I’m searching through my Twitter and WordPress accounts to see how big of a turkey I cooked last Thanksgiving. See, these things do have practical, record keeping purpose.
While I’m here, this pic of Gab totally reminds me of my favorite Twaggie. (if you’re into Twitter, you’ll slobber yourself silly over Twaggies, visual representations of tweets) (no, i don’t work for Twaggies as i doubt they’re in the market for a stick figure creator) (put a bib on already, you there with your silly slobbering)
She's either channeling unabomber or avoiding the backyard paparazzi. All those squirrels with the intrusive flashing cameras.
Great. Nowhere did I write how many pounds of frozen bird I shoved my hand up in for Thanksgiving. I do remember that as I was carving Mr. Cooked Gobble Gobble, the kids’ grandfather, who was seated at the butthole end of said bird reached into the bird’s butt, pulled out a charred bag, and asked, “What’s this?” Woops. You guys failed to warn me that turkeys come with an inner bag of playing parts.
