The motherfucking dress…


Say it, motherfuckers.

Say it, motherfuckers.

Work in progress.  I has one.  In fact, I was thinking of wrapping it up today but the Go Fuck Yourself Weekly post is so fucking fantastic that I didn’t want to bury it under the weight of The Big Bewildered Bunny of Borås.  Then Blitz decided to bury it with a poem about that motherfucking dress.  The cunting dress.  The dress that has enraged me so much that I’m now suffering from bloody Tourette Syndrome and am one step away from involuntary commitment to a psych ward.

Dress, I fucking hate you.  There is only one blue dress that matters and that’s the one with Bill Clinton’s DNA on it.  There’s only one white dress that matters but the fuck if I know what it is because I DON’T FUCKING CARE.

Llamas in dresses, llamas on the lam, dresses on llamas, dresses changing colors, dresses, dresses causing me distresses.

My thoughts on the dress:

1.  It is fucking hideous.
2.  It is made of substandard fabric.
3.  It doesn’t deserve to see the light of day.
4.  Not even the most desperate of drag queens would touch it.
5.  You’re going to see it on Halloween (Someone who is trying too hard to be funny will wear it).