Well, the thanks I get for putting myself out! All I was trying to do was help the global economy. Being the kind sort I am, I hired a gang of unemployed Mexican pig farmers to help me tend to my pot, erm, potted plants in my underground greenhouse. I had no idea I was doing anything wrong! Their immigration papers looked genuine to me. And I just sort of assumed those drug laws had been repealed by now.
Of course those swarthy Mexican buggers fled as soon as they heard the police sirens, leaving behind a basement full of empty Taco Bell wrappers and a little fella called H1N1. Muchos fuckos gracious, bastardos!
And then I drag myself off my deathbed to discover that the veritable Humor Bloggers have taken advantage of my absence to haul my virulent piggy ass on the proverbial spit and roast me! Bastardos.
Kirsten, here, from the poorly named Soccer Mom Files.
When I got news from Ettarose that I was to roast the famous Tiggy today, I was very excited. Not because she stole my boyfriend that time, or even because she once signed me up for the Billy Bob Thornton Fan Club. (Yes, I’m still the one and only member.) It’s just the simple fact that you just gotta love Tiggy! Who else will give you tips on where to hide your pot, or how to field dress a deer? I also never knew until I read Tiggy’s blog that there is an actual CD especially for gay dogs. “My Big Bone” would not have been on my iPod otherwise.
I don’t care that she lies about quasi intimate encounters with Hugh Laurie or that she has a thing for the ShamWow guy. You shouldn’t care that she likes to be mean to the new dorky intern at work or has a strange penchant for adult baby diapers. We’re not all perfect, so please be nice to the Tiggster.
BTW, have you noticed that she never posts pictures of herself? There is a very good reason for that. You wouldn’t advertise to the world is you looked like this, would you? She’s not even a real redhead.
Thanks, Kirsten! I think. And I would like to state for the record that a) I did not steal Jeremy Clarkson from her, he was merely helping me get over my split from imaginary Richard Hammond, and b) I do not have a thing for ShamWow Vince. Unless there is a payment of $1,000 involved.
That’s it, I’m cooked. I’m off to sit on a crowded bus and cough loudly. I find it very therapeutic.