This is the little-known runner up for Rolling Stone’s Housewife of the Year. His lemon sponge cake was on par with Jessica Simpson’s, but she had him beat in—of all things—the tuna sandwich competition. Next year. Next year.
Gentlemen, the next time we meet to claim the earth is getting hotter, I suggest Death Valley in July. Then maybe we won’t have a raging blizzard making us look like damn fools.
Generally, when we think of cleavage, we think of something sexy: a woman in a low-cut top, a pair of vampy stilettos, or the perfect pinacoidal cleavage of a chunk of plogopite mica. Okay, maybe not that last one.
Anyway, I’m pretty sure that cleavage has never brought to mind something you’d see peeking out of a pair of sweatpants sagging under the weight of a fanny pack. Until now. You’re welcome.