A Brush With Death

Joy Behar unwittingly commits haira-kiri.

The seldom-seen south face of Mount Rushmore.

From Riley.

I Slay Myself

I want my ashes stored in an eye-catching vessel so when people ask, "What's in there?" Dan can say, "The cremains of the gay."

For the record, though, I hate the word cremains. What happened? All the morticians woke up one day and decided ashes wasn't good enough anymore? Please. (And, yes, I know they like to call themselves funeral directors now. Whatever.)

Dear John

A low blow if ever there was one.

From Riley.

Advice and Consent

Dear Frannie,

I am a definite MILF, and I love dressing like one. I love wearing short skirts and low-cut blouses that show off my boobs, which cost me plenty so I want people to see them. I never wear anything other than platform heels, even to work out on the stair-stepper - if Mariah Carey can do it, then so can I. I get lots of attention for my looks and wardrobe. People are always pointing and staring when I’m at the grocery store, but I know it’s just because they’re jealous bitches.

Anyway, my problem is my 12-year-old daughter. She claims she’s embarrassed by my clothes and won’t wear any of the stuff I buy her from Forever 21. She insists on wearing blouses with Peter Pan collars, cardigans, and knee-length skirts.

How can I get my daughter to dress more like her smoking-hot mama?

Sincerely,
MILF in Midland

Dear MILF,

Tell her that February is “Dress Like a Scary Whore” month at school and that all of the other little girls in her class will be dressing like Mommy. Once she hears her friends are on board for the Skankfest she’ll be flashing that pre-pubescent cleavage faster than you can you can spell Gonorrhea.

Frannie

More here.

Source

Two schoolboys struggle to cycle home along a flooded road where the
River Mole, a tributary of the Thames, has burst its banks at Horsham
in Surrey, 25 January 1960. (Reg Speller/Fox Photos/Getty Images)

From Riley.

Tippler on the Hoof

I took advantage of our one-day "heat wave" to go on two walks this afternoon. Lots of others were out and about, including the drinker up the hill who always fawns over Zap and Devo despite having one of those cutesy little passive-aggressive signs asking you to keep your dogs the hell away from her garden. At least she finally took down the McCain-Palin signs.

Today she was sporting a pink ensemble that looked like terrycloth pajamas. I think she was fresh from church, hence the uncharacteristic clarity of her voice. But she's as chatty sober as she is drunk, and today's thesis was feline abuse. As she went on and on about old and abandoned and tortured cats, all I could hear was Sandra Bernhard in Without You I'm Nothing: "Would you please shut the fuck up? You are bumming me out, asshole."

Special Delivery

Cat helps deliver town's letters

Otter tours Scotland in postbag

My grandparents' Airedale went around with the mailman, but not in the bag.

From Riley.

Separated at Birth?