Succulent Fruity Boobs.
Succulent fruity boobs. That’s right, you heard me. Succulent fruity boobs from my sister.
No you perverts, not like that. Seriously. She’s not even my type. She wouldn’t even be my type if we were from Arkansas. Although I can’t say that, not being from Arkansas, but you get the idea.
My sister and I are nothing alike. She volunteered for a suicide hotline and did well. I was fired from the suicide hotline for telling the callers they’re a bunch of sissies and to off themselves already so they’d stop drawing welfare.
She is tolerant to all races, religions, creeds, and sexes (even the third sex, whatever the hell that is). I practise tolerance by hating everyone equally.
She’s a rabid feminist and sings in a feminist choir. I tease her mercilessly about that.
But there’s one thing that we occasionally share, and that’s a sense of humour. Take her recent gift to me for an example:
Yea, she’s my sister and she GETS me.
In other news:
It occurs to me that even though men and women are nothing alike there are certain areas where similarities lie.
Men chase supermodels and homecoming queens to no avail. Women to the same with homosexuals.
‘Nuff Said.
