one simply replied, "Aye," every time.
"Although there aren't many gaelic speakers on the east coast, the Edinburgh café should be bilingual."
"We should use blue ink. Black ink could be seen as racist."
"Did you see G4 broke up? They were all sucking each other off."
When I got home, I did some investigations.
Yes, it seems G4 have broken up. Hurrah or boo-hoo? Je ne sais pas. But anyway...
G4 are no more. They've gone their separate ways. Apparently, they announced this on GMTV seven days ago. It's taken me this long to find out, my lamb. My finger's not really on the pulse any more. Not that there is a pulse. Music as an art form, sadly, is quite dead. These days, it's an industry, as those who work in that field often claim themselves. Tsk.
G4, in their revealing interview, ahem, revealed, ahem, that they were arguing on the road (as opposed to on the coach) and the constant bickering had taken its toll. They could stand it no longer.
The truth, on the other hand is that the chubby one's girlfriend had been sucking the cock of anyone who'd asked, including the gay one. The chubby one didn't like this, or the fact that the gay one thought he could perform oral better than his girlfriend. The blonde one and the arab-looking one became closer and closer, tired of listening to the gay one and the chubby one's constant arguments. The gay one and the chubby one resented the other two pairing up... The two cliques then seemed to declare war on one another, and, well, it's all over. And all because of a BJ.
So the fat bint in Caffé Nero was half right. Surprisingly.
I had a nice time in Morningside, though I had to hide when in Waitrose. Yes, JK was stalking me again. I stood behind the cut flowers and watched her for a bit. She bought cheap sausages and a tin of baked beans. I can't understand it. Those Harry Potter movies must be bringing in the moolah, surely.
While waiting for the bus to take me back home, I had a look at the rail tracks near the former Morningside Sation. I've contacted as many parliamentary and council candidates as I can (there is an election on, dear reader), asking them if they plan on supporting the reinstatement of the south suburban railway. The only people to respond so far are the Lib Dems. The Tories haven't replied, nor have the SNP. I think perhaps the SNP know they don't have a chance in hell in this constituency and the Tories and complaisant.
The Lib Dems say they support the reinstatement of the south suburban railway. Nice, but I wonder why they've done nothing about it during the last four years. They've been in power here in coalition with Scottish Labour for the past eight years. The transport minister, for the last few years, has been a Lib Dem.
So, I'm just about to contact Scottish Labour through their campaign hotline. Let's see if they have the good grace to reply.
Before getting on the bus, a jogger ran past me and two elderly women at the bus stop, knocking the shopping out of one of the old woman's hand. She knew what she'd done, but didn't stop to apologise or help. I'm reminded that joggers are wankers. If you jog, I'm sorry, but it's true. And don't tell me you've never indulged in onanism. I don't believe you.
The har is terrible today, honey. It usually dissipates as the day goes on, burned off by the sun. But not today. It was quite sunny this morning, but then the mist began to billow in, like steam or smoke. It was warm in Morningside with only scattered cloud, but I could see the area of Edinburgh where I live from there, was blanketed in fog or low cloud. By the time I went for the bus to take me home, it was enveloping Morningside, too. JK will be pleased. She likes the har. It gives her inspiration. As does a pack of Carlsberg and a spliff. Allegedly.
Why can't you see that I'm still mad about you? Even though I've found out about you, I'll always stay forever true. And in my heart I will forgive you. I've got so much love to give you. It's never too late, we've still got time. It's never too late, you can still be mine. It's never too late to change your mind, dear reader.