Today's post is for Neil, the large, gorilla-like person who was wearing one of those shirts that is strategically ripped so as to demonstrate that one's muscles are so imposing that a mere t-shirt cannot contain them, which curiously enough was pink (the shirt, not the muscles, which were a carefully applied shade of bronze), and who was at the rock climbing gym where Precocious Daughter was having her birthday party yesterday, the name of which I won't mention but it's one of the dozens of such establishments located directly across Midway Road from the Addison Airport.
Dozens, I tell you. |
For the record, I would have enjoyed cutting my kid's cake and watching her open her presents, except that I spent the rest of the party sobbing in my car. But this isn't about me. This is about your miniscule penis, Neil, and how damn bad I feel that you must devote your life to overcompensating for the lack of masculinity resulting therefrom. Especially because I might become a more skilled belayer with practice, but your penis is never, ever going to get any larger.
That's a bummer, Neil.
AYFKM? Social Media ought to fix his wagon. Sorry you had to deal with that.
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