In My Fair Lady, Eliza Doolittle’s young suitor sings, “I have often walked down your street before”, but he didn’t sing about camping out on her doorstep for a year.
Here’s my question: who has the time to stalk someone to the extent that this broad did?
What started as a potential relationship on a dating site ended in a stalking nightmare for one Paradise Valley (AZ) man.
PV police say the victim met 31-year-old Jacqueline Claire Ades of Phoenix online and went on a date with her.
But things quickly went awry.
After that date, police say Ades began texting the man constantly, sending him more than 65,000 text messages. The victim told police sometimes she would send up to 500 texts a day.
That’s roughly a fifty texts an hour, assuming this chick had other stuff to do during the day, like eat, sleep, go to the can and work at a job. But sixty-five thousand texts?
At my most besotted, I only ever sent Nigella a few hundred (okay, that was one weekend, and there was gin involved).
This creature probably has carpal tunnel syndrome from all the texting. If she was in California, she’d probably sue the object of her desire for damages (and win).
Anyway, follow that link at your peril because nightmares. Under the term “bunny-boiler” in the dictionary is a picture of this loon. I bet her “dating website” pic looks nothing like this, either; yet another reason why I will never — ever — resort to that avenue for getting dates.
People are crazy, and getting crazier. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to grease the chains on the drawbridge.
I knew quite a few men in my yoof who ran this danger:
A small Australian marsupial known as the antechinus shot to fame after the discovery of two new species five years ago, when scientists revealed how males every mating season are, quite literally, killing themselves by having too much sex.
During the brief breeding period, males ferociously copulate with as many females as possible, in violent sessions that can last upwards of 14 hours – and, their bodies deteriorate as a result.
In the animal kingdom, reproduction can be a dangerous and peculiar game.
Not just in the animal kingdom, Bubba. In humans, this circumstance is known as “Spring Break” where, as is the case for the antechinus, all that’s required is a multitude of willing female partners.
(If perchance you spot your daughter or [shudder] granddaughter in either of the above pics, I apologize sincerely.)
And for those callow young men who think this antechinal fate couldn’t possibly befall them, let me assure you: after a single bout of frantic lovemaking, you’ll be pleasantly sated; but after four such encounters with different partners, even over a whole weekend, you’ll feel like death would be a welcome respite.
So trust me: after fourteen partners on the trot, your internal (and for that matter external) organs, like that of antechinus, are going to resemble raw beef, eggs and carrots after a minute spent in a blender.
Don’t ask me how I know this. I still have the nightmares.
As it’s Mother’s Day (Happy Hallmark Holiday to all you mothers), I thought I’d post this pic of a single mom who’s self-reliant and not shy to get her hands dirty around the house:
…or one who can do a twofer:
…and then there are the moms who can just get out and have a little fun on this, their special day:
Finally: every man should remember that if you ever forget Mother’s Day, this will happen:
…followed shortly by this:
You have been warned.
The old homosexual word for a woman is “fish” so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by this headline (via Insty):
HuffPost: Women Would Rather Have Sex with a Fish Than a Man
Of course, it’s the Supreme Dreckmag itself, so I shouldn’t be surprised. However, unlike for most of their bullshit, this time there is some pictorial evidence to support their claim:
Once again, it is the extraordinarily-eccentric Helena Bonham-Carter so perhaps one should take it with a grain of salt; but still. (By the way: is it so wrong to find this pic very arousing?)
That said, I really do prefer HBC in more ummm conventional poses:
Were I not so allergic to manifestly-insane women, she might once have replaced Nigella in my Pantheon of Hotties.
According to reports, BritPrince Harry will be living with his new Hollywood wife in a tiny village in the Cotswolds area of Oxfordshire, out in the west of Britishland — and from personal experience, I can attest to the place’s extraordinary beauty. There is a silver lining to his cloud (the cloud being his bossy, oh-so modern and trendy spouse): his “local” will be the Falkland Arms, and a pretty place it is too…
Alert Readers will notice the presence of Britain’s best brewery on the sign, which means that Harry, a renowned drinker in his youth, will be able to drink pints of Wadworth 6X… assuming his health-Nazi wife allows him to ever visit the place, that is.
I have often said that had I been Rick Blaine in the movie Casablanca, I would have arranged to have Major Strasser send that Commie rat Viktor Laszlo off to a concentration camp, then spent the rest of the war in Casablanca making boatloads of money from the bar and lots of babies with Ilsa.
I grant you that in my scenario above, Casablanca would have been somewhat different from the version as released, but that’s just me. Others, however, are drawn to adventure, like this fool who is currently climbing Mt. Everest:
His name is Ben Fogle and he is an “adventurer”, which is all well and good while you’re a single young man with no responsibilities (which is why his counterparts in, say, the Marine Corps are considered expendable).
But Fogle leaves this behind to go on his adrenaline-junkie escapades:
It’s not just the fact that Marina Fogle is drop-dead lovely (which she is), but there are children involved. So when Daddy plunges to his death / gets eaten by a shark / dies of some hideous disease in a poxy jungle in some shithole country, these beautiful kids will have to come to terms with the fact that their Daddy thought that his adventures were more important than they were (which he clearly does).
Frankly, were I Mrs. Fogle, I’d ditch her selfish husband and hook up with someone more responsible. He wouldn’t have to be an accountant or lawyer or some equally-dreadful nebbish, just someone with a greater sense of familial duty than her existing husband. That she doesn’t do this makes her a better person than he is.
Nevertheless, Fogle will doubtless meet a pointless death like that Aussie idiot who was always playing with dangerous animals, and Mrs. Fogle can get on with her life. It’s just too bad that the kids have to suffer along the way.