Jessica, sticking a tiara on your head and squeezing your bulk into a tight dress (as you have done for your profile pic) doesn't make you a woman. Maybe you ARE a woman, and I respect your right to that belief and support the rights of transgendered people. However, going after a business for exercising a right to not touch anyone's genitalia and then smugly revelling in what you imagine is their downfall at your grubby hands does make you a prize cunt. I don't care if you have ovaries, testes, or a bowl of bon-bons; you're a prize cunt. By the way, why do you have such an obsession with how girls insert tampons, and why are you seeking to have a pool party whereat LGBTQI+ guests over the age of twelve are encouraged to swim topless, and no parents there? Maybe I'm getting a tad sceptical in my old age, but this is really a bit suspicious.
Anyway, if you must prove your point and bully a beautician into waxing your ball bag, here's hoping you get one with no experience, and who re-enacts that waxing scene from The Forty-Year-Old Virgin on your Jatz crackers.
Another person who is making me roll my eyes is Mark Fitzgibbon, head of the NIB. He's put forward the notion that Medicare be abolished, with people being forced to take out private coverage, and 'we' (his term, which I take to mean him and his cronies) choose the insurer. Mate, can you not see just how corrupt, rancid, and foetid that idea is? I can't afford private health cover. Neither can many other people. And precisely WHAT insurer are you going to pick for people? Weee-eelllll, given you're the head of the NIB, I'm guessing your lot will get the lion's share, under your proposal. Fuck right off with your stupid ideas, and take the stench of rat with you.
Okay, now who wants to know the stupidest thing I read today? Here 'tis:
Something else I no longer have is my pet cockatiel, Charlie. He passed in his sleep last night, at the grand old age of twenty-four. He loved to rock out to anything with a good bass line, and particularly loved the opening to Psycho Killer by Talking Heads. How I miss watching him dance on his perch. RIP, you squawking old ratbag.
Oh well, book signing in Scone tomorrow - 10.30am to 12.00 midday. Excited.
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