I know it probably won't work, but I'm signing up for surgery. I've combined advil and tylenol. I've done the physical therapy, the braces and the weird shots of sugar and bacteria -- or spun out particles of my own blood. Left knee got better. Right knee got worse.
It was my niece's wedding, and Shannon is not submitting to nobody, nowhere. She came out of the womb screaming like a banshee, and that screaming for shit didn't stop until she learned how to talk.
The Bear and I went to get our passports renewed. His nametag said Bob. Bob was efficient, thorough and a mother fucking racist.
Let's make a list of shit that better happen or we go all Yellow Vests like the French.
If you are going to have a team, it's going to need a nickname, a mascot and some fucked up cheers.
Just when I was going to release my perfect whine to earn some free points with the Bear (one of the secrets to a long marriage is the art of sublte manipulation) that got fucked up too.
Fresh on the heels of my Body Shaming by Kate, her two best "friends" found a way to pick on my face.
The bosses said it was a really important trip and they needed "key" people to go. I was really happy they picked me, until I learned "key people" means fucking idiots.
For most places, the holidays are time to reflect and improve. Not at the Third-World Racquet Club -- these are the times when everything goes straight to the shitter.
We all have a friend or acquaintance who just blurts out the truth even if they are not thinking about it or even trying. Kangaroo-face Gilbson has been trying