Harlots, Sluts and Tramps

Can you believe what's passing for passion these days? Not nary a damn thing, that's what! These trumped-up sluts and dime-store harlots can barely keep up with the hussies these days. Back in my day, a woman knew how to turn the dial up to seven, and if you married her, eight!

Nowatimes, it seems like these whoeweres can't wait to start parading their nipples around like so much lambkbop at an all-night shmuewzka. Why, just the other night we were looking at the tv and what came on but another one of these teenage pregwhores. She was jumping up and down, causing poor Harold quite a fright (though he must have recovered by bedtime, because he seemed a bit frisky).

The girls in my women's group all agree that we should start another letter-writing campaign. It's a 100% perfectly successful tactic; we were this close to getting Deuteronomy V removed from the bibles down at the Stop and Sleep over on Berchin Boulevard.

At the heart of all this is that, in the hands of a true femme fatale, a knowing glance or a sly smirk was more powerful than a thousand privates on parade. Look no further than a young Angela Lansbury, or the spry strut of a youthful Bea Arthur. Now, those were women!