If you’ve got some to spare, I’d gladly take them off of your hands.
My new nickname for the poet who lives in the basement.
“When I tried to write happy / Yo I knew I lied, I lived a life of crime / Why play ya blind?”
Let me tell you a story about a dog named Chuck.
When he heard this news he took a huge shit right next to my bedroom door.
She is so going to regret having ever sent me this photo.
“These women are not only the caretakers, they are often the teachers, the health care providers, the community leaders.”
Your angry email should have the words “dew claws” somewhere in the subject.
He should be glad that I didn’t buy any nipple rings during my travels.
If Mormons did genealogy on dogs they’d trace Chuck back to Tanzania. And then have him baptized in the name of his ancestors.