I love Pansy. Well and truly love her. In my heart. But not in my pants. The female body, to me, is mashed potatoes. I do not mean this as an insult, just a personal opinion. Mashed potatoes are fine. Bland, predictable, but fine. And like mashed potatoes, I can, or could, get women quite readily. I am wealthy, fit, and polite. Most people do like mashed potatoes. Some people love mashed potatoes. They’re perfectly acceptable. But would I get up early, get a haircut, hit the gym for a nice pump, shower, shave my pubes, and hit a club in hopes of a bowl of mashed potatoes?