i couldn't care less if women have breasts like fresh magnolias or withered figs, skin smooth as a peach or rough as sandpaper. i accord it an importance equal to zero whether they wake up with the breath of an aphrodisiac or the breath of an insecticide. i am perfectly capable of enduring a nose on them that could take first prize in a carrot exposition. but here's the thing!—and in this i am inflexible—i do not pardon them, under any pretext, if they don't know how to fly. if they can't fly, they have wasted the time they took trying to seduce me!