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Seven grand? And what’s a literacy foundation going to do with a poodle? “You keep your hands off my grandson, Mabel!” Nana yells. “Suck it, you old hag,” Mabel yells back.
you went and got yourself a sugar mama who’s going to lock me up in some second-rate senior citizen home.” It takes me a second to catch on. I forgot I hadn’t filled her in on the details of my bachelor auction date yet. We’ve been two ships passing in the night this week, and with my regional manager breathing down my neck about the patrons coming in and asking me to sign their copies of the Post with the picture of me as Tarzan, the date hasn’t exactly been at the top of my mind. “Lila? She promised me you’d be able to see through the bars on the windows. And the nurses and doctors are very
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He cuts himself off, eyes going wide, as the baby behind him decides she’s had too much for breakfast, and Knox’s shirt is the perfect target. I barely register what’s happening in time to shove my chair out of the splatter zone. I’ve seen babies spit up before, but never like she’s auditioning for a role in The Exorcist: Infant Edition.
He sips his tea as though he’s not covered in baby goo and has no idea the hormonal explosion he’s just prompted throughout the entire coffee shop. One or two of the male baristas might’ve just ovulated too.
Knox (on his blog, in his official capacity of Mr. Romance) Dear Mr. Condescending Asshat at New York’s (supposedly) Finest Newspaper, It’s true what they say. You can give a man an education, a good job, and an important title, but you can’t take away his ignorance. And you, Mr. Asshat, are clearly a very ignorant man. I hate to break this to you, but your mother had sex. (This also presumably (but not definitively) means your father had sex.) If she hadn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Also, as my research indicates that you, too, claim children of your own, I know you, too, have had sex in your
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Brooks gestures to his nose. “Ah, you’ve got something…” Her eyes flare and she lunges under the table, coming up with a compact mirror. “What? Where?” “Oh, sorry. Thought that was your nose, but your asshole’s showing, and you sprouted two,” he says. “You’re not in high school anymore. Grow up.”
And because my brother isn’t a total shithead, he slips David a signed baseball. “Where were you hiding that ball?” I demand. He winks at me. “Where do you think balls go?” “You’re disgusting.”
