This goes a long way to explaining why the man’s never married. If all their mother-in-laws are like this, it’s a wonder British men ever get hitched.
Edna totally pwns him, too. Enjoy watching the fearsome Simon Cowell conquered, eating crow and smiling through his pain, for the first and possibly only time in his entire life. Who doesn’t like to start the day with a little Schaedenfreude?
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There, I said it.
So now I’m just going to up and tell you about the time my mother was offered a quarter of a million for me.
Shoot. There goes the punchline.
So…previously on the ol’ raincoaster blog…my mother used to live in Riyadh with a CIA agent. Her job was at the King Fahd Hospital (I think every Saudi city has a King Fahd Hospital) in medical records, and, as one does, she had pictures of her children on and around her desk.
The Saudis, being relatively new to the modern world, had imported vast numbers of support and technical staff from the West, yea even unto Canuckistan, and occasionally ther would be slight episodes of culture shock in one or more directions.
This was one of those times.
The Saudis, being relatively new to the modern world but nobody’s fools, their Gucci tabs notwithstanding, had sent entire generations of young men to be trained in the West, choosing top of the totem pole jobs like doctor, dentist, etc. You won’t find many Saudis abroad studying to be lab technicians: that’s what Americans are for, duh. Support staff is imported, bosses are homegrown but schooled abroad.
And one of these Saudi doctors was in my mother’s office, no doubt complaining, as they all did, that the medical transcriptionist (who hailed from, if memory serves, Tennessee and had, consequently, great difficulties with English) had mistaken his Oxonian vowels, not to mention his Etonian (or at least Harrovian) consonants, and typed that the pregnant woman was dilated to “twenty-five hundred meters” rather than the “twenty-five sontemeters that he’d actually said.
And his glance happened to fall on a portrait of yours truly. And it is a fact universally acknowledged that a young Saudi doctor possessed of a secure job at the King Fahd Hospital must be in want of wife #1.
So he made an offer.
A quarter mil.
I should be honoured: Brooke Shields‘ mother was only offered forty racing camels. I did the exchange at the time and figured out I was worth about fifteen thou more than she was. Obviously the economies of Riyadh and Milan operate on completely different principles, if not planets.
Mother was nobody’s fool, and also possessed of the same demented and twisted DNA as I, myself: the family anything-for-a-story trait surfaced and she decided to bicker with him.
Fifteen minutes passed and she got the price up by forty k and a couple of pedigreed camels, but he wouldn’t go to three hundred thou, for very good reason.
As he pointed out, there’s got to be something wrong with a girl who’s 23 and not married yet. Smart cookie: it took my boyfriend of the time simply months to figure that out.
Yes, I was marked down because I was past my Best Before date.
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Surely no nation ever had a better incentive; in a world of readily available international travel and corrective lenses, pure-blooded Brits are in danger of dying out altogether.
For good reason.
Now, that font of all wisdom the Sun has revealed the solution, and the odds are it lies within your easy grasp, if you happen to be reading this blog in your kitchen or in the checkout line at the supermarket (where it would fit very well between Batboy Goes to College on News of the World and How Jen’s Ovaries Are Holding Up on People). Just bag it.
Bagging, or masking, is a fetish that’s being taken up by couples looking for daring ways to spice up their love life.
One of the pair agrees to have their head covered during sex.
Note that double-bagging with plastic is not recommended, particularly if you’re a popular and talented Conservative MP in charge of the morality crusade. Connect this with the Socks for Sex post we did earlier and voila! The key to sexual success in England: just put a bag on each end and away you go.
And a new, bolder technique for reconciling God and Man: go ahead and tell them we just make shit up.
It’s great to see the ancient layers of pretence completely stripped away like that, freshened as by sandblasting, and the doctrines presenting their renewed, if pitted, faces to the adoring hordes.
Who needs God anymore? Certainly not the Vatican; it is entirely able to issue its own commandments at any time. We at the ol’ raincoaster blog look forward to the Ten Commandments of Wii, the Ten Commandments of Skateboarding, the Ten Commandments of Using the Remote in Company, etc, etc. Plenty to work on here, if you don’t acknowledge Miss Manners as your personal savior (as we do).
From the AP.
The “Drivers’ Ten Commandments,” as listed by the document, are:
1. You shall not kill.
2. The road shall be for you a means of communion between people and not of mortal harm.
3. Courtesy, uprightness and prudence will help you deal with unforeseen events.
4. Be charitable and help your neighbor in need, especially victims of accidents.
5. Cars shall not be for you an expression of power and domination, and an occasion of sin.
6. Charitably convince the young and not so young not to drive when they are not in a fitting condition to do so.
7. Support the families of accident victims.
8. Bring guilty motorists and their victims together, at the appropriate time, so that they can undergo the liberating experience of forgiveness.
9. On the road, protect the more vulnerable party.
10. Feel responsible toward others.
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The meme may now be retired; this roundup of decayed lolcat corpses will never be bested. From Heart on a Stick, via Gawker. Warning: NSF Lunch. Or cat people. Is this how god kills a kitten when you…hmmm, much to think on.
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raincoaster 