By the third month, I'd gotten tired of reaching for my wallet every time I said "fucking hell motherfucker what the fuck do you fucking think you're fucking tryna do there? Don't shit me, asshole!" (RM8)
Actually, I got tired of eating Chachos.
(Did you know that short of trawling 20 food blogs, it's impossible to find a decent appetizing picture of corn chips? How can something as divine as corn chips be unphotogenic?)
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| Blue corn chips (by Baltimore Fishbowl) |
There are exceptions: whenever I see crush du jour on screen ("OMG fuuuuuuck!") and when I see something stupid online ("what the fuck, motherfucker that is so fucking stupid!"). (RM4)
Okay, the bit about internet stuff isn't true. Now, whenever I see spectacular (bad, unamusing) stupidity, I think of that person being tied to a chair, Robert Pattinson reading Twilight to them (and he has to do all the voices and expressions), and Rebecca Black's Friday being played in between chapters.
Then I reach for a bag of Chachos.
(Values in parentheses denote the amount to be fined in today's post, obvs.)
2 comments:
Your imagination for torture rivals the combination of Al Qaeda AND Guantanamo topped with a dash of North Korea gulag stint.
I never bothered with the swear jar. You don't need that when you live with two little teapots with big ears and live in fear of Mummy's wrath for despoiling the vocabulary of said little teapots.
My *other* clients will be pleased to hear that, hohoho.
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