Suck it, Richard

Yeah, so I put Ahmed on a red eye for London yesterday morning. Mid-day I got an odd email asking "would you send your recipes for scones to the following email addresses?" Didn't think a great deal of it. I had made scones for him to snack on. Sent the recipes.

About four hours later I got a text message. "What was the name of that adorable little place in Freeport at the bottom of the hill" and so forth. (Crickets... ironic, since they were beginning to chirp quite loudly.)

Today I called his cell. He was out to lunch with his dad and his new friends. The 12 sorority sisters from the class of 1992, all of whom, incidentally, sat around him on the plane. And then treated him to lunch because he was "so charming and funny."

Oh yeah, I've got the Chirpy Cricket Freaking Philharmonic playing over here.

Now... we all experience jealousy. It's fine. I trust my guy. But let's face it... when he's going to be away for a month it gets tetchier. I mean, if the redhead with the big gazangas in the lab rubs herself against him and flirts, I can just respond by ignoring it til we get home, and saying "get your pants off and allow me to remind you why you never remember her name... just her rubby gazangas."

I can't reach from here. *glare*

So yeah... way to prime the Bacchanalian orgy on the flight, Virgin Atlantic. You couldn't find a single fat accountant with halitosis on the whole freaking plane to break up the boobage? So yeah... you can suck it, Richard Branson. I don't like you anymore.