Team Sequined Pantsuit.

How many rads are in a cackle? Just want to make sure I bring enough crucifyin'-cupcakes to our next meetup.

It’s kind of like looking at an old teddy bear. The ears are ripped, one eye hangs by a thread and it’s lost a lot of stuffing, but that just proves that at one time, someone really loved it.

@RubyPenelope: Yes, it is, and yes, you should.

@gingersnap555: Same here. Team Helvetic (as an adjective)!

Don't let the creepy nail salon in the mall see this. They don't need other animal-based treatment.

Venting via haiku:

@heytherefancypants: Gah! Oh, how I long to hoard them.

Ooh! Is that a new metal hand, Karl? I assume it's one of those "flesh of the servant, willingly given" replacements.

@lambsy: Well, I'm not Katy Perry (yay, me), but let me just say: I want to make out with Tilda Swinton!

@Candychelle: You won't regret it!

@dumpherjt: Not that the origin of Coco's ass really matters, but from some angles, you can see what could be implant scars here. And before photos make a good argument for implants.

Another photo of Coco’s ass, another chance to play "Boobs or Coco’s Ass?" with my husband. I cover half the photo and ask him if he’s looking at boobs or Coco’s ass. He invariably guesses breasts and is shocked to learn he’s wrong again. Good fun.

I like to imagine she didn't give Out an interview as much as provide the magazine with a variety of completed Mad Libs entries.

@Scal: Thanks! And hearted right back.

"I jokingly admitted to being slightly ego-driven also, but only in a healthy way that would not bring you down."

@fridaphile is tequila's momma: Same with the one on my arm. Halo then gone. I really miss it, too.

@lurkerbynature: Hey, Mr. Gallumbits uses Flying Fox, too! High-five for matching flowery smelling fellas.

My breasts have been known to lower zippers, pop buttons and turn corners in order to fully reveal their nipply selves without my consent. They would laugh at the lack of resistance this dress offers.

A fantasy world in which I face imminent death by firing squad or a fantasy world in which my fat, in conjunction with what I can only guess are my tiny T-Rex arms, prevents me from tying my own shoes? Yeah, just bring on the reachin’ stick and flip flops, please.