Gentlemen, I am delighted to announce the following: regarding the issue of 'that', wherein 'that' refers to the blonde by the bar in the purple miniskirt who is loudly decrying her "shithead ex-boyfriend Lionel," the jury has returned a unanimous verdict of 'would hit'.

You all know that I am not one to take any decision lightly, whether it is the cut of a new designer suit or the year of my nightly glass of Pinot Noir. The matter of whether to bump uglies with that broad is no exception, and I treat it with equal, if not greater weightiness.

You may note the subject's mild resemblance to Cassandra, the dumb bitch who had the nerve to key my S-Class after I was decent enough to tell her I was cheating on her with her slutty younger sister. This resemblence works against her, understandably, but is offset by the combination of her pert, luscious breasts, her discriminating fashion sense, and of course her slammin' tits.

But it is something else entirely that elevates her above the rabble that surrounds us. Just watch her, watch her as she rages! With every scathing word and gesture she burns this cur Lionel in effigy. Her righteous fury betrays a wild spirit, a rebellious will, an aura of true independence. Such empowered chicks are total dynamite in the sack.

Naturally, I have weighed the alternatives: straight up not hitting that or opting instead for her friend, the one with the stiletto boots and the exceptionally revealing top. While attractive in her own right, she lacks the classic beauty and stately elegance of the other. Plus she's a brunette, and I left the wig at home.
I could take the time to consider the details: the how, the when, the where of the aforementioned hitting of that, but to do so would serve only to needlessly qualify my proclamation. Let it simply be known that I, Edward Finnley, surely as I sit here before you, WOULD HIT THAT!

With this matter decided, gentlemen, I propose that we move on to the issue of the harlot by the restrooms.

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