carthamus delenda est. have we suddenly sworn vows of poverty? (i recall none.) is there something now wrong with using actual saffron? i happen to rather like crocuses, as you will see come late february or potentially early march given the goatfucking motherraping assdestroying winter that i feel certain is somehow your fault. they better damn well end up spelling 'i (heart) cock' as they poke out of the snow, because do you know how long it takes to cut out sod in the shape of a fucking heart and then replace it without ol' beady eyes noticing? i think not, mitchell, i think not.
mitchell, it breaks my poor young heart to hear that you have failed to tell me about the miraculous recovery with which you have doubtless been blest. clearly, the lord above (or, in your case, most likely the lord below) has seen fit to heal you of all your wounds and cleanse you of all your sins (i imagine he used an entire swimming-pool of bleach), and that you somehow managed to carry out a full installation of a teleoperated waldo that would allow me to (a) find the fucking dustpan, behind the poppyseed oil in the unmarked box with colonel mustard, after five minutes of looking everywhere in what reminded me of nothing quite so much as attempting to fit a normal-sized dildo in your overstretched, cavernous, sarlacc pit of a vagina, (b) remove the dustpan from the box that i feel sure, were it not for the sterling hebdomadary efforts of marianna, rocio, guillermo and dave to save us from despair and dirt, would be covered in dust so thick that it could be used for loft insulation, (c) extract said dustpan from aforementioned box using a fucking chisel, (d) sweep up the remnants of the substandard and unacceptably crumbly batch of lemon bars that, through no fault of my own, had a freedom/gravity/floor interface problem, and (e) struggle through the jungle of oil bottles like i am fucking mowgli or something to return the dustpan lest you at some innominable future time castigate me unnecessarily and unjustly for not replacing our heretofore vestal dustpan in its appropriate location. where, as they say, is waldo?
no subject
carthamus delenda est. have we suddenly sworn vows of poverty? (i recall none.) is there something now wrong with using actual saffron? i happen to rather like crocuses, as you will see come late february or potentially early march given the goatfucking motherraping assdestroying winter that i feel certain is somehow your fault. they better damn well end up spelling 'i (heart) cock' as they poke out of the snow, because do you know how long it takes to cut out sod in the shape of a fucking heart and then replace it without ol' beady eyes noticing? i think not, mitchell, i think not.
mitchell, it breaks my poor young heart to hear that you have failed to tell me about the miraculous recovery with which you have doubtless been blest. clearly, the lord above (or, in your case, most likely the lord below) has seen fit to heal you of all your wounds and cleanse you of all your sins (i imagine he used an entire swimming-pool of bleach), and that you somehow managed to carry out a full installation of a teleoperated waldo that would allow me to (a) find the fucking dustpan, behind the poppyseed oil in the unmarked box with colonel mustard, after five minutes of looking everywhere in what reminded me of nothing quite so much as attempting to fit a normal-sized dildo in your overstretched, cavernous, sarlacc pit of a vagina, (b) remove the dustpan from the box that i feel sure, were it not for the sterling hebdomadary efforts of marianna, rocio, guillermo and dave to save us from despair and dirt, would be covered in dust so thick that it could be used for loft insulation, (c) extract said dustpan from aforementioned box using a fucking chisel, (d) sweep up the remnants of the substandard and unacceptably crumbly batch of lemon bars that, through no fault of my own, had a freedom/gravity/floor interface problem, and (e) struggle through the jungle of oil bottles like i am fucking mowgli or something to return the dustpan lest you at some innominable future time castigate me unnecessarily and unjustly for not replacing our heretofore vestal dustpan in its appropriate location. where, as they say, is waldo?
kiss kiss bang bang,
y'r ob'd't s'rv't,
-jdn
ps. found the crisco. is it fisting time?