Some funny reviews, follow the links for more hilarity
3 Hammers is favouredmostly by northern secondary school students, the homeless, the alcohol dependent and the mentally ill. It gets you incredibly drunk and leaves you feeling half dead the next day.
Being a loose cannon who does not play by the rules the first thing I did was ignore the warning and smear this all over my knob and bollocks. The bollocks I knew and loved are gone now. In their place is a maroon coloured bag of agony which sends stabs of pain up my body every time it grazes against my thigh or an article of clothing. I am suffering so that you don't have to. Heed my lesson. DO NOT PUT ON KNOB AND BOLLOCKS.
This item has wolves on it which makes it intrinsically sweet and worth 5 stars by itself, but once I tried it on, that's when the magic happened. After checking to ensure that the shirt would properly cover my girth, I walked from my trailer to Wal-mart with the shirt on and was immediately approached by women. The women knew from the wolves on my shirt that I, like a wolf, am a mysterious loner who knows how to 'howl at the moon' from time to time (if you catch my drift!).
Why is the lenth of the roll so important? Because this is, without doubt, the best foil I have ever used. The dull side teases you with a resolute determination not to reflect light as playfully as the reverse; the shiny side sends dancing light around the kitchen like a mirrorball might illuminate the dancefloor of Heaven.
If '1984' or 'The Trial' had been a children's book, Mr Messy would be it. No literary character has ever been so fully and categorically obliterated by the forces of social control. Hargreaves may well pay homage to Kafka and Orwell in this work, but he also goes beyond them.
We meet Mr Messy - a man whose entire day-to-day existence is the undiluted expression of his individuality. His very untidiness is a metaphor for his blissful and unselfconscious disregard for the Social Order. Yes, there are times when he himself is a victim of this individuality - as when he trips over a brush he has left on his garden path - but he goes through life with a smile on his face.
So one of the many new devices I purchased for this trip was a Diva "Moon Cup". Since feminine hygine supplies would be hard to come by and waste-producing, I opted instead to buy a thing like a Barbie Deluxe Toilet Plunger, and stuff it up my hooha.
The theory is that the cup catches your pan drippings, and you empty it a couple times a day, washing it with hippy soap, and reinserting. It presupposes you are enough of an Earth Mother to be OK not only with your monthly outpourings, but also with generally fossicking around in your flaps. Now, I am no stranger to gore. Nor am I squeamish about my delicate rose of delight, except that I have no such illusions about it and indeed am always reminded of nothing so much as stuffing an oddly-warm raw turkey. So, when after several weeks of teasing, the Period Fairy threatening to postpone the Communist Invasion until I was actually getting on the plane (I was about ready to scream and cry at some hapless unwary male just as a sacrifice to appease her) at last I greeted the rosy-fingered dawn and set about embarking on my new life as a eco-friendly Diva
“If you trust in yourself, and believe in your dreams, and follow your star. . . you'll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy.”
I've been looking for a 20 Inch Box Canvass of Paul Ross since my (completely inferior) 18 Inch Box Canvass of Paul Ross was damaged during a Barium Enema. Thankfully this Canvass really is excellent. The quality of print complements the sheer majesty of Paul's cherubic face.
For a while I considered mounting a large number of these on my ceiling to create a Paul Ross canvass ceiling but unfortunately I realised that this is what my wife would be staring at during our frenzied horizontal moments, and what kind of a man can compare to Paul Ross in the bedroom? "No-one" I hear you cry!
So now I'm stuck in this hollow asteroid, surrounded by Imperial fighters, with a gnarly co-pilot (doesn't help when he's always shedding hairs into the engine compartment) and an equally bilious passenger. The sexual tension is now unbearable, and I may shortly have to ask her to recce the rest of this barren rock while I "resolve matters" with my crew. Also, the floor keeps rippling in a faintly alarming manner.
I shoulda stayed in that damn cantina and had another drink.
“If you trust in yourself, and believe in your dreams, and follow your star. . . you'll still get beaten by people who spent their time working hard and learning things and weren't so lazy.”
