Submitted by: Anonymous via Submission Page
What? Teaching third grade doesn’t exactly pay the big bucks, okay? Miss Janie’s got bills to pay. This modeling gig helps with all the mouths she has to feed. Nine cats are a lot of work.
Feeling a little ill after this picture? How about a nice, hawt palette cleanser? All better.
Submitted by: MSMJFANFOREVER via Submission Page
Nice try, lady, but you can’t fool me. I fell for that trick once back in ’95, and will never again believe someone when they try to convince me that they have two butts. You hear me, Tonya “Two Butts” Tuscadero, IF THAT’S EVEN YOUR REAL NAME?
Submitted by: dunno source via Submission Page
Does the end game of every fashion trend have to be nudity? What’s next? Selling me a square inch of fabric to tape to my left knee and calling it a pair of jeans?
The “walk of shame” takes on a new dimension when all you can salvage from the night before are your stockings and the mesh bag that the avocadoes came in. What was in that guacamole anyway?
Dang. Sometimes just the prospect of having to find my going-out flip flops is enough to discourage me from leaving the house. I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I had to lace these up just to walk out the door. Those days when you forget one little thing that you needed at the grocery store would go from mildly irritating to unspeakably tragic real quick.
Huh. I guess it’s still legal to kill yetis for sport in some countries. Seems barbaric if you ask me. But, judging by these boots, maybe barbaric is making a comeback.
I’m glad to see that the DIY spirit alive and well.
Except in all the ways that I’m not.
For those of you who were wondering how to safely transition from short shorts to a proper Speedo without severely sunburning the virgin skin surrounding your private business, here you go.
What? You weren’t wondering that? Fine. More tan-thru nut-huggers for the rest of us. See you on the beach, nerds.
I saw this picture, and my first thought was, “Ooh, I like those shoes!”
I’m pretty sure that fact alone makes me eligible to check into some sort of rehabilitation facility.
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.