One bough breaks centuries ago and now it’s “uncouth” to hang my baby in the tree tops?
Pronouncing “driest” like priest
What doesn’t kill you is still… going to kill you. Just slowly.
Me, on my 9th plate of nachos: So you’re telling me I have time
Doctor: I think I should refer you to a specialist.
Half a league, half a league, half a league onward…
Justice League, confused: So like, which half?
Aquaman: *stares into the valley of death*
Y’know what? I’ll sit this one out.
Being from the Midwest means my signature potluck dish will contain a tub of mayonnaise, a jar of jelly, and a block of Velveeta.
And it will be called something like “Sexy Salad” to let you know I do not actually understand what sex or salad is.
[The Last Airbender, nervous on a date]
*breaks wind*
Ope, excuse me. I’m a little out of my element here.
In Medieval times, people used antimony as a 𝘳𝘦𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 laxative.
Today, we can eat a different hotdog every day.
“If you’re not on medication no one will know how crazy you you are,” she said red flaggingly.
I sexually identify as the toaster you want to bathe with.
Dad, to brother: You’re married now. You’re officially an adult.
Dad, to sister: You’re a mother now. You’re imbued with an imparted wisdom that no other could fathom.
Dad, to me: You eat any good nachos lately?
Growing up in the Midwest means I am not embarrassed to eat a pound of fried macaroni in a setting, but I am embarrassed to admit ever having sex to my family at the age of 36.
Imagine seeing the most perfect creature walking towards you. They stop. You look deep into their eyes, heart pounding with deep compassion. Your fingers tremble yearning to caress them.
And then you hear those words…
“He’s a service dog. You can’t pet him.”