Haul your cottage cheese thunder thighs over here and cop a squat. No, not on the wicker. We are NOT spending the rest of the evening trying to extract your enormous fanny from a broken chair. Waddle over to that brightly painted elephant stool we purchased from Ringling Brothers. It's reinforced steel. Atta girl, park that über kiester. Shall we freshen our cosmos?
So here's the deal. We are not entirely without sympathy for you. Along with Ashley Olsen, you have dubious attributes. While you both, unfortch, are tanks of lard, you do have just a smidge of likability which stems from the fact that we loathe you just slightly less than your insufferable sibling. And although we have a long-standing policy of ignoring pap-whores who derive their fame exclusively from the pair of bloody thighs from whence they plopped, at least we don't pray on a daily basis that you have a near-death experience. For example, when we find ourselves gazing at a beautiful sunset or sitting down to a sumptuous meal, we frequently say to ourselves "Dear Lord, please make Kim Kardashian enter an elevator that malfunctions and shoots her into orbit." Or sometimes we say "Greatest Yahweh, please send a scary voo-doo doll to terrorize Nicole Richie in the same way a scary voo-doo doll terrorized Karen Black in that movie in which a scary voo-doo doll terrorizes Karen Black." Then we smile and say "amen" before taking homo communion (also known as eating the olive in our martini).
The thing is, we're a giver. Guilty as charged. So when we encounter a sloppy bitch who's let herself go to such an extent, we have no other choice but to throw down the gauntlet with the resolve/camp/high drama of an inebriated Alexis Carrington and stage a long overdue intervention. By the way, do we smell a cheesecake in your purse?
Okay, here goes. Bitch, you're enormous. You look like:
- That woman who had to be removed from her house with the jaws of life and was carted away to the hospital on a double-wide flatbed while the neighbors pointed and laughed and little children burst into tears
- You're understudying Henrietta Hippo on "The New Zoo Revue"
- Every night you put on your eatin-dress and binge on a crate of ring-dings
- The Momma Cass "before" picture
- The planet Gargantua, whose gravitational pull explains the retarded space trash hovering round your sad little orbit
- Bloody hell.
HEY, KIDS! IT'S THE WILD GAME GAM GAME!
Object: Match up the totally HOTT legs at left to the malodorous cloven hoofed creature it belongs to!
(the deluxe version comes in "Scratch-n-Sniff")