Hi. Over here.
Carol! (snapping fingers in her face).
You seem a little distracted. What do you say we barricade ourselves in the green room and whip up a pitcher of Brandy Alexanders? Sound fun? We thought so too. But let's wash our hands first, groovy?
Okay, this must be said: happy friggin birthday. You are 75 years old as of Valentine's Day. You are almost twice as old as Courtney Love and you look like her lesbian kid sister. We grew up admiring the progression of your aerodynamically unstable hairdos on The Brady Bunch and were constantly hypnotized by the LSD-inspired prints on your flared pantsuits and mom-minis. As Carol Brady you were a relatively strict matriarch; one recalls how you practically ripped Cindy a new one for being a tattle-tale (we always secretly wished you'd yank a ringlet from her scalp for excessive lisping). But we always suspected you were something of a super-freak, a suspicion confirmed by subsequent tell-alls penned by various washed-up Brady kids. Apparently, the Brady house was an incest-tastic den of depravity, and Greg frequently shampooed your shag carpeting between takes (which explains why Carol insisted that Greg have his own bedroom, and sheds light on Greg's psychotic Johnny Bravo episode).
Speaking of episodes: remember when Peter tossed a basketball at Bobby and it sailed right past him and smashed that hideous vase? What did we learn (other than Carol's taste in vases was flat-out atrocious)? The moral was "Mom always said, don't play ball in the house." Which brings us to this photograph.
You filthy old broad (that's a compliment). We commend you for boldly displacing our unhealthy obsession with celebu-crotch. And by the smoldering look you're exchanging with that tall twink of water, Carol Brady is fully prepared to waive the rules and let a certain naughty boy bounce his balls in her house. And why not? Grandma/teen hippity-dippity has been all the rage since Demi started picking up Ashton after cub scouts.
We know that it's much more than a hunch. This chicken has a certain Wessonality.
In fact, looking at this picture, we ponder the following:
- Is your post-menopausal Wessonality still Wesson-y enough? Perhaps you might need to add a certain KY-ality into the mix.
- If we were into F-ing GMs, you'd most definitely be a GMILF.
- Exactly how did Jan Brady grow up to look like she's your mother? Do you bathe in the blood of virgins?
- Speaking of which, if indeed Carol Brady was wont to get a little "molest-y" it explains why Marcia had lesbo-sex with Jan and got fat, Peter turned into a reality-show disaster, Cindy went on to do barf-a-riffic radio interviews and Bobby found a career as a mugshot model and DWI hobbyist.
- It must be said that the Brady Hour Variety Show was the most retarded television show ever. Seriously. It made CopRock look like Masterpiece Theater.
- Our inner child is hoping Carol Brady is simply giving a PTA lecture on "good touch vs. bad touch" and you are demonstrating the latter, which inevitably leads to the "touchee" pointing at the crotch of an anatomically correct teddy bear in the brightly-painted office of a child psychologist.
- The last time we saw an old broad fondling a man's meat in such a lascivious manner, Alice was at Sam's butcher shop whispering something disgusting about warming his kielbasa in her lady-oven.
- Pssst! He is wearing tight pants and his ball cap is jauntily reversed in regulation blow-job position. Need we spell it out for you? He's a homo, Florence.
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