I see your cute wee island and raise you 660 acres of Scottish island for sale. I’m trying to convince my grandmother that we need to either a, buy the island or b, invade...

Ah, Avril.  She who’s (whose?) Google search result used to come with the tag-line “unique wild-child spirit” or some other crap like that.  *fetches the mind-bleach*

*reaches for the Stoly*

Get a fucking boat.  Sleep in said boat.  Guaranteed to wake up not with a fish nibbling your eyelid.

No, Chloe, you’re not off-base. You’re well within your rights to ram a fucking screwdriver up the thieving shitehawk’s scrotum. Unless you declare your fridge to be open territory, then the fucker has no right to peruse the contents of your fridge.

Blessed be!

Oh, blessed be!

Well, isn’t this just delightful. Another way to screw up, nay, fuck up, nay, bastardise Italian cuisine by adding something so monumentally and grotesquely evil. And there was my thinking the worst you lot could come up with was Sketti. Oh, how wrong was I.

*pets*

Fuck off and drill your own country into the bedrock, Trump.

I’m so stealing that for my office bathrooms.  There are some messy pissers amongst my male cohorts.  I don’t think they were even raised in a barn, the filthy bastards...

But will they make me clutch to the toilet in panic as they evacuate my body?  *serious-news-face*

But will they make me clutch to the toilet in panic as they evacuate my body?  *serious-news-face*

Goddamnit to high fuckery - why can’t we have a Ghibli Star Wars?  They could redeem those fuckwitted prequels by remaking them Ghibli-style...

I don’t know what’s more damning - the dish, the music or the eternal condemnation of 3.8 million people’s ancestors.

You know, I’d not be averse to drinking milk from a metal bottle. Cans - not so much. It’d have to have some resealable element, mind you. Metal bottles? Yeah, I’d do that.  Glass bottles could be better still. 

Oh go on. Fap yourself into a froth and give me a good laugh. Nothing worse than someone with an anime icon wanking on about a country that they clearly know nothing about! Go on, ya wee hussy. Give us all a thrill!

Oh honey.  You’re talking out of your arse again, sugar.

Hmm. Surprisingly not as basic as it would have been if Kevin “Duchess of Basic” Pang contributed, but surprisingly unadventurous.

Because I was taught how to make them at a mate’s house in Saint-Cloud, I call them palmiers. They’re one of Mr Vinegar’s favourite snacks, so we’ve always got a fucking huge tupperware tub (which we’re sure we can fit Gwynnie Paltrow’s head in) full of ‘em.

Ooh, ring-pulls.  I remember someone in my sister’s class at primary school who sliced their finger open on one of those bloody things - thirty years later and the woman still has a faint scar on her finger that she claims was caused by the damned thing.  Evil, evil little things.