If there was any doubt about the results of the poll in last week’s Diversion, allow me to reassure you that “Work smells, just eat pizza” was the clear winner. However, as most of you are probably well aware, that’s exactly what I would’ve ended up doing regardless of the poll results. I’z lazy, y’all.
Now I really want some pizza.
So anyway, I guess that groundhog saw his shadow and went back to bed or whatever, and since we — as a nation — have collectively decided to allow a narcoleptic, fatass rat to determine our weather patterns, that means more winter. I live in Minnesota, however, so that groundhog could’ve started jammin’ to Will Smith’s “Summertime” and I’ll still see my breath when I go outside until at least April.
On a vaguely related note, let’s do another poll. BECAUSE I SAID SO, THAT’S WHY.
Now tell me all about your worst (best?) drunken escapade. Like, the time when you got arrested because you were found passed out on a stranger’s lawn with no pants on, your left arm handcuffed to a naked woman and your right arm handcuffed to a stolen Harley, and when you called your roommate to come bail you out of jail, he told you that you set your friend’s car on fire, threw the television in the bathtub and jammed Fruit Rollups into every mailbox in your building. I mean, hypothetically. Not that I know a dude who did that, or anything.
Maybe you’d prefer to tell me about the time that you and a friend made mango mojitos and you had, like, seven of them and when your friend’s boyfriend’s cousin came over, he found you upside down in a chair on the balcony, singing the theme to “Scooby Doo” and you were so wasted that when he asked you to make out with him, you agreed even though you just met him five minutes ago and you didn’t know his name and he was wearing a glow-in-the-dark Jesus t-shirt, but before you had sex with him you started laughing hysterically about nothing, then started crying and hiccupping and then fell asleep on the floor, and you later found out the dude’s name was Herman so it’s probably for the best that you didn’t sleep with him. HYPOTHETICALLY.
C’mon, out with it. Most absurd drunken shenanigans. SPILL.
Sarah Larson lives in Minnesota, where she is usually up to no good. She does not believe in chocolate ice cream, because seriously, it doesn’t taste remotely like actual chocolate. What it tastes like is ass. She only updates her blog when bullied into it, but you can read the archive here if you’re bored enough.
Each Time You Like, Share, Tweet or Stumble a Pajiba Post, An Angel Does the Paul Rudd Dance
blog comments powered by Disqus