I was very confused a minute ago when I saw a Whole Foods e-mail update advertising “Win our Thanksgiving panty faves!”
Odd.
Wait, on second reading, that says “pantry” … er, right.
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I was very confused a minute ago when I saw a Whole Foods e-mail update advertising “Win our Thanksgiving panty faves!”
Odd.
Wait, on second reading, that says “pantry” … er, right.
Fried eggs smell like farts, and farts smell bad. So why do I like the smell of fried eggs, when the smell of the latter sometimes makes me want to vomit?
Poor Mike is feeling crappy today, so I went over to his house to try to make him feel better.
I got him some Sprite and some Gatorade and some tea, and I was feeling pretty good about my caretaker skills.
Then I pulled on the power cord to unplug my computer and accidentally made the fan fall on his head.
Oops.
The other day Mike promised me that he’d be my sugar daddy.
Then he took that back, for fear that he won’t make the millions the title implies.
So now he’s promised to be my Splenda daddy … or, as he says, Splendaddy.
I’m not exactly sure what that means, but I think I’ll keep him either way.
Well, my record for not-ironing broke today, and it wasn’t even for a very good reason: I had iron a patch onto my jeans because I was too lazy to sew them.
Damn … It must have been at least six years.