…begins this afternoon, wherein your Humble Narrator leaves the warmth and comfort of Hardy Country for the metropolis of Londonistan:
For no reason at all, I’m starting to miss my Springfield 1911…
Anyway, I’ll be spending a couple-three days here and crossing two items off Ye Olde Buckette Lyste (details to follow) before heading north to Scottishland to check off yet a third: the Royal Military Tattoo in Edinburgh.
So this guy and two women were having an intimate little threesome someplace in Germany. I’m not going to go into detail because from what I understand, when Germans start to do Teh Kinky, there’s no telling what’s going to happen, and I’d like to eat sometime in the next two days.
However, as events reached a climax, so to speak, things started to go wrong for the three participants, to whit:
Okay, I made the last one up, and I’m probably wrong anyway. Being that he’s German, the sight of two women screaming in agony because of a sex act almost guarantees that he did.
Comment of the day was to the German newspaper who suggested that next time, the hapless threesome ought to try bondage instead.
Apparently all these women are desirable, according to scientists, because their figures have the ideal waist-to-hips ratio:
…which only proves that scientists don’t know diddly. None of the women can be called attractive.
Here’s a pro tip from a longtime lecher (that would be me): put Nigella Lawson in the lineup, and those other women wouldn’t rate a single look.
The perfect ratio is: big boobs, small waist, wide hips. Otherwise known as an “hourglass” figure, you pencil-pushing dweebs.
Afterthought: I bet that some of these purported “scientists” were female — which would explain everything.
Ah yes… last night.
Pretty much the same cast of characters (The Englishman and Reader John M. — Mr. Free Market had to stay late at work: celebratory drinks after some successful capitalist venture, no doubt), the same products of Messrs. Wadworth and Company, same wonderful fun, same pub. Same final result, of course.
Back when the skull-hobgoblins have finished their Happy Dance…
While driving through the Cotswolds last week, Mr. FM and I stopped off for lunch at a place intriguingly named, “The Old Prison”.
The cop shop was on the other side:
While eating my ham ‘n three-cheese panini sandwich in the little restaurant, my eye happened to catch sight of this commemorative sign:
Try as I may, I cannot think of a reason why this excellent form of prison work should not be introduced into our modern U.S. prisons. Think about it: it keeps the inmates busy, keeps them fit, keeps them out of mischief and, for those interested in such trivia, it’s a completely green source of energy.
And speaking of energy, here’s a quick pic of Mr. FM’s little conveyance which had carried us up into Gloucestershire:
Not very green, of course; but then again, I’m not one of those who are interested in such trivia.
Okay, we now have a new Internet connection installed here at Free Market Towers. I was warned not to thrash the British Telecom technicians who arrived to install it, which took some of the fun out of the whole thing. So I yelled at the oaf who does the laundry for screwing up one of my shirts, which made me feel much better*.
Anyway, apart from occasionally dropping the signal, all seems to be well with this latest magical apparatus; so now it remains simply to wade through a hundred or so emails that I couldn’t see before, and get in touch with friends and family to reassure them that I am still alive. Apparently, Daughter got a new puppy…
And there are some catch-up posts below, which I’d lined up in the queue whilst incommunicado. Enjoy.
By the way, I was told that I’m starting to sound more British — not the accent, just in my choice of words and the manner of speech.
Well, pip-pip till tomorrow.
*I do my own laundry here.