When Fat Sister called earlier to say she was on her way round for dinner, she asked me to turn the oven on. My tics had three questions for her:
“Shall I rub my clitoris on it?”
“Shall I give it a lap dance?”
“Shall I turn the oven on with KY jelly or with oven gloves?”
She laughed, told me what temperature to set it at, and hung up.
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