Pray for blindness, dear readers.

Last week, I promised a picture of untitledmother’s newly Nubian legs. I am proud to report that indeed, she was in rare form this weekend, and I managed to capture it on the Kodachrome for posterity. Someday, our ancestors will want to know what caused the downfall of civilization, and I feel an obligation to document it. Upon closer analysis, it seems the self-tanner beaded up in chemical retaliation and settled in her skin pores, giving her legs the appearance of broasted chicken skin.

Before you whip your Bain de Soleil at the computer screen, please know that yes, I realize that millions of people use self-tanner (including me, at times). Hey, we all can’t mow the lawn in our thong or play 18 holes every day (or golf, for that mattter). But when untitledmother uses self-tanner, it just plain pisses me off. It’s one more example of her taking the easy way. When I was a kid, she would get in her car and drive a half-block to visit her friend. That’s right, a half-block. Another case in point — her battalion of fat burner pills. She has at least six different bottles in her medicine cabinet at any given time, and each is missing about five pills. She tries them for a couple of days, and when her digestive system fails to transform into a fat-burning furnace, she gives up and banishes them to the land of lost antacids and worthless wrinkle creams. Goddamn, mother. Put some effort forth before you die. Maybe then I’ll be less inclined to bury your ashes in a Swanson’s TV dinner box underneath the stinky Ginko tree in your backyard.

I sense that I’ve gotten a bit off-course here, so without further ado, may I introduce your new desktop wallpaper (and accompanying limerick):

060723_burntchickenlegs.jpg
There once was a woman so white
One look and you’d curse your sight
So she slapped on the juice
And sat down on her caboose
As her legs disappeared into the night