neurotica

Two women sit at a bar, one hurling down yeasty pots of undergraduate-priced beer with the guttural abandon and undisciplined bravado of Fred West, one sipping with self-consciously stylized daintiness at vermouth with a look of a gleeful Teutonic smugness.

They are friends, and talk of British comedy and British dryness and British food like steak and kidney pie, where pudding is metonymous with dessert...
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Nothing pumps my intertextuality nads more gratuitously than watching Stewie from The Family Guy sing Hungry Eyes in the one breath, and then peer down a well whilst uttering "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again" at the girl trapped therein in the next.

Alan Cumming has a perfume line poignantly entitled Cumming: The Fragrance. The ad makes...
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There's something inherently unkosher and morally objectionable in exercising too much maternalistic familiarity and canoodley baby-voiced sweet-love-down-by-the-fire with someone else's cat. It's the chin-scratching, tummy-rubbing, head-butting, whisker-tweaking equivalent of breastfeeding someone else's child or spontaneously grabbing the inner thigh of someone else's boyfriend. If indeed said child or boyfriend had six nipples. I am thus essentially both the wet-nurse and rube of the feline world....
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