Saturday, March 31, 2012
Don't you just hate it when Jude Law breaks into your house? We were walking home from an evening visiting my relatives, and noticed the front door was ajar. I bet it was Jude Law, said my missus, and she was correct: he was standing in our living room, having declared himself The King of No Pants. Damn it, Jude Law.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Don't you just hate it when Jude Law breaks into your house?
My girlfriend and I were watching a movie the other night and she left briefly to use the bathroom. My eyes were still on the television screen when she returned and cuddled up next to me. When I caressed her arm, however, it seemed hairier than I recalled. I looked down and there he was.
"Jude Law," I said, "what are you doing in my house?"
Upon discovery, he immediately righted himself and shouted "This porridge is too cold!" and he scampered into my bedroom.
We found him seconds later hiding under my bed. We had to call Animal Control to get him out.
Damn it, Jude Law.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Don't you just hate it when Jude Law breaks into your house? There was a loud crash at three in this morning, and, yep, there he was, Jude Law, standing in my living room, having broken into my house, wearing an impeccable three-piece suit and a novelty tie done up in a knot apparently of his own device, the half-half Windsor. I asked if that would make it a quarter Windsor, but Jude Law said that he no longer believed in fractions, as they were all "liars and brigands". But wouldn't "half" constitute a fraction? No; because half and half make one. I conceded the point, as I couldn't in good conscience call his concoction a full Windsor, nor a half-Windsor, and any arguments for the existence of fractions seemed to agitate him. Surveying the living room, and discovering that nothing seemed amiss, I then inquired as to the cause of the crash that had startled me from my slumber. He then defenestrated himself. Damn it, Jude Law.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Don't you just hate it when Jude Law breaks into your house? This morning, I woke up, and there he was in my kitchen, wearing an open bathrobe and boxer shorts, stirring eggs in a frying pan with a spatula. He wasn't cooking them; the stove wasn't on, and the eggs were still in their shells. He was just pushing them about. Then he saw me, yanked an egg out of the pan, and ran out the door, complaining of a burnt hand. Damn it, Jude Law.