As furtherance to my
series on the great unwashed, let me introduce you to this anonymous strumpet,
who I make no judgement on, except to note that Babylon is missing a whore
(tinkly laugh face)
I jest dears.
Dear Brenda is simply
another razor clawed, man trap and this is not her fault.
She talks at
length in her regional accent, detailing her associations with a married
person, HERE
A married person I
might add, for whom she works.
And this is the nob of
the problem.
Germaine Greer Garson
may have bandied about flaming bras in the 70’s, whilst fumigating to
whomsoever may be forced to listen, that ladies should abandon their husbands
and WORK but this is the evil within.
And I’ll tell you for
why.
She’s turned the
workplace into the bedroom. This is what feminism does, it makes married men
have sex with stenographers.
Well-done Germaine
WELL DONE INDEED.
One didn’t work dears.
One was too busy collecting Green Shield Stamps, to have time for collecting
notches on one’s bedpost.
Now one can only look on and sigh that one’s own family values are being flouted.
Now one can only look on and sigh that one’s own family values are being flouted.
Cannot one.
And one doesn’t like
it at all.
As I let the whole
sorry shame unfold from Brenda's overly lipsticked mouth, I ruminated on her
predicament. Her career future, I decided, was as flat as her vowels.
As ever I realised
that this like many other facts of life are to be found betwixt the pages of my
encyclopedia for life. My bedroom companion which nestles on the night stand
next to the teasmaid, simply waiting for me to search it’s pages for another
signpost for life.
One is referring of
course to one's Bible.
Our own Lord never
married. Neither did he have the daily commute, clutching a frappacino but sure enough there
he was. In the workplace having a brainstorming session with all the other men
disciples.
When, what does he
discover, but the slippery/slappery sensation of Mary Magdalene washing his
toes. Unbidden, but determined.
Glancing from the last
supper table, he notices his flip-flops have been removed and female wiles are
being generously applied.
Not by a qualified biblical podiatrist, but by a Lady of the Night.
Not by a qualified biblical podiatrist, but by a Lady of the Night.
Now, one wonders, if
this were any other man would he have given in? Would he have ignored his destiny? Would he have fallen prey to this foot fondling loosey Lucy?
Who knows what may then have occurred between exfoliation and crucifixion.
Who knows what may then have occurred between exfoliation and crucifixion.
But it certainly
explains the degree of breast beating he deployed in The Garden of Gethsemane.
Doesn’t.
It.
It.
She was a cunning fox
that Mary and I disagree with the words in the lovely ballad penned by Lord
Andrew Lloyd Fauntleroy in his “Jesus Christ Superstar”
I think you’ll find
Mary, you DID know how to love him.
A woman in the
workplace is asking for trouble. Push up bras this and minutes taken that. If women would REFRAIN from trying to be men then the sanctity of home and hearth would be restored.
Point made.
Anyway aside from music penning Lords and shrieking feminists, the real truth of my carefully yet beautifully written post here, is this.
Listen, learn and be
WARNED. Men have their below belt urges but ladies must not kneel to do it.
Which is to say DON'T yield men. Summon courage and turn away from the wanton flesh in our towns, villages, cities and seaside resorts.
Anyway enjoy.
The misfortunes of others, driven by lust, ambition and front bottom urgings are at least instructional.
The misfortunes of others, driven by lust, ambition and front bottom urgings are at least instructional.
Your Friend, Mrs M x
(Find me @mrsmountable
for more inspirational writings)
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