No thank you.
I must politely decline.
Can I take a raincheck?
It's not you, it's me.
Most of my male acquaintances right now are trying to turn me on to the feminine wiles of the decade-heavy Methuselas to the left.
And don't get Denny wrong--he has a taste for the lusty wine that can spring from well-aged grapes.
But with all due respect, I just can't recline with someone I've looked up to as a 3rd, 4th, 5th or 6th grandmother since the late 80s.
However, if rib-tickling sitcom delight is the order of the day, I'm doubling down on this gentle quadrangle of laughter.
No Need To Thank Me,
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May Bea strike you down where you stand.
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