Things I could've said, but didn't:

On the bus.

Him: When are you getting off?
Me: As soon as possible. WA-HAY!

At work.

Him: What'd you get up to on the weekend?
Me: Not much.
Him: Go out?
Me: Yep.
Him: Pisshead.
Me: Hey! Call me a pisshead, when you're a boozer who's destined to have a beergut and broken veins, even if you are currently VERY ATTRACTIVE. Hot hot hotty hot hot hot HOT. And if you could remove your clothing immediately, I would be grateful, though don't feel too flattered because I still think you're a twat and the number of days I have been shagless means I would probably proposition the hobo who sleeps in the gutter and picks at his scabs.

On the phone.

Him: Well I'm going to insure with somebody else if you can't do it.
Me: Oh, really? That's ok, because YOU'RE AN ARSE. And we don't want business from GIGANTIC BASTARDS.

On the phone.

Her: I want to speak to your manager about my policy.
Me: Here's an idea. Take your policy and ram it square up your arse.

On the phone.

Her: I'm a snarky bitch. Whine whine whine.
Me: GO AND DIE.

Oh, sorry. Went off on a tangent there.

At the pub.

Him: [slurring, staggering, spewing] You're dead-set hot.
Me: You repulse me, and the fact that you can't see straight means your comment was completely insincere. If I did go home with you, which I won't, I would be extremely annoyed after making the effort to take off all my clothes, only to discover that you are suffering from an extreme case of Brewer's Droop, and have filled up my Doc Martens with your vomit. QUIT TOUCHING ME.

Too much info?

Is there a theme here?