Mitigating the pain of a nation, one flounce at a time.

Nobody wants botoxed auton Cameron for a prime minister. And he certainly doesn't want me in his country, filthy, freeloading immigrant that I am. Before we sink into the inevitable mire of Tory despair, let's take a moment to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. Namely, ruffly panties.

One day I may even get around to building that Ikea wardrobe in the cardboard box with a picture of Mistah J taped to it. But I doubt it.

For a few brief moments, after Gordo checked out and before Spameron, as Weezie aptly and eloquently describes him:

'That SMUG, POOR-RAPING, OVER-BOTOXED, FAKE-TANNED, POMPOUS, SELF-RIGHTEOUS, SYPHILLITIC WHORE OF SATAN, WHO ONLY WISHES HE COULD SUCK MARGARET THATCHER'S HEARTLESS MILK-STEALING SPUNKING COCK AND MAKE HER CALL HIM "SONNY".'

checked in, I declared myself interim prime minister. In all caps, so it was most definitely legal. Certainly more legal than y'all's "unwritten constitution." My first act was to declare that I get ponies.
Other sweeping reforms include no VAT on chocolate, all the free IVF cycles I need to get at least one girl and one boy, castles and free yarn for people I deem awesome enough, my friends in the cabinet (or in the wardrobe, as they see fit), cabernet in said cabinet, me getting to stay in the country as long as I damn well please without having to take any bloody tests, and no more botox for Cameron. Creepy little sweaty-chinned bitch has to rule with a moveable face. But mostly the ponies.

Now that my shining rule has come to a close, I think it's time for some more ruffly panties to distract us all from the torturous future we all face.

Weirdly, when I played Cha-Cha in Grease in high school, my mom & I had to make ruffly panties for me. You couldn't find them anywhere. Now, due in part to the upswing in burlesque popularity, probably, they seem to be everywhere. Not complaining. Bring on the frills.

No really. There seems to be a species of daylily named Ruffled Panties. Go figure.

Sorry about the dog. I loled. Here. Have my very, very favorite girl in all of porn at the moment, Faye Reagan, to make up for it:

Oh, SNAP! Those are knitted. *gets ideas*

And remember: Next election, vote ruffles.

Next stop on the Patience's-google-image-search-express: torpedo bras. Seriously. They're coming back in style. I look killer in a sweater already. I think I need some, stat. Will have to plan a photo homage soon.