First off, that part about how I didn’t save up for winter? Totally false. My pantry was so full, in fact, that I hired the Ants to build me a grain elevator. But before I know what’s happening, they walk off with my stash and spread rumors to the press, until now I’m some kind of poster boy for idleness. Total smear campaign.
Via Ivan-IDPhotos.
any bunny would want to stick out their tongue like this. But, we’re not complaining!
“Hello Cute Overload, Attached is a photo of my bunny Coco. She is a 7-year-old Lionhead Rabbit and she is the light of my life. She enjoys Italian parsley, Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal, green leaf lettuce and baby carrots. Oh and she recently ate 3 grapes. Hope you like her!”
(We do! And her little tongue too! -pyrit)
It must be! It’s all fluffy and white and that super soft chinchilla is like a dream come true.
Then I got a closer look at the chinchilla's face and saw the disapproval.
Pako Fluffkins should have a gavel, Nino G. You know, for his judgements.
In fact, why don’t you just work? Seriously, when was the last time you washed the dishes? Hmmm?
Jen B. tells us, “My canary, Melanie, caught in the midst of her bath time. Somebody
wants her privacy!”
Excited about resting.
Super playful.
A Wilfred Brimley look-alike.
Charlie Chubbles is no Wilfred Brimley, Aubrey D., he’s better!
The new upstairs maid was impossible, fumed the Major. His afternoon tea had been an iron ritual among the staff: Oolong, one sugar, in the East Westfordshire Hunt Club china cup, 3:47 sharp. And here it was, four o’clock, and no tea.
Outside his window, the clatter of automobiles replaced the clip-clop of the surrey, while the grating strains of some infernal racket called “jazz” emanated from the parlor downstairs. Anarchy, that’s what it was — a world gone mad.
The clock in the hall finished chiming. Still no tea. His eyelids grew heavy. He would speak to Mrs. Grimby tomorrow about the gramophone, he resolved, yawning. Tomorrow would see matters put right, and all… all would be… be well…
If you’re still reading, Sarah S., thanks for the pictures, and sorry it took so long.
(sigh) It was a simple thing, really. He was swimming in circles with some fishing line tangled in his teeth, and I was there on the dock, so I fly over and pluck it out.
End of it, right? But no, he’s had a few, and now he’s all “I love you, man!” this and “Anything you want, bro!” that, and I haven’t been rid of him since. Just my luck.
Via Neatorama.
I AM smiling.
Now my feelings are hurt.
Brooklyn T. says, “Just a quick note to say your site is the bright spot in my day. Thank you for spreading the joy! My little guy’s name is Fellini and he is the absolute SWEETEST!” Thank you, Brooklyn, for the “sample of his squeezable face.”
This is a record store. We sell records. Records are how music should be heard, not the flat, tinny ultra-compressed CD-slash-MP3 so-called “music” you seem to have settled for. Know what we keep on CDs? Beverages. Good day, madam.
Via this person, with a user name I can’t quite type.
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