Maybe these pillows wouldn’t be on sale if this asshole knew how to embroider a dog. Seriously, did a stroke victim stitch this?

There are three bears in this bowl and one cougar at my desk. Seriously, lock up your ‘tweens. This kitty cat is on the prowl…statutory rape style.

True: Cats love pita pockets.

False: They love you.

Untimely, but true: Rats make poops in your Kix.

Dateline, My Butt. The Chilean earthquake altered the axis of the Earth and  slowed time. But, breaking news, the value of a picture has changed and brought world-wide financial markets to a standstill. The picture-to-word ratio has plummeted from 1:1000 down to 1:140 over the course of the time it took someone to create The Museum of Tweets. No, not 140 words. But 140 characters.

That’s right. Filling your 401k with the scribbled drawings of  your toddlers was a bad move, as was allowing your employer to pay you in doodled-up napkins. You should have taken the empty gum wrappers and chewed shoelace ends like I did. Now if you’ll pardon my running off, I have a money-diving appointment with Scrooge MacDuck over in the natatorium.

If my under things turned into adorable, wayward sea creatures like in this illustration by Agata Nowicka,  that would be a pretty great day. Except that I would have no underwear and I think they might clog up my shower drain. I wonder if that big red one used to be her period panties?

On the off chance you forgot your “readers,” this nifty print reads, “I dislike most things.” A fitting thing for a rhinoceros to say since the rhinoceros is the grumpiest of all the grumpy animals – grumpier than a spider being eaten by wasp larvae and even grumpier than my dog, Billie, who is a real bitch. What’s really comforting about this whole grumpy animal thing is that, at some point, evolution selected the grumpiness gene as one that would ensure survival. So, grumpiness equals evolutionary superiority. Which means, not only am I the pinnacle of God’s regular old 7-day creation. I’m at the forefront of the sciency one as well.

This lady won’t be finding herself all alone in the moonlight as, upon hearing it would be shining in her window tonight, the moon plunged itself into the sun. Now she’s all alone in the dark with only her dried up old pussy to keep her company.

I want Judy Paul’s Tiger River print for the empty wall space above my bed. See, the tiger is a metaphor. Sure, it says that I’m a wild cat in the sack, but much like a tiger I can also spend up to eighteen hours sleeping, I eat mostly meat but will occasionally enjoy vegetation for fiber, and that I made my first kill at around 18 months of age.

If you’re going to get blasted and sleep in the park, I think it’s best done nude. But  in spite of what the Religious Right might tell you, dressing like a belligerent, schizophrenic bear is also a valid life-choice. Especially on a camping trip. During hunting season. But hands-off my pic-a-nic basket or BooBoo gets it. And by “it,” I mean anal.

Every once in awhile, something comes along that changes your life. The Mister Clean Magic Eraser, for example. Stretch denim. RuPaul’s Drag Race. Motherfucking Funyuns. Well, now you can add Companion Parrot to that illustrious list. Seriously, I’m used to telling people I hate their guts, but I never realized I could love someone’s guts so much.

Okay, fuck it. I can’t finish this post when I have the RuPaul’s Drag Race theme song stuck in my head. May the best woman, BEST WOMAN wiiiiiiin.

via Street Anatomy