A girlfriend is breaking up with her boyfriend. God only knows what she was doing with him in the first place because, well, unless you like over-carbed bears… well… maybe you do? But I don’t much. And I don’t think a man should be mistaken for a hairy meatloaf when he wears only a towel round his lower bits.
To be truthful, her soon-ta-be-exo boyfriend looked like an uncleaned hairbrush. I saw him in his cossie once at the beach and I almost frew up. Angelhair pasta has never attracted me since.
Anyway, she’s decided to throw a partay in honour of the breakup (and also to get some rebound festooning in there while she is still in her ‘grieving’ period. I mean, the woman wears widows’ weeds anyway – you know, the black… oh bugger, google it if you’re so curious).
“So, a title! My party needs a title!” She’s staring at the ceiling, her finger in her mouth in such a way I want to slap her. “Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My…” “Snatch? No. Too crude. Way too crude. I cannot believe you put those words into my mouth,” I say.
“Ding Dong The Dong Is Gone?” I look at her blankly: what the hell did she just say? I then pretend not to notice. “Shoulda Made Ja Leave Yer Key?” “Well, why don’t we do all of Abba’s lyrics next? That’s a coward’s way out. Think!”
So it is written and so it shall be: the party title is “At Least I Never Have To See Him Naked Again”. I tell you, we almost broke a nail thinking that up. If we have to name a ship or a puppy or something, one of us will have to wear a truss.