The crybaby pizza bandit struck again in

I snapped off the radio. Damn if my son Harry wasn't at it again. "The crybaby pizza bandit" they said...I was so ashamed. I heard sniffling and a burp coming from Harry's room.

I stormed into the room, there he was, my 34 year old stepson, drinking a 2 liter of PepsiClear and crying like a toddler, while shoving meatball pizza into his piehole. "Really?"

He looked at me through his tears and said "I'll never be as hot at Beyonce, so why bother taking care of myself anymore?" He then stuffed another piece of meatball pizza into his

cannula, which only expedited his girth spurt. He argued that his paunch should receive food directly, and without pesky middle men like taste buds. His child was destined to have

so many tubes a London Underground worker might start charging tickets. His paunch also disputed it was a sunken chest. The argumentative paunch commented on just about everything

from football to wood glue. His argumentative paunch really just told it like it was. But everyone else thought he was a jerk. Like her Roman nose hated his argumentative paunch

so did her proud breasts resent its intrusion into their space. They wavered pendulously, before swinging into action. Despite their body language, Ethel and Harvey's dance moves

betrayed an utter contempt for contemporary dance -- all arts in fact, particularly collage. What were their lives but a dreadful pastiche, a cut-and-paste disaster of sensation,

fragmentation and glue everywhere. Which when hung up on the wall were wonky, didn't go with the wallpaper & slightly annoyed visitors without them even realising it.