The dining hall was gussied up for the holiday today. With dim lights, spooky music and sound effects playing in the background, and fog machines, the cafeteria exuded the Halloween spirit. Over the course of dinner, a projector appeared. Excitement mounted for a scary movie to be screened on the wall. Oh, it's scary all right: footage of torture on the part of the U.S. government meant to incite anger for a protest on Wednesday. In the Halloween context, however, it plays as a sort of slasher film with the overlying music and lighting effects, and is actually extremely distasteful.

I love it.


Murderous Rage

Fact: The U.S. murder rate is at its lowest level in 40 years.

Opinion: I still know a bunch of people worth murdering, so as Americans, let's not drop the ball on this activity altogether.


Do You Want to Fight?

"Do you want to fight?"

Um no, I don't resort to physical violence. I don't ever articulate myself in that manner. Of course I'm not going to fight.

That would be my sober response. Let's try my drunk one.

"Do you want to fight?"

WHAM! Punch to the head.

Not two minutes later, I was so embarrassed that I cried. Part of it was realizing how ridiculous my actions were; part of it was realizing that it happened while I was wearing a full-body flamingo costume.


The Warm Tapioca-Filled Balloon

I wore a super costume tonight, Superman to be precise. What made it a bit less super was that it was made for a five-year-old and didn't quite fit. The pajama-y feeties were torn open and hung just below my knees, the back was wide open like a prom dress, and the suit was so tight that it provided a very unflattering view of my penis. As the night wore on, I started to look more like the Hulk because my buff bod was tearing through the skimpy outfit, creating holes in all sorts of inappropriate places, notably my crotch. Eager to get free, my testicles got loose, fortunately masked by my boxers. Some things are best left to be seen by those with x-ray vision.

Throughout the night, the costume led to some interesting encounters. Because the outfit included bulging pecs and abs which people wanted to touch, they also assumed certain other areas were stuffed as well. Most notably, after the hole bust open, Rachel stooped down to fix my costume, believing the stuffing to be falling out. As she unwittingly cupped my testicles before I could stop her, she asked, "What is that?!" "You just touched my balls," I said. Disturbed, she told me she thought it was a warm tapioca-filled balloon. Wow, just like the real Superman!


This Just In

Farts are funny.


Taste Test

I've always had this odd habit of putting random things I find on the ground in my mouth. A paperclip lying in the dirt, for no sensical reason, looks like a yummy treat, despite the acidic taste against my tongue. A broken piece of plastic on the pavement seems more secure in the hollows of my mouth than my more reasonable pocket.

Today I found an unidentifiable brown blob on my mattress. After it passed a sniff test (used to verify that it was not poop,) I popped it in my mouth. No sooner had it entered did I spit it out: I immediately realized that blob was a piece of chocolate. For whatever reason, in that moment, discovering the object's taste was recognizable proved so disconcerting to me that I couldn't stomach it.

That's why I'm weird.


R.osa I. P.arks

Why is everyone so sad that Rosa Parks died? She was ninety-two; if I live to be that age, please kill me. She had a long life, and a nice one at that, save for that one unfortunate night in the drunk tank. Furthermore, Outkast wrote a song about her, so her chances are pretty good that she'll earn her spot in history.

In sixth grade, when I had to write a biography on someone for Black History Month, I chose Rosa Parks because, at that age, I was hardly original. The only detail I can still recall is that when Rosa misbehaved, her grandma would whip her with a switch. In fact, I think 90% of my biography focused on her childhood because that was as far as I read in the research books; I imagine she amounted to something in her adult life, I just never got that far. Still, I can honestly testify that she was one hell of an adolescent.

Here's to you, Rosa. I hope they let you ride in the front of the Hearse.


Lactose Intolerant

I'm done being nice. When I tried to feed Sabrina Ereshefsky cheese today, she played the "I'm lactose intolerant" card. You know what? If she's going to be openly intolerant, I see no reason for me to be tolerant of that decision. It's bigoted and I won't stand for it. I don't accept institutionalized racism or homophobia; why should I accept prejudice against dairy? I don't care how much ice cream makes her sick, there's no way she gets as sick as I am toward her blatant hatred. Dairy cows are some of the gentlest creatures, meaning there's no reason for anyone to be intolerant, especially not for someone whose name forms the anagram "Key heifer sans bras" (an important, topless, virgin cow).


Trick or Treat?

Each Halloween, my parents kindly send me a themed care package. Typically, they include either candy or cookies and, because I'm only a twenty-something, a toy of some sort. Last year, I received a jack-o-lantern-shaped doggie chew toy. When I called to ask my mom whether I should be insulted, she said she hadn't realized it was a dog toy. Whatever. Deciding to get revenge, I chewed it thoroughly and told her so, knowing it would be embarrassing for her to picture her child walking around campus gnawing on a squeaky toy.

This year, amidst a box of frosted ghost cookies, I found a spooky sounds cassette tape. Oh geez, just what I've always wanted! Resisting my initial urge to toss it in the trash, I played it to amuse my friends. The first noises were dumb: half-hearted witch cackles and dogs growling, most likely upset from having not received their pumpkin chew toy. Then came a long sequence of heavy breathing. As the panting continued, it sounded progressively less frightening and more sexual. Soon, sounds of moaning alternated with the breathing, contributing to the erotic tone. When these noises finally stopped, it culminated with a woman screaming. Turning to the other side of the tape, we heard a chain saw, organ music, and what was probably supposed to be bat wings flapping. The flapping faded to multiple cracks of a whip with someone groaning after each crack. Once the whipping was over, it was time for some firm smacking, the distinct sound of spanking, each of which was followed by moans. This ritual carried on for more than five minutes. Now, I'm not saying that S&M isn't scary in its own way, but are these really the "spooky" sounds one would be expecting when buying this tape?

I think I'm going to send this tape back to my parents and demand that they play it loudly for the trick-or-treaters and find out how long it takes before they shut it off in mortification.



"An apple a day, if well aimed, keeps the doctor away." - P.G. Wodehouse


A New Pick-Up Line

Kevin: Aww, that looks like my bunny before it got fat. She'd always try to run away, and I'd say, "You can try, but you can't get away from me: you're too fat."
Mike: I use that line at parties.


God, You're Socially Awkward

Tickle me Joan Osbourne, but what if God were socially awkward? Even though it’s an omnipotent figure, God just can’t make a decent conversation happen. Worse yet, because God’s all-knowing, it realizes that others are judging its lack of social skills, which sends it into hiding. I mean, God’s like best-buds with Moses, but it still can’t face him face-to-face, instead appearing as a burning bush. A burning bush? Only a socially awkward deity wouldn’t realize that this is a hostile, inappropriate manner to approach someone. When it came time to ask Mary if it could impregnate her, God chickened out and asked an angel to make the inquiry on its behalf. “I can’t talk to her… she’s… she’s… she’s a girl!” Being socially awkward, possibly agoraphobic, was probably the main incentive in God having a son in the first place. With a child, God could send him out to face all the nay-sayers that had asked for a reason to believe, in addition to picking up some groceries while he was out. Yup, Jesus was the answer to all of God’s anxieties. Of course, it might have worked out better if Jesus weren’t such a pushover.


What the Dilly?

At Scripps College, the dining hall staff puts out these ridiculous table tents that supposedly promote better living. With helpful suggestions like “exercise,” “eat in moderation,” “make friends,” and “get sleep,” they offer the most mindless advice since “dance like nobody’s watching.” If I had to guess, “dance like nobody’s watching” will be next month’s suggestion.

In response to these ridiculous things, each time I sit down at a table, I tear them up. If I’m feeling particularly rowdy, I’ll tear them up at other tables. Generally my friends are embarrassed, but I will not stand to let this ridiculous crap be put out to us. Given that they are so banal, I suspect that there are subliminal messages contained within them.

Here’s a recent one that makes me laugh:

Who tries to teach college kids about the existence of slang words, especially since they consider colleges to be the “hottest of hotbeds of slang”? Because I was curious how they would enlighten me on this topic, I went to their website and found some of these gems:

“Yo!” Do you have enough “lettuce” for a cup of “joe? When you order eggs do you ask the cook to “wreck em”? Or do you feel “vexed” after reading this? “For real?”

Language is one of the best ways to get to know a culture. The words people use reflect values, attitudes, and needs. When a librarian says, “Check out that book” he means, “Borrow that book.” When your friend says, “Check out that book” she means, “Take a look at that book.” A mature speaker and writer adjust language to the intended audience. Context also helps make meaning clear. If someone walked toward you and said, “What’s the dilly?” you would recognize that the phrase means, “What’s up?” or “Hi, how are you?” If someone looked in a jar and said, “What’s the dilly?” you would think that person was planning to eat a dill pickle.

I’m still vexed, for real. Check it out, I’m hungry for the dilly.


What's in a Name?

My middle name is Van Deusen. There was once a time that I wouldn't admit that because it sounded funny and wasn't "normal." In elementary school, it seemed like the most humiliating thing in the world, perhaps worse than if I were to have webbed fingers. Frequently, kids would try to guess what the V stood for (Victor? Vincent? Vagina? giggle giggle), but I held firm on its classified status. Only close friends knew, and they were sworn to secrecy. Once, I was sold out by my friend to find out who his crush liked. Now, I take it as a compliment that my middle name was considered a powerful enough currency to obtain that kind of information, but at the time, this Van Deusen was ready to whip some traitorous ass.

For the record, Van Deusen is a family name, my mom's maiden name, in fact. Last summer, my mom and her cousin were discussing embarrassing nicknames in high school. Her cousin said, "And of course there was 'V.D.'" I turn to my mom and ask in the most innocent way, "Did anyone ever call you V.D.?" She gave me a disturbed, insulted look and said, "No!"

I didn't understand her response. It wasn't until a few hours later that I remembered what else V.D. stood for. I'm familiar with V.D.; I take medication for it, even. If I had been thinking, there's no way in hell that I would have asked my mom if she was called venereal disease in school, especially not so casually. For all these years, I never realized how embarrassing my middle name is; now I'm embarrassed for ever ceasing to be embarrassed by it!


This Little Piggy Caused Me To Freak Out

This morning I looked down at my left foot and saw six toes. Anxiously, I counted again. One-two-three-four-five-six. Shit, still six toes. I freak out and try counting again. One-two-three-four-five. Five. Five's a good number. My breathing begins to steady and I decide to double check that last count. One-two-three-four-five. Once more. One-two-three-four-five. Yes, five. There are only five toes on my left foot. I'm too afraid to even look at the right foot. But my left foot has five, as it should. All is right.

Oddly, this kind of thing happens to me all the time.


Ding Bong

Last year, Mike, Preston, and I rescued a three-foot green bong from the donation bin. I'm not sure who thought the Salvation Army could use such an item, most likely it was gifted just moments after its use, but it was funny nonetheless. Considering my entire wardrobe consists of secondhand items, I figure I've contributed enough of my money to the charity to swipe this one thing.

After the bong spent a summer in storage, I took it out and contemplated filling it with birdseed and hanging it as a bird-feeder given its striking similarities to the other bird-feeder hanging outside my apartment. Ultimately, I placed it on top of the television set, thinking it made a funny decoration and made me look like one of "those" college students. For nearly two months, there it sat, never being used. I'm sure regular marijuana smokers would be more diligent in not leaving their paraphernalia out, but since I had no negative stigma attached to the piece, I left it out when maintenance, the RA, and the internet fixer came on separate occasions. It didn't occur to me until after those incidents that people wouldn't realize it was being displayed in an ironic manner, and that I should be more cautious about that kind of thing.

Recently, the RA taped the following notice to our door:

Illicit Materials - Just so you all know, smoking, of any kind, is prohibited in the apartments. Don't forget the college officials can come into the apartments on official school business unannounced. This means if you have things you know you shouldn't have, don't leave them lying around in plain sight. Enough said on that.

Oops. I really have become one of "those" college students. I'm officially, in the school's eyes, a pothead. With the shame I should have had all along, I've put the bong into hiding. Maybe I'll just donate it to the Salvation Army.


Cuckoo for Cocoa

The cafeteria served funny cupcakes yesterday, decorated with frosting and chocolate chips to form a smiling face. Given their novelty, Michael Michael, Amelia, and I all had to help ourselves to one. Quickly, we discovered that these were the richest, chocolatiest (a word? spell-check doesn't think so) cupcakes in the world. Since I'm not one for chocolate, after taking a few bites, I declared myself a vegetarian, or more accurately, decided I would no longer eat anything with a face.

Before Amelia began hers, Michael Michael offered her a dollar to eat it in one bite. After some basic negotiations of the terms, Amelia attempted to shove the cake in her mouth. Alas, there was so much that when she tried to cram it in the middle, cake came pouring out the corners of her mouth. While trying to chew, she snotted herself, unable to clean the mucus off her face because the cake caked to her hands, as well as her hair, and possibly, her brain. Eventually, she had to admit defeat and spit it out. While trying to clean herself up, she said it was the most miserable experience ever, vowing never to accept a bet from Michael Michael again. Never ever ever!

Spying my partially-eaten cupcake, Michael Michael offered her $1.50 to try again with mine. Amelia asserted there was no way she was doing it, that there would be no further bets between the two of them. $1.60? No! Never! $1.65? Before you know it, Amelia was shoveling the frosted mess into her mouth again. This time, though, she nearly threw up. Dejectedly, she had to spit the entirety into a napkin and, again, declared that she would not accept another bet.

A dollar sixty-five says that won't hold true.


Good News

While a group of us was talking about a mutual friend in prison, Joan interrupts to announce, "In better news, my boobs look bigger today."


Homosexual Haikus

I just learned that Connecticut, my home state, now allows gay civil unions. Better yet, CT is the first state to license homosexual partnerships without being forced to do so by a judge. This move is especially important because on last week's America's Next Top Model, Bre thought Kim (gay!) should give up on modeling and "stick to what she knows... liking girls and having girls like her." Apparently, "lesbian" is a full-time profession, so we should really recognize her ability to do her job.

Ted, Mike, Amelia, Joan, Alex, and I noticed that along with Vermont and Massachusetts, New England was the place to be for civil unions. Trying to determine the reason for this forward-thinking, the best we could do was attribute it to New England's colorful foliage, which inspired the following haiku, a collaborative effort:

Crunch crunch go the leaves,
crunching under the feet of
gays in New England.

Because we don't like discriminating, we proceeded to compose haikus about homosexuals in other areas as well.

Whoosh, the waves! Speedo
covering the cock and balls
of gays in So. Cal.

Squeal goes the pig or
the gay during anal sex.
That's the Midwest way.

In celebration of civil unions, I asked Amelia if she'd gay marry me in Connecticut. She said that might be a problem, because we're different sexes. Connecticut might have avoided lawsuits previously, but mark my words, if the government tries to impede on our right to a gay marry just because we're a heterosexual couple, that's bigoted and they will feel my wrath... in haiku form.


No Update

Sorry I have no update for today. I've been up all night having lesbian love affairs.


The Locksmith

Art Collective's closet has been locked for about a year and a half due to a missing key. Because I rarely contribute anything of an artistic nature to the organization, I volunteered to take care of installing a new lock. This idea was stupid on my part because while I'm not artsy, I'm not handy either. Honestly, I felt accomplished after merely finding the lock by myself at Lowe's.

I naively head to the laundry room where the closet is, thinking I can install it with relatively little trouble. Of course, before I can install the new lock, I have to get rid of the old one, a major problem that didn't occur to me beforehand. Hmm... maybe a hammer will do it. I hammer at the lock for a few minutes; though it's not any closer to coming off, I have managed to dent it beyond recognition. Good thing I have a new lock waiting! I ponder new ways to approach the problem to no avail. Well, hammering was fun anyway, let's keep doing that. It's loud. A freshman comes in. "What are you doing?" I'm trying to break this lock. "Are you supposed to be doing that?" Are you supposed to be washing your whites with your colors? Shut up. I keep hammering for nearly ten minutes until I've knocked the front of the lock off the door. Woo hoo! But wait, the back of the lock is still attached!

Because the closet walls do not come all the way to the ceiling, it is possible to climb over the top. I push a dryer against the closet and use it to hoist myself over the edge, dangerously dropping myself into a pit of art supplies. Am I bleeding? Scratches are okay, blood is not. Seeing no blood, I hammer at the other side until that has fallen off in a crinkled metallic mess. Alas, the bolt is still intact, and that's what's keeping the door locked. Plus, I'm now stuck in the closet. I stack art supplies into a pile high enough to hoist myself back.

A hammer is not going to do for this last part. Pliers? I ply at it for several minutes until it becomes a withered mess and breaks off. Perhaps not the most efficient way to take care of that, but a success nonetheless. Let's put this new puppy in. Damn, there's a lot of pieces. The instructions are of no help because they're not in English. Sure, there's a section labeled as being English, but the series of codes and numbers is not a dialect that I speak, and I'm an English major to boot, so I wing it. It works! It works! For some reason I have at least four pieces leftover that should have been a part of this lock, but it seems to operate without them, so we're just going to pretend they were bonus materials or something.

Later, when I go to make the proud announcement of having successfully replaced the lock, I misplace the keys and break into a total panic. They were in my pocket all along, but in that moment I wanted to take a hammer to my own head.

If you're ever locked out of your home, give me an hour and a hammer and I'll take care of it for you.


Pardon My German

Having befriended many a German exchange student during my high school years, I got a bit excited when I was introduced to one at Pitzer recently. I tried to impress her with my knowledge of the German language before realizing the extent to which I am lacking. "Du schieBe bockstein!" I told her, which I think means "you are a shit brick." Fortunately, I did not offend her because apparently that expression doesn't actually translate. When I try "fettes brot" (fat bread), my pronunciation causes her to wince; she's unimpressed. I search my mind for something better and remember that in my favorite German hip hop song, they say the word "Plexiglas."

"Plexiglas!" I throw out there.
"What?" she asks.
"Plexiglas. It's the same in German and English."
In her harsh German accent, she condescendingly says, "When are you ever going to need to say Plexiglas?"

Well, that shut me up. Still, I hope a plate of Plexiglas falls on her head.



Last night we went to haunted mazes located on the Queen Mary (I smell a story line for Arrested Development's Tobias), but unfortunately I couldn't get scared. Each time I turn a corner, I know there's a good chance that something's going to jump out at me. I'm too aware of what's going on and can't escape from my own head in order to get into the moment. Kat suggested that I'm too smart for this kind of thing, then proposed that I squint as I walk through the mazes because that definitely makes it scarier. Apparently I'm not that smart, because I took her advice with no success only to find out she was completely bullshitting me.

Later we met some drag queens by Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles (for those of you from the east coast, it's a phenomenon you just wouldn't understand) and they asked us to join them at a bar somewhere; Alex guessed it was located in "Tranaheim." Instead, we opted to go home, but we were approached by some sketchy character asking for a jump. Preston said sure, and we were directed to bring the car back to a dark alley. After not being frightened all night, suddenly I had something to legitimately be scared of. A quick consensus was reached: speed away and don't look back. It was possibly a mean thing to do, but I kind of like not being shot in the head for my wallet. Kind of.


Fallen Angel

Yesterday at lunch, we were discussing 7th Heaven. Making fun of 7th Heaven is like making fun of the mentally handicapped: it's just so easy that it's not fair. I always found it funny how a self-billed wholesome show promoted such crappy lifestyles. Rather than addressing the issue of premarital sex, they married all of their kids off by the time they reached puberty. Rather than addressing the issue of birth control, the parents proceeded to have seven of the brattiest kids in an age when we need to start worrying about population control.

Someone referenced Jessica Biel as being the "hot" one on the show. Since Biel went to Simsbury public schools for a short period of time, I declared myself the expert and stated, though she is typically attractive, she is not, in fact, "hot," but perhaps slutty.

Today, I discovered that Esquire has named Biel the sexiest woman alive. I suppose this choice goes to show how out of touch I am with the rest of society. Apparently, if you're on television and willing to pose in your underwear on the covers of Maxim and Stuff, you earn the distinction of sexy -- supposing you're willing to pose again for Esquire. And look, it's all part of the "Women We Love" issue, which makes sense, since I couldn't imagine loving a woman for anything but her sex appeal. Certainly acting talent had nothing to do with the decision.

Our media is pretty screwed up. To garner attention, Biel has to either be entirely chaste or a whore. She's chosen the path of objectification. If only her reverend parent could see her now. Oh well, at least he's got half a dozen more to work with.


Forever Independent

Tonight I asked many of my friends on a date to see a double feature of independent films. Because we were being cultured, my dates and I dressed up fancy and walked to the theatre. It was just like Elimidate, but without the gratuitous making out. You see, our making out is never gratuitous.

Sometimes there's a reason why independent media is rejected by the mainstream.

I had heard that the first film, Mysterious Skin, had a heavy subject matter, but I was not prepared for the graphic depiction of molestation, gay prostitution, and rape. Worse yet, I had not prepared my dates. As uncomfortable as I felt during some scenes, I was feeling even worse knowing my invitation was causing others to flinch. Generally, it's best to save this type of material for a third date. At least Kat loved it. She's a sick freak, though.

Next was Funny Ha Ha, a concept film. Rather than having a plot, it's just a sequence of random, awkward events in the protagonist's life. While some of the scenes caused discomfort, others were so horrible to watch that it was painful. At one point, I was twitching so much in my chair that I said aloud, "This is worse than molestation!"

Worse yet, because the date went so poorly, I felt obligated to put out.


A Conversation with a Groundhog

Once upon a time, I fell in love with the lead singer from We Are Scientists because he's dreamy and has feathered bangs and sings about robots. He and his bandmates are alumni from the Claremont colleges and over the years have paid their dues by playing shows everywhere. Currently, they have a contract with Virgin and get video play on MTV, which is quite a feat considering MTV doesn't even play videos anymore.

Following that introduction, I must share the following with you because it made me laugh until I cried at work this summer. It is stolen appropriated from WeAreScientists.com.

A Conversation with a Groundhog

Let me speak in understatements and explain to you the life of a groundhog. A groundhog's life is harder than eating two hundred trees in one hour. It is more strenuous than running around Earth two hundred times in one hour. It requires greater strength than putting the moon into a milk bottle. It is like the life of a gopher but two hundred times harder. It is more trying than putting Mars inside Earth twice in one hour.

My happiest memory from growing up is when an eagle dropped from an overcast sky and snatched up three of my siblings, its knife-like talons shearing off legs and paws and an ear and leaving them behind in a great gust of rancid eagle scent.

My favorite dinner is a stick. Once while I was eating a stick I was shot in the face with a BB.

My mate fell through the ice in the lake last winter and was under water for several minutes. When I dragged her out she was still alive but she lost her sense of hearing. In the summer she was surprised by a farmer's thresher, its knife-like talons flinging her everywhere in the evening air. I did not need to tell our cubs because they had died the previous year in a mudslide. Still, I went to the hill where they were lost and gazed into the weeds wondering what I would have told them if they were still here.

I found a child's backpack. It is torn and has blood on it, but the blood is long dry and I sleep inside the big pocket.

I am most afraid of dogs.


No Costume Necessary

"What were you for Halloween last year?"



My Brilliant Comment of the Day

"She [a nine-year-old] can run a seven-minute mile! I can't even walk a seven-minute mile."


Let's Get Upright

For class, I read an article entitled "What Have We Done to Deserve This?" by Peter Lehman. Though entirely about naked men, it seems tame in comparison to last week's naked men experience. From the article, I learned a lot about the penis, including this tidbit:

Sheets-Johnstone argues that evolutionary scientists have not understood the crucial role of the penis in accounting for how hominids became bipedal. Her argument is that in a quadrupedal state neither the sight nor the size of the penis is of great importance; on the contrary, the female pudenda, not the penis, is the sight of significance. Nonhominid, quadrupedal sexual behavior revolves around posterior sexual presenting, and therefore changes in the size, shape, and color of the pudenda are important visual signals to males. The penis remains largely invisible. Only with the shift to upright posture does the display of the penis become important, and such display is constant with bipedality.

In other words, if it weren't for men wanting to show off their cocks, we'd still be crawling. The next time you see a shady man exposing himself in an alley, don't scream and call the police: thank him for your ability to walk.



I've been lazy at this blogging job. I'm not referring to the fact that my last two entries have been short and sloppily thrown together. For that, I felt I owed myself (and my loyal readers) a break after the dissertation that was the bowling post on Thursday.

The reason I'm lazy is because I missed a crucial joke earlier this week. Many of you may remember the hypothetical question I posed about whether you'd get an abortion from someone referred to as the Terminator. If you've forgotten, try here.

Amelia, having the comic insight I unfortunately lack, added a joke to the mix that makes all the difference. Not only would the Arnold impersonator refer to emself as "The Terminator," but ey would throw in an obligatory, "Hasta la vista, baby." Now that's funny. Perhaps funnier than abortions themselves.

Dear readers, the extent to which I let you down is inconceivable. From now on, I promise to squeeze every last drop of abortion hilarity from the uterus that is my sense of humor in order to keep you laughing through your third trimester. Once and for all, I'm taking a stand on this issue: I'm Pro-Funny!



While walking to school today, I wasn't paying attention and ambled straight into a bus stop sign and it hurt a lot. The End.