It's Caturday in Catbodia.
It's tough, kitty, but it's life.
That totally reminds me of the time Ted called me up and asked me if I knew any Shakespearean ass puns and I said, "You bet Judas I do." And he said, "What are they?" And I yelled, "No wonder your wife killed herself, you're too stupid to live, but too stupid to know it. Ass! hole!"
This one time, Ted Hughes wrote me a poem asking me to help him find his ass, but he wrote "as." And I was all, "Dude, I don't know where your as is. Maybe it's in the oven with your wife?"
Are you saying that not only was I not abducted by aliens and anally probed, but that I also wasn't molested by my super cute baseball coach way back in 1972 and instead I was just coming off the Zoloft? Also, you should know that my glorgmagog really is a hot triangle filled with chocolate pudding.
I had a poem printed in the letter section of Spy. It began: "I dreamed I was fucking Bill Clinton...." Ahhh. Fun times.
There, there, Wookie, let me straighten this thing out. Here, here, how's that feel? You like? Better? All good now. xo
This makes me so happy!
Is that what your older brother told you? No. Wash up, Rod. And wash your rod too.
This is STILL making me laugh. Like, five minutes have gone by. No shit.
Dear belltolls, Are those two men in your avatar going to make-out or what?