Tag Archives: cleavage

Look to me in my eyeball.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

Love songs are like a tepid bath. They may start out warm and comforting; but really, you’re just languishing in crap.

Why is Sarah Silverman popular? I prefer silent Snoopy.

My average week is akin to Zallinger’s March of Progress, in reverse. Mondays, I’m a Darwinian dream. Come Friday, I’m hobo erectus.

If I ever make the sequel to Popeye, it’ll center around his older brother – Cockeye.

Gal Gunslinger reads and reveres serial killers. Red flag. Red flag. Stop right there! (To be said in Bourne baritone.)

I looked up ‘titillating’ in my thesaurus and the answer came back: venereal. Sounds about right.

If I were rich, I’d create an underwater movie theatre – where you’d get your dive on and watch the Life Aquatic, aquatically. There’d be a sushi snack bar, mermaids for ushers, and Usher as a mer-man (to be said like Zoolander).

I’ve decided to name my cleavage Fortitude Valley.

The arsonist has oddly-shaped feet.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I didn’t know it was possible to injure one’s cleavage but have discovered that, yes. If red-hot coffee is poured upon it … it will scream in pain like a thwarted gnome.

Humanity seems like a numbers game to me. Like it doesn’t matter how many of us are picked off, provided there’s someone left to procreate.

Casual Friday and my boss shows up to our management meeting in a pajama top. That, or he killed a Wiggle and is wearing its flannel flay in Hannibal homage.

Sometimes I go deaf but for an electric hum, like a radio momentarily tuned in to another frequency – the kind only dogs or aliens can hear.

I’d rather be hog-tied to William Hurt, in Puff Diddy’s crib, listening to Kelly Osbourne sing country, than visit another fucken port-a-loo in my lifetime.

Do you ever feel like someone else is a better representation of you? Maybe that’s what celebrity is.

If I was rich, I’d design a fleet of robots to clean my house and teeth, thereby alleviating the guilt of asking another human to do so. (And I could unabashedly undie-strut in front of a robot.) Result.

Coffee Guy was dancing to the Blues Brothers this morn, epilepsy style. Little Lord Fauntleroy meets Elaine Benes, yo.


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