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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.
A guide to TV shows ranging from "Bar Rescue" to "Bar Rescue Rescue Rescue Rescue Rescue Rescue Rescue Rescue Rescue," and everything in between.
Those of us born in the '95-'97 range are the middle child between Millennials and Gen Z.
He also borrowed my weed whacker. How do you get it back from an oligarch? Weed whacking is activity of peasant, not fitting of powerful oligarch .
Is it "The Count of Monte Cristo" that solves this dreadful riddle? Surely a subtle nod to enclosed spaces will do it…. No.