That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

-Actually, I thought my name was Spam until I was 6. That was my dad’s favourite food, so that’s what he called me.
I look at my SLF in shocked disbelief.
-He what?
-Yep. Well, I didn’t know what my name was ‘til I went to school, she adds. When they took registration on the first day of school, I didn’t know what I was called.
-Right…. What do your parents call you now?
- No-one calls me by my full name; it’s usually Bren.
- Oh. You know, I found out the other day that ‘bren’ is an old French word for shit. Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. oops. That’s rather unfortunate.
--…..or it’s ‘B’. But from the age of 16 onwards people called me ‘Con’.
… and you realise that in French that means ‘cunt’, right?
-Perfect. ____________________________________________________________________________________

I don’t think it’s possible to beat that

1.Blogfolks, I was still thrashing under the clawed foot of the Dreaded Lurgy this weekend; various parts of me were hurting, aching or even exploding. Nasty.

2.Well, do you want to know what love is, blogpeople?

3. It’s when your special lady friend offers to rub your belly even though she has been (graphically, extensively) warned about the fact that such a thing will make you fart like there’s not tomorrow.

4. And she does it anyway, and she doesn’t even care, and she doesn’t even kick you out of bed.