Hello tucklovers. This week, we pause from our admiration of large breasted women (trigger!) and instead, shift our gaze to those C players–the gals in the middle of the bell curve. Today’s model is, er, a model who has mastered the, ‘I’m not sure why I’m here pose.’ Please give a warm welcome to Sarah McDaniel!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 10/10, would smash.
But before we get to the boobs, please to be enjoying a little music from Car in’s favorite band. I wrote this song whilst deep in the woods hunting for Cyn. I was looking and looking and looking and looking…
Scott and LauraW continue their vacation. Beasn continues the home improvement project from hell.
After five years out I’ve started to get recruitment letters asking me if I want to apply for a commission in the Army Reserve. They must be truly desperate for people.
Leon is busy denouncing the moral degredation of today’s youth. Car in, meanwhile, has had enough of your shit. Perhaps she shouldn’t have sent Ethan to Jimbro to get his surgery. MJ’s busy trying to keep the spice in his marriage.
This pretty much sums up how I feel most days. But then I realize that I have you assholes as my fake internet friends, and everything is going to be alright.
Hi weirdos. Here are a few things I would like to rate as a hostage:
TNT flooring: Meth heads that pretend to be Jesus freaks so you’ll trust them with your really big job that they swear is going to be just perfect. Will they work more than a few hours a day? No. Will they smoke meth in your house? Yes. Will you need to have the floor completely removed and done by someone else? Yes. Will the meth heads remind you of someone but you can’t quite place them? Yes.
As I’m sure you are all aware president Obama is set to make his big comeback to the US and public life after pretending to write his memoirs on a mega yacht with Oprah and Tom Hanks (WILSON!!!!!!!). Here’s an excerpt of his first draft that will be later turned into dramatic prose by a little known college professor and spontaneous combustion enthusiast.
Chapter 1
Barack’s version: Sat down to watch a rerun of SportCenter at 11 after calling SlowJoe and a quick workout with Mooch. Fell asleep. Woke up during the nooner of SC just in time to see Venus Williams winning some white shit tourney for the third time. Man, what an ass. I’d like to put a Mike Tyson mask on her and lay into them hindquarters. Trump sucks! San Demus High School rules!
Ayers version:Five Nine score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.
Well, the Academy Awards are here again. Yay. If you think you’re sick of hearing about them, try living in Southern California. It’s all they talk about on the news for the next goddamn week.
Most of us aren’t big fans of Hollywood (or as one guy I heard one time called it, HollyWEIRD–delightful!) but maybe you saw a couple of the movies that are nominated this year. Are you rooting for La La Land? Hidden Fences? Something else?
Ah, who am I kidding? We’re all boycotting the Oscars. Not for the politics (okay, maybe a little bit because of the politics) but because the most deserving film of the year wasn’t nominated:
I’m just hoping John Wick 2: The Wick and The Dead gets nominated next year. Probably not, though.
I think it was lauraw who recently remarked that poetry was “queer.” She might have said “gay” or “flaming.” The exact words don’t matter all that much–the fact of the matter is that poetry has long been seen–and rightly so–as the province of mincing, lisping sissyboys. I mean, just check out this photo of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound:
“A bang AND a whimper, am I right, Tommy?”
“Oh, shut up and Pound me, Ezra!”
Well, that got me to thinking about what could be done to make poetry a more manly art. And it wasn’t long until I was sidetracked by the thought of railing your mom. Because, truth be told, all this poetic thinking had me feeling a little funny. Then–EUREKA!–the thought struck me like a thunderbolt: Let’s put the peanut butter of your mom in the chocolate of poetry and see if those two great tastes go great together. Probably not, but this is what I came up with anyway… Continue reading →
