This Week's Edits
This week's Quick column is about my genitals, exercise equipment, and the painful combination of the two. This was actually a replacement piece, as the column I originally turned in was politely rejected due to certain concerns regarding the litigious inclinations of the column's subject. As a treat for you, dear web log reader, I present the column below...
My good friend and standing gin rummy partner Prissy has received more than her fair share of flack in recent weeks. You may know Prissy from the recent media attention that has fallen upon her since it was discovered that her daughter may have fudged some facts in a silly little letter writing contest to procure tickets to a music concert of some sort. The details escape me.
The story has since ballooned to international proportions and much has been made of Prissy’s questionable maternal influence. However, I believe this belies the true matter at hand. As usual, the media is all too focused on what people are doing and saying, and not paying enough attention to what they are wearing or how they are presenting themselves physically. This is my point. My good friend Prissy is not just an unforgivably malevolent, disgusting troglodyte on the inside; she is also a hideous, foot-faced monstrosity of a woman on the outside. I can say this because she is my friend.
My friend Prissy (a nickname I gave her while we were both attending Yvonne Littlebutter’s Finishing School for Filthy Heartless Charlatans) has always had a way of bending reality to her whim and while doing so has always looked like a powdered balloon animal frog with eyebrows that have been penciled in by a prison tattoo artist.
Once she was caught shoplifting scratch-off lottery tickets at a gas station and was somehow able to evade criminal prosecution by stating that the lottery tickets had no visible price tag on them and therefore no monetary value. Another time she was stopped by a highway patrolman after commandeering a truck full of velour tracksuits, but avoided arrest when she pointed out that the truck’s license plate depicted three of the eight numbers that made up the full calendar date of her birthday and thus granted her some obscure type of birthright ownership. And just last week she murdered an elderly woman but circumvented the law once again by portraying herself as an angel of merciful euthanasia.
Very little can detract from the wisdom and insight one gleans from simply glancing at my good friend Prissy’s outward appearance. It just goes to prove the adage by which I live: You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you most certainly can judge putrid people by their vile visage. She really and truly is a horrific hell beast constructed from the taints of a thousand demons. I can say this because she is my friend.
My good friend and standing gin rummy partner Prissy has received more than her fair share of flack in recent weeks. You may know Prissy from the recent media attention that has fallen upon her since it was discovered that her daughter may have fudged some facts in a silly little letter writing contest to procure tickets to a music concert of some sort. The details escape me.
The story has since ballooned to international proportions and much has been made of Prissy’s questionable maternal influence. However, I believe this belies the true matter at hand. As usual, the media is all too focused on what people are doing and saying, and not paying enough attention to what they are wearing or how they are presenting themselves physically. This is my point. My good friend Prissy is not just an unforgivably malevolent, disgusting troglodyte on the inside; she is also a hideous, foot-faced monstrosity of a woman on the outside. I can say this because she is my friend.
My friend Prissy (a nickname I gave her while we were both attending Yvonne Littlebutter’s Finishing School for Filthy Heartless Charlatans) has always had a way of bending reality to her whim and while doing so has always looked like a powdered balloon animal frog with eyebrows that have been penciled in by a prison tattoo artist.
Once she was caught shoplifting scratch-off lottery tickets at a gas station and was somehow able to evade criminal prosecution by stating that the lottery tickets had no visible price tag on them and therefore no monetary value. Another time she was stopped by a highway patrolman after commandeering a truck full of velour tracksuits, but avoided arrest when she pointed out that the truck’s license plate depicted three of the eight numbers that made up the full calendar date of her birthday and thus granted her some obscure type of birthright ownership. And just last week she murdered an elderly woman but circumvented the law once again by portraying herself as an angel of merciful euthanasia.
Very little can detract from the wisdom and insight one gleans from simply glancing at my good friend Prissy’s outward appearance. It just goes to prove the adage by which I live: You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you most certainly can judge putrid people by their vile visage. She really and truly is a horrific hell beast constructed from the taints of a thousand demons. I can say this because she is my friend.