Glutton

Yes, I am talking about myself again people (DUHsville, what did you THINK I was going to talk about?). I am a glutton for fucking punishment. I am just testing my mettle by searching for photos of old men enjoying their hobbies (dirty), and came up with this dapper fellow and his fabulous flyer.

9.5 out of 10, people. He only gets that .5 taken off because I can't see his pearly whites, and I KNOW he must have quite a pair of choppers.

Why is such a pleasant pastime so torturous for me? Oh, maybe because MY restless soul shall never be so content. I mean, LOOK at how fucking chuffed he is with his finely crafted flying machine!  In the words of Lili Taylor in 'Say Anything' when she went TOTALLY off the hanger at that party and sang all those songs about JOE (who was fugs anywyay with his long, stringy-ass hair. Don't shed a single tear over that loserphone, Lili), 'That'll NEVER be ME! That'll NEVER be me!' 

God, I have such music in my heart! It's a shame I cannot simply turn back the clock, completely change my past and start a family band.

Is it just me or does it seem like that giant bass fiddle gave birth to them all in a corn field, then just laid the fuck back, ate a ham sandwich and watched it all happen? Maybe it's just wishful thinking, because if there was ever a group of people who should have a bizarre string section creation myth, rather than subject ANYONE to the mental image of them DOING IT, it's these bozos. My ad line might be: 'Never before has one family abused denim in so many ways!' Look at the psycho munchkin in the middle! Maybe HE is the puppetmaster of the whole operation. Pulling the strings! haw haw!!!!!!

Anyway, speaking of being doomed to life sans the loving touch of another human being:

Bwooooommmphhh! Ooops, that was the sound of the Love Trumpet (ew) that dude on the left UNdoubtedly has patented and keeps in his deep, dark closet of shame... along with some- oh, never mind. I can't even troll those depths.