Lanolin

Baby oil.  Lanolin.


Grease.

Greasy wool. 

Sweaty sailors.

Fish.

Hands sliding on ropes ... sliding ... with the erotic rhythm of a dying cod, thrashing. 

Covered in baby oil.

Where was I before you silly women interrupted?

Of course.  Baby oil.  The Elizabethans would swim their sheep in cold water then shampoo and blowdry them, and anoint the wool with baby oil.  Because Geoffrey Chaucer was a freak for that shit.

Totally.  It's in a book I found in Google.  If you can't find it that's not because I hallucinated it. 

Excellence in Personality Disorders

Some of the drivelling so-called experts have accused me of having Narcissistic Personality Disorder.  How dare they presume to think that of ME?  Just because I am the best at everything, purely by making self-aggrandizing pronouncements of it?  How dare they question my innate superiority and imply that I'm a narcissistic blowhard.  NONE OF THEM CAN POSSIBLY APPROACH MY STRATOSPHERIC LEVELS OF AWESOMENESS IN EVERY POSSIBLE SPHERE OF HUMAN ENDEAVOUR, so therefore any accusations of Narcissistic Personality Disorder are invalid.

Now everybody maintain an appropriately worshipful silence while I drone for hours about how awesome I am. 

Narcissist indeed. 

Jealousy

Those silly incompent women are at it again.  There have been malicious claims that I have not done all the many things which I claim to be pathologically excellent at. 

For example, last week I paddled around the swimming pool on a lilo at a precisely calculated speed of 65 knots/hour, covering a total distance of 2 nautical miles.  This is much faster than any yacht competing in the Americas Cup.

But the Boss Cows will not accept that I have won the Americas Cup.  Have they done the math?  Do they accuse other Americas Cup winners of not having completed the race?  Do they tell lies about Dean Barker?

I rest my case.