1. What a perfectly calibrated observation my dear boy…now if you could be so kind and please replace the toilet paper I will refrain from calling the employment service who sent you here today. I have some complaints, and one of them involves your hygeine. Ghastly, simply ghastly. You smell like a character from a Bryan Stanley Johnson novel. Albert Angelo, I believe. And it’s not my fault your parents couldn’t afford University, so whatever you’re about to do, please don’t.

  2. Sir, if you do not recognize the finer points of bathing in your own toilet water and watching Porky’s I, II, and III in one setting (ideally enjoyed with a 12-pack of Lucky and a freshly opened package of that fine delicacy known as Doritos Cool Ranch), well then I’m afraid you’re in no position to quibble over exquisite trash. Exquisite, sir! Something that no higher education can teach! I sincerely hope that one day, you will ruminate, nay PONTIFICATE, upon the grand wonders of dumb movies. Your experimental novelists hurt my head. They cause me to use BRAIN CELLS. I trust, good sir, that you are aware of the cultural controversy you have unleashed!

  3. My good man, you are talking to the founding member of the Andy Sidaris Fan Club! And dare I mention my time as a bartender at the Original Stringfellow’s? Where I met and began a torrid affair with Jenny Runacre? Who used to read Ann Berg’s Quin to me while administering the most delicate and sublime enema in all of Shepard’s Bush? I’m being very rhetorical right now, my dear. Please, for God’s sake, don’t pull a muscle.

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