Brian Flemming may chastise me, but I've been every bit as "obsessed with body parts" of late as the annoying Arnold, at whom, with the help of Code Pink," he levels another well-aimed shot or two in a little list of Those Who Rock -- and don't.
So obsessed, indeed, that had you not already been subjected to more than you could reasonably be asked to stomach, I'd post a picture of even more bits.
I'd kill two birds with one stone by satisfying one of the Loyal 3 ¾ who is almost as immature as me and wants more naked women, while giving the Wildcat a better idea of, more or less, what the Apprentice Dragon looks like.
I'm told that my verbal description was woefully inadequate.
But this would be equally problematic, since the AD is far too busy completing her studies in psychology right now to oblige -- imagining for a moment that she should she be so inclined. Most unlikely. And even if she did, darling, then it would only be fair to put you here as well...
It's safer to return for a moment to Brian, with relief that his withdrawal from the race in California has given him time to concern himself with more important things, like the Gender Genie.
On the strength of this entry so far, the genie considers that I, like Brian, am a woman. We'll see if it's changed it's mind by the end, but should the Bane of Your Life get you as heated today, Wildcat, as the asshole did yesterday, you might divert yourself by running the acid test on some work of your own...
The permanent demise of the male of our species has been forecast in research at Oxford University, says iMakeContent ('RIP Man').
Pity that the Reverse Cowgirl also appears to have taken her final bow. Let's hope that Susannah Breslin and her porn collection, among the pearls of many a blogroll, are well and happy wherever they've gone. One version of her remarkable tale was told last year at identity theory.
Decidedly not for Susannah, the likes of the "Anna Kournikova Impact Level Multiple Shock-Absorber Bra" (a week old, the entry at Mirandala, but have mercy: it takes a while for a feller to adapt to both the end of things as he knew them and a sex-change).
Should these portents signify that I'll have to become a lesbian, then I have nothing to learn from young Britney, who told CNN that when it comes to French kissing another woman again, "'I would not do it,' but then added, 'Maybe with Madonna.'"
Given her avowed faith in George Bush, the kid might not be as well-advised to follow Madonna to London as she thinks (via Daypop's Top 40, which offers nothing else today to make me regret not having a television, though I might buy one to watch that asteroid hurtle in to wipe out a whole continent's worth of both sexes on March 21, 2014. We're safe enough in France, which will simply veto any part in the mess and then tender the first reconstruction bids).
Britney's a guest writer at the Blue Brick, but while my gender remains undetermined, I preferred the reassurance offered by a report that "British men [will be] most likely beneficiaries of frustrated women's affection". Me, me! After all, football of any kind, not just American football, leaves me cold, while I am not indifferent to women of any nationality yet encountered.
Cats are evolving too:
"I in vain dig myself the head, I still do not know what could arrive, but a summary investigation lets to us believe that the cat would have made the blow.
It has hell of a lot of in the toilet.
(...) I do not return from there."
That's what Dale's Google translator made of Wonder Cat (Brunmarde). And an example of why I took a translator off this site and why even men can do a better job, though destined for obsolescence.
What Dale was all excited about was that, by sheer powers of observation, his cat has "shit in the toilet.
[...] I can't get over it."
Nothing I can write has given me back my manhood.
Either the genie changes its algorithm or you'll have to move over, darling.
Kiss me curvy.
2:00:34 AM link 
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