Short reviews of pretty much whatever. Finally, you can discover if Frosted Flakes Gold has more social worth than Illmatic or Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare.
The sexist implications of the term "dinky" seem pretty clear to me, i.e. you have to have a (small) penis to enjoy playing with (small) cars. That's why I force my son to call them "vaggy cars"—no child of mine is going to grow up to be a phallocrat. We're Taking Back the Night, one trivial lexical item at a time.
Testosterones are like little tractors in our blood that climb up and down inside our arms and legs and our collarbones and heads. They make us yell and scream and slam the barbells down in their clanking slots like dungeon prisoners rattling their chains. When the guy behind me at Target got mad that I was taking so long putting my money in my wallet, my testosterones wanted to ask him if he'd ever picked his teeth up off the ground with broken fingers. They didn't, though, because my testosterones don't want to get fucked in jail. They're so homophobic like that.
A crumpet is a sort of Eurotrash pancake that you can reheat in the toaster and smear with jam. They're low cal sans condiments, and are thus a good choice for your fat kids.
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