RoveDay is well nigh upon us! Take a teeny peep at the RoveDay Countdown Clock to see how long you've got to deck heck, whatever you want for the holiday!
Grab some holiday hangy things in oval, or round, like Rovey! They're sturdy and spongeable, in case festivities get exxxtra fun!
Yes, yes, of course I know there's a bunch of rumbling around the Beltway saying that my Rovey is top tater in the hunt for Time's Man of the Year, but none of that really much matters when my sweet Plorplebumpkins has a grumbly ol' rumbling around *his* beltway after this morning's clam tartare bender. You'd *think* that getting noisily escorted out of Kinkead's after the whole Mollusk Pie Incident would have taught him once and for all that he and raw bivalves should just stick to waving across the aisle, but nooooooo - not my wiggly whelk!
Ooops - must run. The FEMA truck just pulled up, and I've gotta show the boys where to start their tox mopping...
Well ever since Rovey's boss got down off his high llama and *finally* said out loud how important my Porklepants was to his recanonization campaign, people have been asking me why he got called "The Architect". Well I plum golly don't know, seeing as I've sure never seen my gorgeous goebbelbum doodling around near any drafting. Though maybe his boss was referring to the impressive monuments Rovey's known to erect South of the Beltway, or perhaps his always-souped enthusiasm for laying pipe and pitching big tents. He's so goshdarned swift at the latter, I swear it's as if he totes around his own pole so as to be ever at the ready!
Ooops! Must run, RoveHos - Rovey's swell pal Mr. O'Reilly is coming over tonight for a big ol' falafel feast. I've never sampled his special blend, myself, but Rovey swears that munching down on a pocket stuffed to busting with Foxy's crusty balls is so super swoony luscious, I'll probably need both of 'em helping me into the shower to recover. Sounds awfully saucy to me!
Confidential to Lynne C. - no, now that he's all puffed up like a bonobo about not having to scour the want ads for "escort" jobs (at least for the next four years), I have *no* idea of how I'm going to get that man to ever wear pants at the dinner table again! It was one thing when it was just us, two warring spoons and a tin of Dinty Moore on the couch in front of Crossfire, but now I don't know if we can ever show our faces at the Foggy Bottom Wendy's again. I've told him time and time again that just because vinyl is wipeable, that doesn't mean it's stain-proof, but does Mr. Droppy-Trou listen to l'il ol' me? That happens about just as often as often as Mr. Senator Keyes meringues to the cast recording of La Cage Aux Folles that Mr. Senator Frank gave him for Kwanzaa.
How do you keep Mr. C. from bare-derrierre-ing all over the davenport?
I keep trying to get Rovey to make a statement, but that goofy Glubblegorp has been taking victory laps in the pudding vat since the sun came up, and I just can't hear him clearly through his greedy gobblings of butterscotch. At the very least, he has been tracing languid "W"s through the whorls and swirls of his sweetly-slicked chest fluff.
Will keep you a "breast" of the situation!
Voting day ditties from Rovey!
Good states are Red
Bad states are not
We'll make up the difference
And never get caught!
There once was a Dem with some dark skin
Who hoped that his candidate would win
When he got to the polls
He'd been dropped from the rolls
Ooops! Form had been filed in in the trash bin.
Here's hoping your polling place is stuffed to bursting - just like mine!