Hi. How's junk? Listen, how's about we ditch these insufferable biddies and grab a brandy alexander or twelve at the nearest cocktail lounge? Sound fun? We thought so too.
Wait, is there a draft in here? No? Let's play a game called "pretend our knees are glued together" and have a little chit-chat. Coolio?
So here's the upshot. We have been trying to overcome our unhealthy obsession with famous sin-zones. After Sharon Stone assailed us with her vaginal tsunami and her cat-woman anatomy lesson, we sought therapy. When Agent Scully was stricken with a bizarre case of uterine worm-hole, we found solace in Jesus and vodka. And when Adrian Grenier went commando in his spandex Richard Simmons Jazzercise pants, we consulted the I Ching and sacrificed a goat to beelzebub. In short, we are doing our damnedest to heal our unnatural preoccupation with celebu-crotch. So why are you doing this to us?
See, Sig...it's like this. We adore you. We loved you in "Aliens in the Mist." You're a fierce broad (if chez Whup-Ass is ever infested by acid-spitting space slugs, you're our go-to gal). But fierce as you are, you also stand about seven feet tall, so your lady-parts are always at eye level. With that in mind, we have a teensy word of advice:
You might want to close the airlock on your space pod.
We know. If we found ourselves on a hideous sectional uncomfortably wedged twixt Barb, Joy, Whoopie, the auxiliary negress and the loudmouthed conserva-bimbo, we might experience a similar lapse in decorum. We can imagine spontaneously giving Ms. Walters a noogie or Ms. Behar a purple nurple. The temptation would be overwhelming. But giving network airtime to one's labia is just plain tacky. What's more, it invites bloggers with less taste than us to snidely provide the caption "Weaver's Beaver: Wide Receiver."
When we look at this picture:
- We fondly recall a family trip to Carlsbad Cavern
- We see London, we see France
- We wonder whether this was "The View" the audience expected
- We are reminded to have our radiator bled
- We can almost hear the ocean
- We remember where we left our keys
- We feel an urge to chant: "we have here before us Sigourney's clitoris"
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