First up, here's one which I have titled 'Eat my Space dirt Disco Queen.'
I don't think this next one needs a name. I think this woman should be commended for not letting her foils getting in the way of a feed.
And finally there is this one that I've called 'Bottom'.
Or it could be called, 'When T-shirts Go Bad'.
I don't think this next one needs a name. I think this woman should be commended for not letting her foils getting in the way of a feed.And finally there is this one that I've called 'Bottom'.Or it could be called, 'When T-shirts Go Bad'.Or, 'How to Feel Vomity.'
The thing I like best about the email I received? It was from one of my uncles.
He is 82.
4 comments:
The second lady is obviously deflecting the mind rays coming from Alpha Centuri.
The bloke has just broken wind...
Hmmm, camouflage and gold lame, the very essence of Wal-Mart chic.
In the bigger Wal-Marts (like the one we live by now, they make their own sushi, and it is good, believe it or not) they often have hair salons. So that foil thing is now explained.
But there is no excuse for ass-crack. The Spouse, the Nestling and I were out the other day in a restaurant in our old ghetto-town when I spotted ass-crack. It almost put me off my lunch, and that is saying a lot. The Spouse Sparrow and I have a code word for when we spot ass-crack, we say "Krakatoa!" Back in the day in our ghetto-town, we'd be able to spot at least 5 or 6 Krakatoas a day. Out here, we'll now go a couple of weeks without any.
I love it that your 82-year-old uncle sent you those. Teach him "Krakatoa!" and soon we will be a secret cabal of ass-crack spotters. Assuming (!) that you get ass-crack in your part of the galaxy?
Oh, yack.
His ass should be no where near food.
Eeeeep.
...which then broke his t-shirt, Sas. As we speak armies around the world are clamouring to get their hands on that gas. Weapons of mass destruction and all.
Hell yeah, we get that down here, Fat Sparrow. Builders' crack is its name.
Medbh, it's just wrong, wrong, wrong.
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