No no, the coffee goes into the FACE, the pastry goes into the lap

It's all my fault. I shouldn't have let him go one so about Israel and the Pallies. He got excited and started quivering. It was rather like watching a chihuahua.

Except frantic dogs do not try to co-ordinate cup, saucer, and a plate of cake while they talk, wiggle, and blink. If they did, the result would, predictably, be the same.

Once the porcelain finished flying, I felt so sorry for him. He looked so forlorn, and the remnants of whipped cream in his crotch looked so......, well, I won't say what it looked like. But those were nice pants. If we had been anywhere near my apartment (and if I knew for certain that my room mate wasn't humping Abdul the sweaty Greek wrestler at that moment), I would've invited him over so that I could try to scrub out the stain. It looked SO incriminating.


When he blushes, he looks embarassingly guilty, that sure doesn't help. Carrying the newspaper in front of his crotch made it look like had something to hide.
I popped him into a cab, and took the bus.


Miss Thang on the other side of the wall is wild tonight. That buzzing is loud enough to hear from the hallway. I wonder if the neighbors have a clue. Get a room, bitch.