I gave this postcard to my favorite TSA employee, which is why I’m blogging from the ass end of a prison love affair right now.

Don’t let the lingering summer heat beat the alcoholism out of you. When your liver is crying out for some delicious frosty abuse, tasty Champagne Slushies are the perfect treat. And this handy step-by-step guide makes them as easy as 1, 2, 3! Uh… 4. There are four steps, so suck it.

Step 1: You don’t have a clue how to cook, so there’s plenty of room in your freezer to put a bottle of champagne for quick chilling while you and your boyfriend watch Mad Men and drink a bottle of red wine. Just find a place near the brick-solid Lean Gourmet that’s been wedged in the corner for at least two years.

Step 2: Forget you put the bottle in there so that it explodes all over the place, narrowly missing the (also 2 year old) can of lemonade concentrate from your favorite food group: Mixers.

Step 3: Using an ice cream scoop, form small champagne snowballs. If you want to follow my recipe exactly, you’ll need to drop most of this on the floor, cursing liberally because you JUST cleaned the goddamn floors, goddammit. Stupid fucking blog.

Step 4: Garnish with a bendy straw and serve your Champagne Slushies in a commemorative “Erin and Josh, April 2003″ wedding champagne flute and a 24 carat gold-rimmed brandy snifter that you may or may not have stolen from your parents’ house. Don’t invite guests; these cocktails are elegant enough to offset the tackiness of double fisting.

Voila! Pair your gourmet cocktails with a gourmet meal and dinner is served!

If I were crafty in the “knitting needles, glue sticks and glitter” sense of the word instead of just the “hatches elaborate plans to steal change from tip jars to feed her meth and Homies habits” sense of the word, I’d totally do it my damn self and make a fucking Michael Jackson doll. And I do mean a fucking Michael Jackson doll. He’d be the perfect penisy playmate for my stash of naked Kewpie dolls, who I dare say are far too sexually repressed for a batch of inanimate toddlers.

But I digress. You, dear readers, will have to fulfill my crotchy crocheted fantasies by purchasing the pattern and making this Pedo Play Pal for me. Just don’t bother making the pants.

Not a Kangaroo penis, that’s for damn sure. If you like Kangaroo penises, then you need to be fitted for cement shoes and thrown in the river, because even knowing they exist in such a repulsive state is ruining my goddamn life.

Print via Bloesom

Doesn’t it look like the thumb from this hand chair shoves straight up your cooter? I’m not asking, kittens. I’m hoping.

via My Favorite and My Best

While I can clearly see the aesthetic appeal of this music box, the movement of which causes the barley to sway, I can’t shake the aw-shucks, redneck, hillbilly flavor of swaying barley. SWAYING BARLEY. Yeah, that’s some kissin’ cousin bullshit. I’m pretty sure this is the next thing those beer-eating bumpkins are gonna deep fry and mouthfuck at the State Fair of Texas.

Names are funny things. For example, having a name like Warren or Larry or Ned can remove any and all sex appeal from even the foxiest dude. But having a name like Colossal Gash can make me want to date-rape an inanimate object.

Dudes, this bear rug is only $1800, which is quite a steal considering how rare Pink Tapestry Bears are in the wild. Fun fact: 96% of all Pink Tapestry Bears are gay. The other 4% just pretended to be bisexual in college.

There’s nothing more appetizing than a ghost baboon staring into your soul with haunted dead eyes from underneath a layer of deviled eggs, is there? No, I’m really asking because every time I see one my stomach starts growling. Now please excuse me while I go snap into a Slim Jim.

This is the perfect couch for anyone who lives in an episode of Scooby Doo. But I don’t. I live in an episode of The Shirt Tales. Or at least that’s what you should tell anyone who questions my constant lack of pants.