Wedding (Boob) Bonanza

I'm finally getting around to flipping through the professional photographer's snaps from The Wedding Bonanza. He was a little odd, as evidenced by:















Congrats on the wedding, girlfriend, and on your sweet rack.















By the by, there were THREE of these photos in the stack of proofs AND several primo bridesmaid cleavage shots taken from above (I recall seeing the photographer on a chair more than once). One would think he'd have the sense to remove his monkey-spank material before submitting them to the happy couple.

Can we say "One Hour Photo"?

Creepy.

What's in a Name?

For those of you checking in regularly, you'll notice the blog title has changed. It took me a while, but I finally decided on a direction for this little hobby: it's all about you.

I have been very fortunate to meet and befriend some of the best people out there, and I want you to enjoy their escapades and humor as much as I do. If you have a blog, website, or other digibit you want to share, please e-mail the info or post a comment (you can comment anonymously).

I can't promise I'll post it, or that I'll do so in a timely manner, but I'm sincerely interested... Unless it's Kev with his 10-gig collection of pasty-white middle-aged men in women's underwear. That's like being on the centrifugal ride at Six Flags: seemingly all fun and games until someone ralphs up a funnel cake.

This little tidbit comes from a fellow wine lover, Jewels of Rat's Ass, Missouri. Okay, you Missourians will probably recognize the nearest outpost to her home: Wentsville, west of St. Louis. (I just live to give you crap, baby doll):














Are these liquid existential epiphanies supposed to occur with lessening frequency as one ages?

Really?

Crap.

Ravedogg's words of wisdom for today:
Absinthe + rum-and-cokes = big trouble