Hep me, Uncle Wiggily! A ybab has been replaced with a Tasmanian Devil. Only between the hours of 11pm and 5am. Ryan wants to give her Benadryl, but I am not totally up for drugging children recreationally. She’ll pick up that slack when she’s a teenager. Why, a somewhat feathered duck did tell me a salty tale once, and I am loathe to recall the ending, but I daresay the complication was all the fault of the rag man.
Oh, and you’ll never guess what the cat dragged in!
My Zellweger has returned from parts unknown, pregnant and clutching a fistfull of parking tickets. I don’t know what to make of this. You will notice, oh best beloved, that it has been 314 days since she last made an appearance. She muttered something about witness protection, and I smiled and nodded and handed her a mop. These floors don’t clean themselves! And, as a bachelor, I don’t iron. If you want to stay around here, you have to earn your keep.
Today, you have not just one carpet cleaning ad, but two. Perhaps they portended the arrival of the Zellweger all along.
My floors are really dirty. If you love a Zellweger, set it free!
If the Zellweger eventually comes crawling back, I suppose it was yours all along.