Why do we even put up with women and their personal problems? I'm out, all afternoon, shooting badgers out on the grounds with my Purdy double and I have to be confronted with this hairy armpits and legs rubbish and nonsense?
My God, man. I assigned her a bedroom out on the east wing of the manor to specifically avoid these complications. My own bedchamber knows nothing but the sonorous sleeping sounds of four Irish Setters. You'll find no untoward noises coming from my bedchamber! Nothing indecorous! You could write a novel in there!
What? What is this balderdash about the "perpetuation of the species"? Are you some kind of syphilitic lunatic?
...or did Gillette create a problem that didn't exist only to be solved by...wait for it..."them."