Ah, the perils of being a feminine Demolition Man.
Naturally, when commissioned to demolitionate a mass murderers mansion, the best way to do it is to move in to the mansion for a few days, so the teenage son can watch you fiddle in the bath.
And instead of getting on with assessing the architecture, a tumble simple has to be taken so you can sit there and flash the gash at the teen.
So of course, he's going to lock you in the cellar with a maniac who's been in a hole for 15 years, waiting for someone to deadify him and solidify him in 15year old soggy cement of the extremely quick drying nature so the House can Come Alive.
But if the only was to get out is to git git git you drunk, git you lurve drunk off ya humps, then naturally escapage by jiggling your jugs will fail, and you'll have to snog some decrepit old gimmer.
And after all that, she couldn't be arsed to blow up the possessed building anyways!
Still, not as painful as hours to Delaware with a right stroppy cow with a strop on. But not as painful if she had a strap on. Or something.
And if you've been run off the road by yourself coming in the opposite direction with an inbred redneck hillbilly Mr Plough, why, aren't you glad you packed that olde telephone, that by serendiptous coincidence can be plugged into a telegraph pole to call for help!
Even if it is help from Voldemorty vicars and rapey cops.
But still the haggardarse hag from Hell survives the ordeal, to inflict further whingement upon the populace!
All that, and canine monkey rapeage combined with offers of baggy jammy botty yankdowns for the perusal of Pretties posteriors too!
I'm sure a profileration of chocolatey fingering makes for a biscuitesque collective.
