I hate ’em. Hate ’em, I tell you. (Repeated for emphasis.)
My wife didn’t use them at the Thanksgiving table, but there they were, in a basket, next to the hors d’ouevres and other munchies on the counter. And there they were, sitting under someone’s drink.
I’m sure she thinks they’re fun and decorative. But all I want to do with them is wipe my mouth, and I can’t because they’re not absorbent in the least. What good is a slick napkin? Huh? You have to fold them inside out to the unprinted side to make them at all useful, and I am damned sick of it. Damned sick of it. (Repeated and italicized for emphasis.)
And I would tell her that in no uncertain terms. But she’d kick my ass from one end of the house to the other. Kick my ass. (Repeated, italicized and underlined for no-doubt-about-it, take-it-to-the-bank, this-is-a-mortal-lock emphasis.)
So I’m telling you instead.