That all seems very, very strange. I never craved a toaster or a color TV.

I don’t see why you all have to resort to inanimate objects when we are all but a short trip away from the many erotic beasts of wood and field.

You think history is gonna remember me for my bloggin’? Hell no: I’m gonna be the last man to fuck a spotted owl. Or in the last coupla digits, at least.

November 19, 2008 at 6:07

I posted this down below, but it’s too good to let it disappear into the ether:

How can you not love a woman who writes something like this? Describing Sarah Palin:

An American woman who came onto the scene with a piece of our hearts infused into her own and knocked the Left’s glass houses down with their own rocks wrapped in a lipsticked smile.

http://www.grasstopsusa.com/tt091808.html”

By Satan’s scrotum, that’s what I call writing. Tara Tedrow is masterful:
“For it is not so much who Sarah Palin is, but what she is. She is the everyman and woman that built this great country. She is the embodiment of every great Frank Capra movie, the Mrs. Smith going to Washington, the average Jolin going up against the big city snobs, the K Sreet and Wall Street power brokers, the sexists and effete bigoted haters of our military who provide and protect their way of life. She might not have a $28,000 per seat fundraiser sponsored by Barbara Streisand, but she has won a priceless seat at the table of every average American’s table.”
Wow. Just, wow.

DAMMIT!

See, this is what happens when you’re a moderate: No one invites me to all the good parties.

Oh, the really good parties involve 100 lbs of marbles, a six inch depth of lime jell-o and a motel room rented with a stolen card.

So like T. Boone Pickens, I say drill, drill, drill on Sarah Palin.

Go for it, baby. Drill her!

Kabuki Girl?

Never heard of her.

Is she cute?

mikey

No. Too pissed-off looking, like the type that runs their waitress ragged, then tips 5%.

and we must slide in one digit, then two, and the pain is an exquisite nightmare as our fingers slide past the chromium labia of the toaster’s top and into the red-hot slots of erotic agony.

I just use a spatula when it gets stuck. So, is that, like, toaster gynecology now?

Y’know one day I was toying around with the, uhhhhhhhhhhh…

Food processor?

…yea, yea, and I had my weiner stuck all the way in and then I turned it on and….

You had it set on puree?

…….yea, and man it hurt!

I hate when that happens…

OK, I’m handing in my Liberal card.

My personal erotic city limits sign is firmly planted (heh) short (heh) of plugged-in kitchen appliances.

That said, they don’t call it a “weed whacker” for nothin’.

See, this is what happens when you’re a moderate: No one invites me to all the good parties.