* Photo and artistic license with the following courtesy of Kim and her GD Notebook. Ahem.
I spent the first weekend of 2007 in the setting we all know Kris loves best: a cabin in the Virginia mountains without track lighting, a package store with free wine refills or reliable cell phone service. (Oh, and numerous cruel stories about the resurgance of rural cyborgs, but apparently it's not cool to cry over your s'mores, p*ssy.) But it was all for a good cause; each beer we consumed both raised money for Jerry's Kids and - arguably more important - celebrated the years our dear Kim spent inventing the text message and supporting her "Buds Across America" campaign.
The following was overheard on afternoon #1, and shall not be forgotten until at least evening #859,324 of all of our young lives:
Kris, to group of camper friends and Kim's perv dog, who could not seem to stop showing the bare essentials of his ass to all who mistakenly looked toward it: Seriously? I don't know what's going on with your dog, but he sure has shown us enough of his piehole this weekend.
Kim, pursing lips to foreshadow impending blogger friend embarrassment: Kris?
Kris, to her empty wine glass and said imminent embarrassment: Yes?
Kim: How exactly do you eat pie?
I'm not sure, but I may not be invited back next year.
Labels: Stuff that's wrong with me