"You hear laughter breaking through, it makes you want to fart. You’re heading for a breakdown, better pull yourself apart. " - John Cooper Clarke

>Body parts.

>Today I asked the Twat to pick up some chicken thighs for supper seeing as he was eating at the Bavarian Representation, or somewhere, after a Press Conference. No problem, was his reply.

Except.

When I came home to let Herman try and escape from my garden I noticed that there were chicken breasts in the fridge. I am almost 99% sure that all men prefer breasts to thighs and so the difference, whether it refers to a chicken or any other animal should really be quite obvious.

Wrong again.

It appears that the Twat cannot tell the difference between a thigh and a breast, even from a chicken. This makes me wonder, then, how does the man expect to see a human female breast-feed, because the last time I looked, my breasts were tightly attached to my chest by a massive over-shoulder-boulder-holder and hence, were I to breast-feed in the near future (god, no, no and no), surely the poor child should be held against my massive bosom.

As far as I can see through the Twat’s failing eyesight, I should have a child suckling from my thigh. From what, I have no idea, but if I were to give advice to this hypothetical child, I would tell it to try attaching itself to one of the large blobs of cellulite. Obesity is all the rage, I hear.

So while I have a child suckling away all of my cellulite thus rendering me to a size zero and the child to a size ELVIS, what on earth would happen to all the milk in my boobs?

Breast-pumps.

That way, the children that I already have need no longer complain about not having any milk for their cereal as ta-daa! Mummy has just expressed some really, really fresh milk especially for them to make their Rice Krispies go “Snap! Crackle! and Sog.” It can even be used in the Twat’s coffee, used for rice pudding – if ever my arse gets into gear and makes one, added to scrambled eggs – the list is endless.

There is no point to this post other than the fact that the Twat is an idiot of the Highest Order. Complementing him may all be very well, but when I announce to him, the next time he confuses a chicken breast with a chicken thigh, that I am pregnant he may well take a course in body parts.

Because that’s all they are really. Though most men prefer breast, admittedly.

Just not chicken breast.

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