Sweethearts, please don’t feel neglected. I will answer all of you and do whatever gladly. For the moment a more pressing thing has been drawn to my attention:
I AM A LEG. Yes, really. Why this had not occurred to me before I do not know. Though I have always known what the Red Carpet at the Golden Globes has proven: Fuck with your face and botox till you look like what’s her name evil twin sister, up your boobs till they resemble balloons so tight you want to prick them, muscle up your arms like the only woman I detest (yes, Madonna, you whore): The one thing you cannot fake are your legs. Such satisfaction. As such I am a leg. I too cannot be faked. What you see is what you get. Unless you turn off the lights first.
Now before the likes of Tom aka Hippo and John aka Chicken Coop get carried away, or please do: I have always upheld, from the first time I had to uncork an obstinate wine bottle, that a woman’s strength lies between her thighs (for the dense: A man’s [strength] lies in his upper arms). Rather a pity that so many wines now come with screw tops. You can’t unscrew a bottle with your thighs. Maybe knees better suited. Anyway, for the uninitiated among my young female readership: What you do is you lower your ordinary garden variety cork screw into the cork. You then place bottle between your legs and PULL. Yes, upper thighs making an amazing clamp. Also proving my beloved law of physics: That of the longer lever.