Hugh Grant can make out with my meatpacking district anytime, oh! No, seriously, he's really ugly and needs to go away.
Also, Octomom sounds like a great name for a supervillainess. And her 8-14 children could be her super power--she shoots out poison babies that gnaw on your neck and kill you.
jesus christ & holy stretch marks! i know it said not to look at the picture of octomom, but i couldn't help it... how do i get that image out of my mind?!?!?!?
It would have been all like "Um, er, what I'd like, er, that is to say, umm.., what I really mean is...(strong exhaltation, nervous hair ruffle), *SMOOOOCH*"
I was walking home the other night wearing a very uncomfortable pair
of underpants and finally circa 65th and Lex I couldn't stand it
anymore, so I dropped my bags in the middle of the sidewalk and set
about rearranging them with a great deal of huffing and puffing. I
noticed to my horror that a) there was a man outside of a restaurant
staring at me and b) it was Hugh Grant. Now I'm sort of pissed that I
didn't make out with him.
Way to one-up your flashy mate Brad, Cloonster. Beautiful, brilliant, and walking the walk. Not to mention, unencumbered by a clinging gaggle of children.
Reminds me of the time her aunt declared that Bin Laden was dead during a television interview with Robert Frost (yep, it's online, kids), then was quickly assassinated.
Plush part of Karachi = Ah, where every home has an average of two llamas, and velvet curtains have those little fuzzy ball tassels hanging off of them...
Richard, books of poems written by famous children do not count as real books.
Also, books written by people famous for other things do not count as real books. Were Bono to write a book of poems, for example, it would count maybe as a breakfast meat. Or maybe a type of drywall.
02/13/09
02/13/09
Aaah. That hat just makes everything better, doesn't it?
02/13/09
02/13/09
Also, Octomom sounds like a great name for a supervillainess. And her 8-14 children could be her super power--she shoots out poison babies that gnaw on your neck and kill you.
02/13/09
02/13/09
02/13/09
02/13/09
02/13/09
of underpants and finally circa 65th and Lex I couldn't stand it
anymore, so I dropped my bags in the middle of the sidewalk and set
about rearranging them with a great deal of huffing and puffing. I
noticed to my horror that a) there was a man outside of a restaurant
staring at me and b) it was Hugh Grant. Now I'm sort of pissed that I
didn't make out with him.
02/13/09
02/13/09
Yeah, no shit.
02/13/09
02/13/09
And aren't drunken make out sessions with Drew Barrymore in the West Village a little 1993?
02/11/09
02/10/09
Angelina is going to be PISSED!
02/10/09
Reminds me of the time her aunt declared that Bin Laden was dead during a television interview with Robert Frost (yep, it's online, kids), then was quickly assassinated.
02/10/09
02/10/09
[If this is IMHO with a little slip, then fine, I'm not ripping you, I was just worried that I was missing out on a young people thing here. ]
02/10/09
02/10/09
02/10/09
02/10/09
Also, books written by people famous for other things do not count as real books. Were Bono to write a book of poems, for example, it would count maybe as a breakfast meat. Or maybe a type of drywall.
02/10/09
02/11/09