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This is my life! I’m not a clown some of the time, Brad, I’m a clown all of the time. So what if the funeral director kicked me out?
After watching for a month, surviving on nothing but beef jerky and "good vibez," I have begun to understand their culture and how they operate.
How did you hear about us? From cousin Annie at Thanksgiving or cousin Tom at Christmas?
A poorly installed backsplash could actually DECREASE the value of my home, but did Rick Allen hire some “licensed professional” to do his drumming?
How am I supposed to believe a real colonial woman is teaching me to churn butter, when her flawless colonial outfit is tainted by latex gloves?
Assume a plank pose on the mat that you ordered from Amazon, mentally petitioning Jeff Bezos to treat his employees properly.
I had a feeling this might happen when I laid eyes on you ruthlessly shucking corn over the big bin, your nose ring glinting sharply in the sun.
Did you people hear that? The boom! The fucking boom! Come on, I know you two-legged freaks can't hear shit, but even you must— HOLY SHIT!
Give me Rafael Nadal. I would let Rafa bagelize me as compared to you-know-who. Is that too much for a poor, first-time U.S. Open qualifier to ask?
He might be stuck inside but this fella is still capable of making dozens of women uncomfortable, from the comfort of his own home!
Photos of me, at my most intimate, turned into a puzzle for some simple mind’s amusement. My fashion sense became an “inside joke” for the masses.
Due to a disputed public executioner election, political lawn signs are no longer permitted. No decorative flamingos, gnomes, or heads on pikes.