[ and now, for an english woman, her beer, and late night television. courtesy of the comm's camera, a commercial along
these lines is visible and audible. k.k., though not in view besides her heavy black boots on the coffee table, can be heard popping open a can.
dryly, and distinctly british: ]
What kind of psychic spends all bloody day telling gullible wankers that they missed their damn period?
[ k.k. makes an irritable noise. ]
I could do better. Someone get me a fucking 1-800 number.