I know Mike prefers Frampton Comes Alive to Fergie. But I can’t see how you wouldn’t opt for anything over Fergie. Are you kidding me with that keeping-it-real schitck, lady? Picking up your chalupa at the Taco Bell drive-thru hardly qualifies you as “raw as hell.” It just makes you fat as hell, not to mention, gassy. Fat and gassy: does that sound glamorous to you, Stacy Ferguson?
What was that? Get back to talking about your grandpa/husband, Mona? Okay! I’m used to the onslaught of classic rock filling the interior of our car rides–Jethro Tull and that stupid flute solo and various guitar solos that abuse the whammy bar–and references to Jimmy Carter and Angie Dickinson, but during the move I discovered something that shocked me to the core:
A thigh-master. Do you remember these things? I found this and felt like someone had thrown me into Antiques Roadshow: Workout Fads Edition. How much could you get for something the worst cast member of Three’s Company demonstrated between her legs? Could I get at least reparations for the damage caused by those relentless infomercials?
Mike alleges that it’s for working his arms, but I’m not too young to fall for that.
If it were for the arms, it would be called Arm Master, not the Device Suzanne Sommers Modeled Near Her No-Nos.