FAT BASTARD

Late last night, deep into a bottle of Fat Bastard Shiraz, I realized that I had an undeniably powerful urge to jump on the bandwagon, and have my very own wee mee representation by which to validate my ontological sense of self. So here I am, in all my wee-ness. (That is, by the way, a hypothetical wee-cigarette . . . I have still quit smoking, but I figure that my wee mee might as well get to smoke, and engage in any number of other addictive and unsavory behaviors on my behalf.):



Furthermore, here I am with my friend, wee-P. (In front of Mt. Rushmore because we live in South Dakota. Get it? I also inadvertently happened to leave P.'s hubby S. out of the picture. Oops! Too bad. So sad. But hey . . . it's my wee-psychological landscape, so I figure I can include and ignore whomever and however I see fit, damnit!):



Then finally, somewhere deep down in the dregs of my bottle of Fat Bastard Shiraz, I began to feel somewhat wistful, because everyone else had a wee-partner, and my wee-self decided that it was a wee bit lonely. So, in a bold Pygmalion-esque maneuver, I just made up my own hot wee-babe, who is not only a lot of fun, a brilliant conversationalist, and exceedingly skilled in the sack, she never ever bothers me when I'm trying to write!!



I'm not sure what's up with the gi-normous wee-boobies, by the way . . . so I'm just going to chalk it up to an advanced case of Fat Bastard Goggles.