Christmastime in the Emerald City











{August 21, 2007}   Why I Do Not Give A Shit That I Wasn’t Popular In High School

Alright. Five years out of high school, it’s time to take a look back. Because when you go to school in the suburbs, five years is all it takes for those you once knew (or knew of) to become fat, pregnant, married, slutty, or just plain horrifying.

I wouldn’t exactly say I was unpopular in high school. I had a small group of close friends, half of whom have smartly moved to the city, two of which have become enigmas, and one of which joined a cult. I didn’t get pushed into lockers or have my lunch money stolen. I had classes with many of the more popular, and was on generally friendly terms. I could even go sit with them at lunch if I wanted to – it would have been odd, but not unspeakable.

And yet, I was not part of this popular crowd. At no time did I even run into anyone outside my immediate circle of friends beyond the parking lot, unless they worked as a cashier at Zellers. I did not go drinking – I found it bizarre that kids would actually set aside time for the sole purpose of vomiting on themselves. And I really didn’t care who was dating who – my boyfriend at the time was too old to go with me to the prom.

I was, I suppose, a nonentity. And highschool, a nonevent. But now, with the magic of facebook and the like, it is near impossible to avoid the gen-Y habit of vomiting glimpses of ones current life onto the worldwide web for all your former almost-peers to see. People I never really spoke to now consider me their friend. I find this amusing.

I find it amusing in my signature, rather disaffected and sometimes mean, downtown kind of way. If I stumble across a terribly unflattering picture of someone I disliked, barely knew, or even adored – any picture that shows nothing more than a sad, sad tale of stayed-behind, I will exploit it for my own enjoyment.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what becomes of those who do not flee the suburbs the second the last schoolbell rings, if only in their minds and future plans. This is an expose on the life and times of those who were born with little class, raised with little class, and have settled into a life of fat wedding gowns, bad makeup, fake tans, and slutty desperation.

 !!!DISCLAIMER!!! 

I don’t care if you knew some of these people, are some of these people, or are offended on behalf of some of these people. I daresay that some of these people were very nice indeed, some of them even friends of mine (though never outside school; I remain untainted.) If you have the poor taste to stay behind in a cultureless wasteland, getting fat and boring, or slutty and disgusting, and then have the idiocy to post pictures on the internet, I reserve the right to laugh at your misfortune.

And laughing, at this very moment, I most certainly am.

Enjoy.

****************************************************************************

Let us first start with a glimpse of high school itself. Perhaps a good explanation as to why, although not mistreated, I was never really one of them.

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Yes. Well done indeed. I’m sorry, no. I did not have the tendency to lift my shirt in class. Or laugh at those who did. Moving on.

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Ahhhh, yes. Pregnant. And taking pictures with a cell phone camera. Very classy indeed. Given the skinny jeans, hooker hoops, and what appears to be a waitress nametag on the sweatervest, I’m almost tempted to ask “are you sure you’re not just getting a bit jiggly?” Please also note that the phone is pink, and that the sweatervest combo looks suspiciously like our school uniform.

Didn’t take long I suppose. Next.

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Weddings! I love weddings. I love fat weddings. This girl was actually very nice. I don’t care. Posting an awkward wedding photo in which you are sprawled like a whale on a hotel room bed (classy) is cause enough for me to laughingly poke holes in whatever self esteem your early marriage  has provided you. I was kind enough to not post the pictures of her friends lacing her up in her corset.

Onward.

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While the fact that she is holding an actual cat in this photo is quite clearly an attempt at irony, or at least cutesy-poo-ness, one would hardly notice. One would be far too busy choking down hairballs at the sight of this squishy-thighed cameltoe nightmare. The added fur trim – in the front only of course – makes it that much better.

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 And here we see the same girl, whose name I cannot be bothered to remember, on a slightly fatter and more casual day.

Stick around the suburbs long enough, folks, and everyone ends up looking a little too trailor-park.

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More weddings! More fat weddings. And fat bridesmaids, too. Offset, of course, by the skinny one with JAP highlights and what appears to be a trendy lump on her head.

More wedding fun ahead.

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Bachelorette parties! Oh boy! What better way to celebrate your impending license to let yourself go than by swinging your fat ass around a stripper pole!? This particular incident was so delicious that I simply had to include a few more slices of ass pie, as seen below.

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Please note the stripper nails, the stick-on tattoo, the cheap veil, and the fat. I’m not sure why it is that all the fat girls in suburbia get married so quickly….but there must be a correlation somewhere.

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That girl on the right? She’ll tackle any football player who gets between her and the bouquet.

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I’ll be Charlie, and you can all be my angels. Except the bride. She can be Bosley.

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This, ladies and gentlemen of the classier jury, is what was deemd ridiculously attractive in highschool. Please note that the stringy gelled highlights, smeared on shimmery eyeshadow, the travesty that is the mascara, complete inattention to eyebrows (for what male notices eyebrows?), and attempt to make a witch’s mouth look pouty all scream: I will have sex with you for little or no effort on your part.

Because, as we have seen by the obesity and willingness to marry the first person that comes along, effort is not particularly popular round these parts.

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Okay. I’ll be nice to this one. I was actually friends with her. In that never-outside-of-school sort of way. She was tiny. Like, teeny-tiny. And now looks like she has the mumps. I just thought I’d point it out.

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Who doesn’t love a good dose of trout-mouth? Let us please pay careful attention to the sparkly shadow done up to the brows, as well as the lip liner two shades darker and a tad more orange than the frosted pink blowjob lips so prominently featured in what is evidently her sexiest picture.

This was another episode worthy of some extra attention.

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Since the evident purpose of these pictures is to highlight the girl’s posing ability and apparent sex appeal (poor thing doesn’t know how easy it is to find a non-sleazy photographer in the city…oh wait…suburbs…riiiiiiight), one could wonder what on earth was passing through her mind when she allowed a picture to be posted of her left leg being molested by what appears to be a unsuave female pedophile stretching out a Howard Stern mask.

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Yes. I have breasts too. I also have a bra that doesn’t show in the armpit of my dress, more than one shade of lipstick, and enough sense to not try to be sexy in my parents liquor-bottle-littered kitchen, with a microwave next to my head. That might explain the lump, however.

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This, again, is why I was not popular. Because I am not amused at the thought of being decorated by my still-sober-enough-to-not-vomit-and-pass-out-on-the-floor sorry exuses for friends.

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Now that is a beautiful wedding picture. Much like the yeti, it is brief, large, and out of focus. Or, given the predominant colour, perhaps the abominable snowman. Speaking of colour…white is supposed to symbolize innocence. As in virginity. Now, we all know that nobody saves it for marriage anymore, except for those losers in my residence. However, most people can be fooled, or even lulled by more contemporary views. There is no fooling, however, when your kid is at your wedding with you.

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You cannot being to tell me that there is a single one of you out there who isn’t thinking ‘No, man, no! Don’t lift that dress!’ Especially considering this girl once told me she hoped I grew up to be fat.

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Here, of course, is their darling child. Guest of honour at the wedding, naturally. And this is why I hate new parents – they assume that the rest of the world gives a shit about the colour of their children’s bowel movements, and the location of their fingers. Isn’t this cute? No, it isn’t. It’s disgusting. Your child is sticking her fingers into the waste that her body naturally tries to get rid of. If you want your child to discover her body, show her the magic of toes. Less germs.

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And here we see a classic example of suburbanite trendy. While I don’t hate the hair on the left instantly, I do hate the typical gelled down blond curls of the girl on the right, as seen in far, far too many I’m-so-sexy pictures vomited forth from the land of magic-cuts and discount pharmacies. I will also make hardcore fun of the shimmery pink eyeshadow smeared up to the eyebrows, reflecting like beacons.

Dear suburbanite girls: STOP WEARING SHIMMERY EYESHADOW UP TO YOUR EYEBROWS. YOU LOOK LIKE IDIOTS AT BEST, AND WHORES MOST OFTEN.

As a professional, I am allowed to beat you senseless with my professional opinion.

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Here we see a typical example of the suburbanite post-grad male. Note the baggy, wiggeresque pants, the beer bottle, and sullen downward glare, as if in some sorry attempt at intimidation. Please note also the stucco ceilings and beige walls of your standard ‘burb house party. Also, what appears to be a smidge of coke stuck to the nostril of our specimen on the right, will upon closer examination reveal itself to be a cigarette jutting oh-so-coolly from his mouth. For further amusement, please note the uber-urban-oriented-but-purchased-only-by-wiggers clothing line donned by our friend on the left.

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“I’ll take ‘eighteen different flavours of gross‘ for five hundred, Alex”

I will also point out that the girl is very obviously sucking in her stomach, squeezing together her thighs, and pushing out her tits to absolutely no avail. This is why those of us who admittedly do not look ravishing in a bikini, simply do not wear them. Or, at the very least, do not allow pictures of ourselves in said bikinis to be published on public internet sights. For all the effort she has spent, the only thing I have to say is that the tag is sticking out of her tit. Classy.

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Another example of the standard suburban male. See the one on the left? His dad hit on me in a bar once. I never told him. Yet another reason to keep myself as a nonentity.

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More wedding pictures! Fat and happy. Oh, wait…we’ve seen shots from this wedding before, as indicated by our Nicole Ritchie protege on the right. Still sporting her strange head-lump, perhaps caused by a microwave?

Moving on, then.

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I went to Europe with this girl. We both had a crush on the same boy. She won, because she was a nice, normal high school girl, and I am a snarky outsider. Good for her, being nice and normal. I was elated the day they broke up. She is now evidently dating another boy from the same school, who appears not fat and happy, but fat and disgruntled. She is fat, happy, and wearing a track outfit. Good for her.

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The boy on the right I do not know. The boy on the left I did know. He was unpopular then, for having been a freak. Being somewhat odd myself, you’d think I’d have had sympathy. I did, for a bit. But, as has become quite obvious, this particular fellow is beyond the help of sympathy. Please note….well…everything. But on top of everything, the still-dirty too-long girlish fingernails, and what appears to be a bondage burn on the frail wrist above them. Gag. Gag. Gag.

Moving on, and quickly.

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No! No, no, no, no, no. What is wrong with you? This is not okay!!! This is also not some drunken photo that was plastered somewhere unbeknownst to her – this was her profile picture, her main ‘LOOK, I AM A SEX KITTEN PLEASE LOVE ME BECAUSE I LIVE IN THE SUBURBS AND WILL GET NOWHERE IF I DON’T ATTRACT A MATE’ picture.

Why?!?! First off, you are wearing red fishnet stockings. Secondly, you are wearing them with cheap white plastic shoes. I was seven years old when I knew that cheap white plastic shoes meant automatic slut. You look like a whore, your foundation is eighteen shades too pale, and your hair is dirty. You are also posing in front of someone’s backyard pool.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

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I hope this girls mother has a copy of this picture. Please also keep in mind that this girl was our grade 8 valedictorian, my first indication that something about the education system just…wasn’t right. Or was at least focused on something besides promoting smarts. The best line that ever came out of her mouth? “Why would you want to go to a library?”

The next week? Valedictorian. Oh, yeeaaaahh.

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And here we see our valedictorian in yet another compromising situation. I can only assume that her apparent lack of gag reflex has served her well since grade 8.

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Fat and happy. Good for her. Good for her arteries.

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Looking very pregnant, and looking very trashy. ‘Tis the way of the suburbs, my friends. The way of the suburbs. Get out. Or this will happen to you.

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All that’s missing is a pudding-bowl haircut and a case of the measles.

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Lovely Christmas with the daughter, who looks approximately a third the age of the mother.

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Someone was apparently so impressed with their catered wedding that they felt the need to take a picture of their meal. This is what passes for elegance, ladies and gentlemen. Be sure to tip.

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And here we see mommy, sans baby, out on the town with her mommy friends. Look! Three different brands of trashy in one rare photo opportunity! Click away. I’m assuming the fat ‘n’ sassy one is saying “my daughter is these many.”

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This is what happens what suburbanites take the train down to Queen St. for the afternoon before someone with a real sense of trendiness teaches them how to shop, buy things that fit, put on foundation, and give their mothers 1987 chunky gold bracelet back to it’s rightful owner – the bag lady. 

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Yes. Precisely how one would like to be fondly recalled years after graduation. Fucked up, and in a sloppy manner at that. Please note the frumpy white top at what appears to be a…rave? Do they still have those? And the blue eyeshadow (yes, blue), which seems to have been only partially applied, likely in a dirty bathroom stall. Also, your bra doesn’t fit, and you are carrying some sort of leopard print accessory. Go home and vomit – you fail.

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On a brief sideline, this is another shining example of what has become of those who were not at all popular during school, after school, before school, or ever. This is posted to reaffirm my belief that I am well within my rights as a human being to wipe these creatures from the face of our earth. Please recall the freak seen and mentioned above. Rumour has it that he married, not the boy on whose lap we so recently viewed him perching, but the fat, apparent stripper on the right. Her name? Sapphire.

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Back to the popular girls. Yeeeaaaaahh!!!!! I’m so fucking cool, I’m drinking out of red plastic picnic table cups in my mom’s rec room. And I’ll kick your ass if you talk shit about me! Except I’ll probably just be vomiting on you later.

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Wow. Nothing like a voluntary bitch on each arm. If only they didn’t look rented.

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Pregnant and cracked out. Winning combination. Please also note the stains on the spandex. Well done indeed.

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So apparently drunken males are only capable of two looks. The sullen confused stare that we have seen on our left-hand specimen many times before, and the “I’m determined to differentiate myself from my friend with an identical hair colour and styling technique” shit-eating grin.

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No, no, no. I don’t care if your momma told you curves were sexy. They are not sexy in that outfit, and not in your ass jiggling manner. Because the camera is apparently being held by a drunken fool, as with so many of these portraits, I’m having a difficult time recognizing this girl. If I’m not mistaken, I believe it was the same girl (with that headband, even then) who, upon seeing an ancient elk-related specimen at the museum shrieked ‘reindeer!’ and proceeded to talk about santa for the next twenty minutes.

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Ah, the same sullen stare. And is that the same girl we’ve seen before, perched on the hotel bed with her pink-to-the-brows friend? The one with the gelled down blonde hair? Hard to tell them apart, really. Honestly, sarcasm aside, I can’t tell. But I can tell that this one spent hours in front of the mirror with a curling iron that apparently didn’t come with instructions on how to not look like an idiot.

Just saying, is all.

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Someone once asked me why I never dated the boys in my school. If I recall correctly, I replied with a simple, blank, incredulous stare.

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Oooh! I remember these girls. The uber tough ones drinking in one of their mother’s rec rooms. Now looking about ready to cry at the thought of another tequila shot.

Pussies. You have not yet earned your trailor park status.

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Too. Horrified. For words.

Oh wait…here they come….the tacky earrings, the gaping mouth just begging for various objects to be photoshopped in later, the probability that her tits are supposed to be supported within the rouching on that five dollar shirt instead of swinging below them.

This is the sort of photo that ends up on ebaum’s world in a million different horribly cruel ways. That poor dancing girl with the one leg sticking out in front who’s been the brunt of several hundred embarassing photoshop scenarios? This girl is next.

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Okay, the girl in the middle we’ve seen before. I didn’t mind her in school, though she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack. A little too trailor park tough. But she has her pretty moments, and I can respect the fact that although she needs some help with her mascara, at least her eyeshadow is not dragged up to her eyebrows. Kudos.

This picture, in fact, is not here because of her. It is here because of her friend. On the left. The one without eyebrows. The one who felt the need to draw said eyebrows back onto her shiney face, and could apparently only do so with the use of a protractor and compass.

Let us hope that the next time she goes to carry out this endeavour, she aims to trace the circles a tad higher up, thereby stabbing herself in the eye with the compass.

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I can fit several round objects in my mouth at any given time, especially while drunk. I’m not going to be the brunt of any jokes around town for the next two years, noooooooo.

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Fat and happy, alltogether now!!!

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Out of focus picture…while drinking from a gas can. Perhaps this, and not the microwave, is responsible for the disproportionate amount of girls with lumps growing from their heads. Also, nice tan lines.

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Yes. You can stand up and your friend can’t. Your friend also has an unfortunate reflection of light up her ass. Congratulations on being the lesser of two idiots in a picture.

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Is anyone surprised that there is an online group dedicated to those students who spent the majority of their time, not in the school, but getting drunk in the park behind the school? I thought not.

Please take careful note of the various stains all over this splendid assortment of flannel and various stretchy fabrics. Please also note that knowing when to stop is the key to being a classy drunk. Such as my ability to consume a bottle of Disaronno, engage in pleasantly intellectual conversation, excuse myself before midnight, take a cab home and wake up the following morning without a single recollection of the previous nights events with nobody having been the wiser.

Me? Classy drinker. This girl? Apparently about to fall into her own puke.

Let us move now to our final piece, a familiar piece, on which to exit our journey through the land of tacky.

He was titled “Random Number Four”

Yes. Good ole’ trout mouth. You know, I don’t even know the girl, really. Friend of a friend somewhere on the internet. But if I ever see her, I will have to smack her. First of all, the makeup which I have so flippantly insulted is made even worse now that we can see it is completely ridiculous for that outfit – a different set of colours, my friend, different set of colours. Go to MAC, or Shoppers if you don’t have MAC out there, and buy another shade of lipstick. There are lots of slutty shades, trust me. I’ve made half a living out of making girls look slutty in pictures – but at least it’s for magazines, and at least I get paid – and not in cocktails.

“But, how horrible,” you say. “Don’t be so hard on her. It’s how everyone does their makeup/hair/facial expressions out there. She can’t help it. Really, she might not be a whore once you know her.”

Uh huh. And this is why that poor leaned-upon fellow was labelled in this picture as ‘random number four.’

******************************************************************************

Well done suburbanites. Thank you for reaffirming my belief that I have more taste, more class, and more smarts (perhaps for having NOT gone to school, despite all the expectation of my glorious academia) than those….those, who were left behind.

Left behind, to the poor highlights, the cheap clothing, the slutty lipstick. The nights of sloppy fumbling in bars and cheap clubs, inevitably ending up with someone your best friend was with, since there’s only a few places to drink out there. The headlong rush into marriage and babies, perhaps marriage because of babies, or babies not even bothering with marriage or anything else besides puke stained clothing and a cute ultrasound. Left behind to shitty cars and stumbling home down abandoned roads, drinking in fields, basements and hotel rooms.

Left behind. Or stayed behind, voluntarily, not knowing any better. So really, I’d say, left behind by lack of knowledge of the world beyond that highway. Left behind….

Let us shed a tear for them…those lost, suburban souls.

Or, you know, make fun of them forever and ever, and look forward to the highschool reunion in ten years time when even more of them will be fat and married, and the sluttier ones will be dying of some terrible disease.

😀

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Maytina says:

Amazing. Truely. These photos really make me glad I grew up in Toronto!!! You make me laugh a million times over, even if it is pretty mean. But honestly, someone told you they hoped you’d grow up to be fat and now that someone is fat. Hehe. How can you not post pics?!



nahole says:

Shit greenie – i wish you’d fucking posted these pictures individually so everyone could have fucking piped in with comments on them. There’s a shitload to say about these fuckwits but i’m at a loss for fucking words when confronted by so much . . .



talea says:

I hate troutmouth. She pisses me off. She looks like a mail order bride who is hoping that her dowry will pay off her fake horrible boobies.
And dude, this shit gets funnier each time I read it.



nahole says:

When the fuck are you going to get around to posting some new fucking content. This shit is stale and it’s starting to fucking piss me off.



romi41 says:

It’s so hard to pick a favorite here; I think the fat-asshole brides doing the sexy poses on the beds take the cake…but then of course there’s red-fish-net stocking girl…and trout-mouth..oh, so much goodness 🙂 …it’s SO hilarious to find people on facebook who you used to go to high-school with, and who stayed in the suburbs, and who are exactly the same..except exponentially fatter…the best is when they add you to their friend-list, even though you haven’t seen or spoken to them for 7 years…and of course I add them, ’cause that’s the only way to gain access into their entertaining photo albums 😉 (except for the Ho’s that leave their profiles public, in an attempt to gain fame/attention for their suburban/whorish ways…)



Elvi Patterson! says:

You made me completely realize again why I’ll never go to a high school reunion. I went to 3 high schools yet the kids always looked the same. I shudder to think of what they look like now. Thank god I got out of the suburbs.



Just me says:

omfg gurl-knew there was a reason we was fast friends-other than our mammaries.

Just so ya know: we apparently went to the same hi skool- a decade apart,and in a small town far from the burbs

If it is any consolation-those people will be still posting pics like that a decade later – so sad

I figured that we were the same chickees in hi skool-I just had longer hair.And of course, I sadly am wayyyy older.

Sigh



Ginny says:

Oh. Fuck. YEAH!!! This was awesome! I really wanted to do something like this after a “friend” of a “friend” on facebook posted a picture of herself in full camo, a dead deer, and her NEWBORN BABY, all posed together. You nailed it!

I,too,take a disproportionate amount of pleasure in other’s weight gain/residence in trailer parks/ugly babies/general discontent.

A question: if we can have a “friends” list on facebook, why can’t we have an “enemies” list? Or a “douchebags who just want to pad their numbers, so they added me as a friend” list?



nothing beats dead deer and newborn children! and i’m alllll for the douchebag list. please note that douchebag, douchebaggery and assorted variations on doucheyness are among my favourite words.



Ginny says:

Douchebag is my favorite word too! So this is what it sounds like when the doves cry! Do you mind if I blogroll you?



Blogroll away! I’ve already blogrolled you 😀



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