Interesting developments are arriving thick and fast in my Spam folder. If you don’t care to share them, look away now.
Now that Viagra is out of copyright, and prices have drooped by ninety per cent overnight (in a way one might imagine to be quite opposite to the brand image), I seem to be being offered fewer opportunities to maintain the lady’s interest fully between the After-Eight mints and, as it were, cock-crow.
Instead, my more perceptive Spammers in recent days have been proposing to rapidly trim belly fat without dieting, thanks to Forskolin. Bosley Hair is offering me an anniversary special opportunity to defeat hair loss; I can reverse my Type-2 diabetes with a free bottle of Glycemate; while, most intriguing of all, adorna@adornacream wants to help me grow my breasts naturally.
Taken together with the many offers of urgent finance, the dating sites for lonely singles juxtaposed with suggestions that I look at lovely Svetlana’s body (presumably for comparison purposes?), the special deals on car leasing, my Spam folder is not presenting a very attractive image of me these days.
Flabby, balding, with huge manboobs, financially underperforming, condemned to drive my own 15-year-old VW rustbucket into the ground, hooked on carbohydrate and incapable of making my way to the Russian embassy unaided, as I sit straining at stool I notice with distaste that the bathroom floor is covered in toenail clippings….
Maybe it’s got a point?
The haggard face that greets me over the basin, with its woolly, white felt beard and contrasty black Zapata moustache; the Louis Vuitton eye-bags beneath a noble brow that wasn’t there last time I looked, now extending over the back of my head; the eyes bulging like toads’ eyes from excess blood-pressure, the purulent, greeny-yallery laughter lines mingling with ancient zit craters mined with clusters of little blackheads…
Why, I’m glad to be so longsighted now that I can remain in blissful denial about my close-up appearance, until a selfie taken by the unforgiving light of the camera flash reveals the bitter truth: I’m an old woman, with puffy eyes and a fluffy beard.
I’ve always wondered why TV presenters warn you the report contains flash photography, now I know. It’s horrifying.
Natural breast growth is obviously more desirable than the unnatural variety, by which I guess @adornacream means silicon implant surgery. I already use a different method than hormone creams, however, which is to microwave my dinner ingredients all together in one dish, covered with pvc clingfilm. That way, you get to cook more economically while watching your breasts grow.
Melting plastic on a fishsteak broiled with diced potatoes and broccoli spears (add a dab of butter, cook for 7 minutes) is the best and most delicious way I know of obtaining the oestrogen-mimicking chemicals known as phthalates (the Greeks had a word for it), that can feminise the toughest male. My breasts are coming on a treat, easily passing the pencil test.
They do get in the way a bit when I’m writing, as I have to lean forward to type these, my interesting Posts, on a tiny malfunctioning laptop here on the coffee-table. Poor posture leads to all kinds of problems, tit-rash among them. How do real women cope, I wonder?
Like the poor jogger we just passed on our walk, mammaries flying about like cats in a sack as she tries keeping pace with a fit-looking younger friend, egging her on. It reminds me to get on Amazing.uk, order myself a sport bra before anything else happens.
It’s been mooted by certain people that I should present my Posts live on-line, as it were, being as how they’re so painfully humoresque, but I don’t think so, not on the basis of this evidence. I’m not some kind of freakshow. No cutesy kitten that’s made best friends with an alligator who has just eaten her own children. Not YouTube material.
A man with natural breasts? That’s so yesterday. You should see my friend ‘Carol’.