Sparkling Conversationalism
Now, you all know or at least know of the dogpoet by now. He, of eloquence; I, of loquaciousness. He, sublime; I, subli[vote for godofbiscuits]minal. He, gorgeous; I, gorrrrly; Ithaca, gorges.
Anyhoo. I fully blame myself (even though he started it) for bringing our iChat conversations down to this level:
Columbia, Carnegie Mellon, New York, San Francisco. Oink. Woof.
Meow.
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Beautiful and funny. And yet, I am betrayed. He of no woof is woofing another man? No, no, I'm not crying, I'm just... um... bleeding clear fluid from my eyes. I need a doctor!
But YOU got the peek at the bare ass, Joshie! I guess that's just not enough? Harumph.
Um, whose bare ass are we talking about?
If you don't know, then *I'm* not going to say.
It was an unclothed donkey, actually. He just likes to make it sound dirty. Nice donkey, to be sure. Rideable, even.