Friday 24 November 2017

Boys, that pimply posse, are banished from Wolverine's world

The Wolverine is finished with men. Boys are not just boring, she tells you one Saturday evening, they're plain nasty on top of it. Plus, they don't have a clue about anything.

Boys just hang around in their hoodies pretending to be cool and the next thing you know their Mammies are shouting at them to put on their anoraks or they'll catch pneumonia. She snorts witheringly.

She absolutely can't stand boys anymore.

They think they're great.

They never seem to realise they have pimples, or notice that they're wearing clashing colours.

They think girls are just there to admire them and take all the crap they hand out.

For example, this boy who was officially 'with' one of the Wolverine's friends, started going with this girl's pal behind her back.

He neglected to inform his girlfriend that he'd broken up with her -- but told everybody else that he did it because she was annoying. Her friend is utterly devastated. And that's not all.

Last night, this guy the Wolverine knows was asking on Facebook what Keith was doing going around with Samantha.

As Keith is officially supposed to be 'with' the Wolverine, she immediately texted him to find out what the hell was going on.

So, what was going on, you ask.

The Wolverine slumps against the worktop.

She doesn't know.

Keith denied it and got really mad and kept asking who told her.

She's sick of boys. She'll probably break up with him. She doesn't think she'll get married.

Forget dinner, she just doesn't want to eat.

That evening the house phone rings, but when you answer, the caller hangs up.

As you replace the receiver, the Wolverine stampedes down the stairs.

Who was it, she pants.

You don't know, you tell her. Somebody just hung up on you.

She sighs. It was probably Keith, who probably got a fright when you answered the phone, she accuses.

The phone rings again. The Wolverine answers.

"Hi Keith," she says coldly.

You hear a tiny, distant yammering.

"I need to take this into the hall," the Wolverine tells you.

Somehow, you are helplessly propelled towards the keyhole.

This is completely inappropriate, you tell yourself, as you hear her give her faithless lout the old heave-ho.

Thumbs-up to the Wolverine, you think, as your husband walks in and catches you, ear jammed against the door.

"Oh, whatever," you say defiantly.

Irish Independent

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