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“That man’s head is so far up his own ass, he could wear it as a hat.”
It didn’t matter what I looked like. The Archbishop could piss off.
“Shit! Damn! Fu—” “Stop it!”
He followed me like a plague of locusts.
He won’t be pleased—” “Unexpected bonus—”
Clearly, my husband wasn’t the most pompous ass of all the asses; the title unequivocally belonged to Jean Luc.
But I didn’t want to relinquish my anger. I wanted to throttle my husband with it.
“Iron sharpeneth iron, so you’re being an ass because I, too, am a piece of metal.”
“How anyone can write about grass for twelve pages is beyond me. That’s the real sin.”
“I’ve been thinking,” he said finally. “A dangerous pastime.”
“I know if you aren’t swearing or singing about well-endowed barmaids, something is wrong.”
“Do you promise to behave yourself?” “Of course not. That would ruin the fun.”
Every single muscle in his body tensed—even his eyelids. It was extraordinary.
“You drink like a man.” “Maybe men can learn a thing or two from women.”
he and his merry band of bigots
If there was a God, he or she had a shit sense of humor.
