it ain't natural

Just in case anyone missed this picture of crazy baby-mama homegirl, I thought I'd share. Sorry.
I'm referring to her lips looking unnatural, of course. her belly is beyootifoo, and if you don't agree, you're clearly just some kind of jealous hater.

Princess flix

What are you watching? I ask.
Princess Diarrhea!! shouts The Boy, thereby making a fairly benign Disney movie sound like some kind of dirty scat porn. "She hit him right in the PEAUNUTS!!", he howls after Anne Hathaway whacks the little surfer prick in the, uh, prick with a softball.

Update: forget about drowning kittens.
The automotive-grade-silicone enhanced, trout lipped reproductive nightmare is the current target of my ire. In her ancestral homeland (Iran) the "F" in MILF would stand for FLOG, as in "flog that silly twat until her well proven uterus falls out and shrivels up, then jump on it until it is mush".
Those 8 unfortunate babies would have been tolerated for about 10 minutes in Iran, which is where the grandpa said he was going in order to raise some cash for the child army produced by his daughter. It was probably just an excuse though, just to get away from that batshit CRAZY homegirl of his, I'm positive he'll be back real soon.
Also, she's not on welfare. No, she's just getting $500/ month in food stamps because she's extra nice, and the other monthly payments she receives from the government, in her esteemed opinion, don't count as welfare because she has "legitimate needs". When you're done wiping the barf off your chin, go watch the Westminster Kennel Club dog show because those doggies are cute and fuzzy, and they are supposed to have litters.

Peckerfoot

Mr. V. is a sometimes churlish long term patient . When I first saw him he had a sloppy dripping ulceration on his ankle. I treated it with a genetically engineered graft which had been generated from fetal foreskin. It healed beautifully and Mr. V christened it his "peckerfoot".
Mr. V taught auto body at a vocational school on the south side, and called his students "those little bastards". He has a beard as long as santy clause but the style is more in keeping with a middle eastern mullah, his temperament being closer to the later.

He likes NASCAR and says a car isn't a real car unless, upon start-up, it sounds like your grandmother gargling peanut butter.
He was extremely compliant during his course of treatment, meaning that he probably would have healed just fine (if a bit more slowly) without the help from the pecker. He follows up a couple times a year and I am always happy to see him; initially he scared me, particularly when he was in the office roaring about having the "fucking little penis stuck on his leg".

I have grown fond of him as he has mellowed after quitting those little bastards. He comes from far in the sticks to visit and bitches endlessly about having to come to the city, but he keeps coming. still has private insurance too! gotta love that.
He is always menacing in the waiting room, scares the shit out of my assistant when he asks her to help remove his compression stockings (which he calls his "goddamn leg condoms). Then he launches into the discussion of his peckerfoot getting close to puberty, and what then?!? is it gunna wake him up at night hahaha!! then he asks me why the hell I'm wearin' those stupid high heels when my "wheels" aren't even showing and what is the point of that?
For recreation he makes loud cars louder, and in the summertime he drives around his property in a golf cart with his wife & a six pack. Life is good, peckerfoot and all.

Note to Michael Phelps

Dear Son of Neptune:
first of all, get your head out of your ass, or the bong as it were. Next find out which of your stoner buds just got a new car and do something really mean to him. REALLY MEAN! make him smoke up some oregano or something. That being said, I think most swim team locker rooms smell faintly like marijuana, Ben Gay, and chlorine. That's how mine always smelled anyway.

When you're in the pool swimming back and forth and back and forth FOREVER, it does get a little dull, and SOME swimmers were known to help the Pink Floyd playing in their minds a little by a tiny bit of zee reefer. That's what I heard, anyway. As far as I know, this practice does not necessarily lead to an end stage of snorting heroin off of a baby's ass while getting a swastika tattoo and committing armed robbery at the local White Hen.
So get your ass back in the pool, wait for some new endorsements (Cartoon Network and Cheetos, probably). And please have your aorta checked because I'm pretty sure that you have Marfan's syndrome and will bleed out before you're 30.
All my Bestest.
Love, Chico's Catalog

My fat kitty

Back in the day I used to have a big fat cat. His name was Mildew. In the beginning I was not that fond of him; hence the name. He and his litter-mate who was called Thirty-Four-And-A-Half just showed up at my apartment one day. I meant to drown them both in the toilet, but I never got around to it. Instead I overfed them and gave them insulting names, which at the end of the day just made it embarrassing to take them to the vet. Mildew became my buddy when I was heartbroken over the Australian electrochemist who was moving back to Melbourne. I was sad and big fat Mildew suddenly started jumping (which was hard for him) into my bed and cuddling with me at night (which is hard because I'm about as cuddly as a surfboard). He either nursed me back to health or sucked out my soul, which one? it's debatable. Anyway, I felt better with his company. I started to say things like "he's just big boned" and "it's his glands, he can't help it".
Why these fond reminiscences today?
It's just a friendly warning to Dr. P.A. from Dr. I.N. :
You are teetering on the edge of the cliff, sliding right down that slippery slope. Get rid of those kittens, you're headed straight for "crazy cat lady" status. Really. I think I still have it in me to drown them, maybe. You're going to have your furniture ruined and they will sit and stare at you while you're eating Doritos on your exercise bike. Godspeed, woman.

Why I get the milk

If you want to get rid of some dirty hankies or old Happy Meal toys, then you should put a price tag on that shit and put it on the clearance table at my neighborhood CVS, because Archie Bunker will buy it. Pictured above is what Mr. Super Efficient Shopper brought home when I asked him to go get one gallon of milk. If you can't see it clearly, I will list it out for your enjoyment:
One tube of some kind of Oil of Olay youth-in-a-tube,
An ultrasonic jewelery cleaner
2 bottles of fruit scented shower gel,
2 large sets of little girly 'lil Miss Hoochie makeup (which is strictly against house rules)
Last but not least, twelve, twelve(!!) sets of wet & wild nail polish including a color that looks like Grey Poupon mustard. TWELVE.

Next pic. has 2 different shades of foundation, a bronzer intended for, uh, the more darkly pigmented woman, and some cream eyshadows that would be useful for someone trying out for the circus. The he swung by Dunkin' Donuts and Chipotle to stock up on napkins. Of course, he forgot the fucking milk. Day-um boy, you is stew-pid and crazy.

Beauty in the Barrio

Cheapass Archie Bunker likes to go to little Mexico for a haircut. He thinks he's getting a deal. He loads up the family truckster and hauls the whole fam damily out for this happy Sunday outing. He's happy because he can act like a big shot and shout broken english at people who, by and large, choose to ignore him. He & the kids get shitty haircuts and he tips outrageously because he doesn't know that I'll soon have to take the kids for fixer-upers at twice the price. Here's my new exciting look: