And their looks will be appreciated only by their undertaker. Too bad for them, but that's what you get for living a philosophy based on hatred of the other sex.
Oh, how true. And their stupid cats won't even know they're dead, but will instantly transfer whatever affection a cat has to whoever brings the bowl of Friskies.
A very good Asheville, NC based songwriter, David Wilcox, wrote a wry song about -- of all things -- breast implants:
Well the surgeons try to tell you
That the world will love you better
If you let 'em cut your body
And put those mounds inside your sweater
But just think of the investment
Now how long those things will last
You know, silicone is permanent
Even after you have passed
When the rest of you has faded
In some box under some stone
Yeah you'll still have your silly cones
Balanced on your bones
It's on his East Asheville Hardware album. Highly recommended, if you can bear listening to singer-songwriters. It seems like you and Wilcox are on the same wavelength, here.
d.o.l.
Criminal Number 18F