While going out with Justin Timberlake is faintly interesting and amusing, the amount he wants to sexually possess me, truly is alarming. The other day, he was around at Angel Towers with a bin bag stuffed with the finest trinkets and baubles known to Christendom all purchased from the local Avon Cosmetics Emporium. There was Magnum 24 hour on duty roll on men’s deoderant (he says I have the face of an Angel but the perspiration of Lucifer, Mephisotphiles and Beelzebub after a night dancing to early 90’s rave in the passage to india), ‘Park Avenue’ ladies fragrance and some tea tree gel for my weeping pustules. Despite this, (and also how he takes me for wonderful dates to motorway service stations) poor old Timberlake has limited charm. He can only really talk about central heating systems and crop rotation and he sexual speciality is the ham shank over a picture of Mr. Belding and Screech from 90’s high school high brow ‘comedy’, ‘Saved by the Bell’. Therefore I have decided to take a lover. He must meet the following requirements:
- He must be a fan of my favourite pursuits, eye writhing and shitting in burnt out tyres.
- He must admire all 20 of my offensive tattoos.
- He must be able to blow dry my hair should I burn my hand on egg acid in Paul Danan’s needy laboratory.
- He must own a spillage kit.
- He must never use the phrase ‘at the end of the day’.
- He must be able to tickle a tuba monster under the chin without shitting himself.
- He must prize me above all other treasures and jewels of the world.
Dear world of shedders, are YOU that man? Do you know someone who might meet my standards? Can YOU take me on dates to motorway services? Can you give me any advice of where to pick up fellas?
Look at this