If something tickles your funnybone and you would like to share please email


"Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely
in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside,
thoroughly used up, totally worn out, with a drink in one hand and chocolate
in the other, and loudly proclaiming - - WOW! - - WHAT A RIDE!!"


We've all been here~~~

Thanks for sharing, Patty LInk Lewis

Thanks for sharing, Patty LInk Lewis

Thanks for sharing, Patty LInk Lewis

Thanks for sharing, Allen Wilkerson.

Thanks for sharing, Vickie Neal Wilkerson.

Thanks for sharing, Vickie Neal Wilkerson.

What parent hasn't gone through this? lol

Thanks for sharing, Sharon Kirsch Hoverter.
Know Christmas is over but thought this redneck Christmas decorations was different--

Thanks for sharing, Sherry Thornton Bass
When you know you are tired of winter---

Thanks for sharing, Sharon Long Bradford

Thanks for sharing, Merle & Patty Link Lewis

Good ole Maxine--thanks for sharing, Virgil & Toni Mernagh Morton

Thanks for sharing, Allen & Vickie Wilkerson

Thanks for sharing, Gary Huck

Thanks for sharing, Mary Taylor Johnson

Thanks for sharing, Sherry Thornton Bass

 If my body were a car, this is the time I would be thinking about trading
 it in for a newer model. I've got bumps and dents and scratches in my
 finish and my paint job is getting a little dull ...

  But that's not the worst of it.

  My headlights are out of focus and it's especially hard to see things up
close. My traction is not as graceful as it once was. I slip and slide and skid
 and bump into things even in the best of weather. My whitewalls are stained with
varicose veins.  It takes me hours to reach my maximum speed.
My fuel rate burns inefficiently.

 But here's the worst of it --

  Almost every time I sneeze, cough or sputter.....either my radiator leaks or my exhaust backfires!

Thanks for sharing, Allen Wilkerson

The rarely photographed South Florida Squirrel

This is what sorry looks like--

Thanks for sharing, Edie Werther Couture & Sharon Long Bradford

Thanks for sharing, Sharon Long Bradford


I had prepared for it like any intelligent woman would. I went on a
starvation diet the day before, knowing that all the extra weight would
just melt off in 24-hours, leaving me with my sleek, trim,
high-school-girl body. The last forty years of careful cellulite
>collection would just be gone with a snap of a finger.

I knew if I didn't eat a morsel on Friday, that I could probably fit
into my senior formal on Saturday. Trotting up to the attic, I pulled
the gown out of the garment bag, carried it lovingly downstairs, ran my
hand over the fabric, and hung it on the door.

I stripped naked, looked in the mirror, sighed, and thought, "Well,
okay, maybe if I shift it all to the back..." bodies never have pockets
where you need them.

Bravely, I took the gown off the hanger, unzipped the shimmering dress
and stepped gingerly into it. I struggled, twisted, turned, and pulled
and I got the formal all the way up to my knees... before the zipper
gave out. I was disappointed. I wanted to wear that dress with those
silver sandals again and dance the night away.

Okay, one setback was not going to spoil my mood for this affair. No
way! Rolling the dress into a ball and tossing it into the corner, I
turned to Plan B: the black crepe caftan.

I gathered up all the goodies that I had purchased at Saks: the scented
shower gel; the body building and highlighting shampoo & conditioner,
and the split-end killer and shine enhancer. Soon my hair would look
like that girl's in the Pantene ads.

Then the makeup --the under eye "ain't no lines here" firming cream, the
all-day face-lifting gravity-fighting moisturizer with wrinkle filler
spackle; the all day" kiss me till my lips bleed, and see if this gloss
will come off" lipstick, the bronzing face powder for that special glow.

But first, the roll-on facial hair remover. I could feel the wrinkles shuddering in fear. OK, time to get ready! I jumped into the steaming shower, soaped, lathered, rinsed, shaved, tweezed, buffed, scrubbed and scoured my body to a tingling pink. I plastered my freshly scrubbed face with the anti-wrinkle, gravity fighting, "your face will look like a baby's posterior" face cream. I set my hair on hot rollers.

I felt wonderful. Ready to take on the world. Or in this instance, my
underwear. With the towel firmly wrapped around my glistening body, I pulled out the black lace, tummy-tucking, cellulite-pushing,
hamhock-rounding girdle, and the matching "lifting those bosoms like
they're filled with helium bra."

I greased my body with the scented body lotion and began the plunge. I
pulled, stretched, tugged, hiked, folded, tucked, twisted, shimmied,
hopped, pushed, wiggled, snapped, shook, caterpillar crawled and kicked.
Sweat poured off my forehead but I was done. And it didn't look bad. So
I rested. A well deserved rest, too.

The girdle was on my body. Bounce a quarter off my behind? It was
tighter than a trampoline. Can you say, "Rubber baby buggy bumper buns?"
Okay, so I had to take baby steps, and walk sideways, and I couldn't move from my buns to my knees. But I was firm!

Oh no...I had to go to the bathroom. And there wasn't a snap crotch.
From now on, undies gotta have a snap crotch. I was ready to rip it
open and re-stitch the crotch with Velcro, but the pain factor from past
experiments was still fresh in my mind. I quickly sidestepped to the

An hour later, I had answered nature's call and repeated the struggle
into the girdle. I was ready for the bra. I remembered what the
saleslady said to do. I could see her glossed lips mouthing, "Do not
fasten the bra in the front, and twist it around. Put the bra on the way
it should be worn--straps over the shoulders. Then bend over and gently
place both breasts inside the cups." Easy if you have four hands. But,
with confidence, I put my arms into the holsters, bent over and pulled
the bra down...but the boobs weren't cooperating. I'd no sooner tuck one
in a cup, and while placing the other, the first would slip out. I
needed a strategy. I bounced up and down a few times, tried to dribble
them in with short bunny hops, but that didn't work. So, while bent
over, I began rocking gently back and forth on my heel and toes and I
set 'em to swinging. Finally, on the fourth swing, pause, and lift, I
captured the gliding glands. Quickly fastening the back of the bra, I
stood up for examination. Back straight, slightly arched, I turned and
faced the mirror, turning front, and then sideways. I smiled. Yes,
Houston, we have lift up! My breasts were high, firm and there was
cleavage! I was happy until I tried to look down. I had a chin rest. And
I couldn't see my feet.

I still had to put on my pantyhose, and shoes. Oh...why did I buy heels
with buckles? Then I had to pee again.

 I put on my sweats, fixed myself
a drink, ordered pizza, and skipped the reunion.



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