Early to bed and early to rise. Making love in the grass, Leaves stains on the thighs.
Lend me now your stump of an ear, me foul brethren of the sea. Avast yer drinkin', yer wenchin', and hearken ye now to me. For tis a fresh yarn I have to tell; of bridled legality.
Does the glowing iTunes coverage remind you of anything, say the media's blind adulation of dot-coms during the Great Bubble of '99?
But let's give the fine people at No-Contact Jackets a break. After all, they're in the business of selling electric shock jackets to protect women from the numberless hordes, not statistics, even if one of them does go to MIT.
To rescue her, the prince not only has to kill the evil drag queen, but must first hack his way through a forest of thorns, which resemble nothing so much as the most threatening, coarsest and blackest patch of pubic hair ever animated.
I considered this for a moment, and then asked him if he knew where the Donny and Marie Osmond albums were. He ponderously led me to them, indicating them with a sniff and derisive wave of his hands. "Thanks," I said, "Just checking," and left him there, all a-quiver.
I tell ye it is fair to look upon the sun rising in the morn. And it gladdens the cockles of me heart to capture a maid wellborne. But the thing I ever wish to see, is damned Rosen bereft, forlorn.
Pity me, for I will forever associate the passage of the Mines of Moria with Night on Disco Mountain.
If you've ever been driving along, listening to the radio, and thinking, "My God, this station sucks ass," odds are it was owned by Clear Channel.
I don't know what Bigwig was thinking when he handed hosting duties for Carnival of the Vanities #11 to me, but here it is.