Betty is accustomed to hedging her portion controls on the shorter side for Friday, if Hercule and Auguste are on the guest list. It's a small game she plays with herself, enabling her to feel racy, win or lose. Heads, they come, and she's assured a social success. Tails, they don't, and she's ahead 4 shavings of truffle, for her boiled egg. But tonight, with Mr Romney having delivered himself of yet another diagnosis of his condition (I am se-verely conservative), she knows the lads will be licking stamps and jogging to the mail slot with updates for guys who don't tweet.
But can you believe it, Auguste: we're in the
midst of the most comic meltdown since the King
and the Duke, and people
are still not laughing.
Possibly it's less funny
Hercule.
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