Ask Ms. Outlier: How Should I NOT Write a Marketing Email?

I recently received a profoundly ill-thought email from a company wanting me to perform a service for them. After calm consideration, I decided to tell them exactly what I thought.



First off, I came across your site and wanted to say thanks for providing a great resource to the lupus community.

I thought you might find this infographic, which displays the effects of lupus on the body,interesting and helpful for your readers:

Loopy Lupus Lady

Not Their Graphic, But the Single-Most Perfect Illustration of Lupus’s Effects I’ve Ever Seen

Naturally, I’d be delighted if you share this embeddable graphic on [here appeared a link to one of my lupus posts–the ninth] and/or with your followers on social. [sic] Either way, keep up the great work !

All the best,

Ms. Z., Assistant Marketing Manager
Money-Making Medicine, Inc.®

Gwen Doubts

Gwen Has Some Doubt About the Sincerity Level Here


Dear Ms. Z:


You want me to link to your for-profit site, but offer me not one penny-per-hit for doing so. No problem.

As long as YOU include on YOUR site a link to my first lupus post:

Ducreaux Booyah



Suggestion 1: Reword Future Emails

Exactly on what basis do you, Ms. Z, feel it is appropriate for YOU to thank ME for providing a great resource to “the lupus community” (Do you speak on behalf of that community in some capacity?)? And for you to encourage me to “keep up the great work”?

Let me clarify for you, Ms. Z.:
I am in no way your subordinate. I am at least your equal.

But I, a patient with systemic lupus, will now more appropriately take this moment to thank YOU, Ms. Z., for providing a great resource to the lupus community, of which I am a member, by sharing that graphic.

Double Booyah Baby

You Only THINK This Image is a Non-Sequiter. I Wanted a “Double Booyah”, and This is What Google Returned. This Cutie Must Have Awesome Booyah Power To Overpower Google’s Web Crawler

Might I suggest, Ms. Z., you modify the wording of your solicitation letter in case it offends others you contact, besides me?

Suggestion 2: Read What I’ve Written

My website statistics reveal that you looked only at only the final one of nine lupus posts written: A post which would have been confusing had at least the one prior post not been read.

I suspect you did not read even that one post, Ms. Z.


You might try the series sometime. Although yet needing some revision, and with chapters to come, what is posted so far is still excellent.

Blowing Own Horn

I May Not Really Be This Confident, But I Was Gonna Sound Confident to THIS Woman, By Golly

–O. Babe


To Ms. Z.’s credit, she sent the following apology, which I felt treated me and my input with respect. As a result, I shall include a link to the graphic on the appropriate page of the series, in whichever century I finally go back and wrap up that series.

Hello O.Babe,

I want to sincerely apologize, it seems my email came off condescending. That certainly was not our intent, and I think your feedback makes a lot of sense upon reading back over our email. I will be sending your feedback along to our team to relook at how we reach out to the community.

My Work Here is Done Cat


Ask Ms. Outlier: How Can I Have FUN With My Customer “Service” Experience?

These are the really, truly letters sent to and received from yet another company with an impressively-obtuse customer service representative.


Dear WeFindYouForever Fence Co.,

I can’t TELL you how EXCITED and THRILLED I was to start receiving emails from your company, out of nowhere, YEARS after I made what I recall as a couple of scouting queries about a fence for the backyard of my
four-bedroom house in Florida.

I SO look forward, now, to wrapping one of your wonderful fences around the interior space of my current home:

A 700 sq. ft. condo in Southern California with no backyard–or front yard, either!

Pygmy Goats Behind Wrought-Iron Fence

Perhaps I Can Make an Indoor Corral for My Pygmy Goats? (Shown Here in Their Former, Outdoor, Quarters)

I’ll be the talk of Los Angeles!!

Please: Send me all the info you have on every fence style you offer.
And by all means, keep those emails pouring in!

Smooches! ❤

Miss Outlier

P.S. DO tell me you offer snow fences–I'm most 'SPECIALLY interested in those.

Snow Shark Eating Leg

I Don’t Want Any of THESE Getting Into My Kitchen!


Dear Ms. Outlier,
Good afternoon!
Thank you for your interest in our company and products, we really appreciate it! We have an almost unbelievable amount of information and number of fence/gate products available online.
I would recommend taking a look at our website ( to see what style you are most interested in, once your search is narrowed we can work toward filling your specific need. Here is a link to our wooden snow fence: (
Thanks again, have a great day!
Will “Likely” B. Promoted

Plato Always Be Kind Quote

Uh-Oh: I Don’t Think This Post Passes Plato :/
(If I Were a Kind Person, I’d Be More Sorry 😛 )



In the interests of honesty, I did change one line, and slightly disguised the website, company, and employee names so that all the fence companies in all the world–all of which read my blog–can spend a day scrambling to wonder:

“Was this us?”

(More likely, they would spend a day scrambling to locate their snow fencing brochures.)

Find Out What Women REALLY Think, Their First Time!

I was seventeen years old, and everyone else was doing it. It was time to lose my virginity.

My first steady boyfriend, Randy, was downstairs with me in our finished basement, lights out. My parents weren’t home.

He (breathlessly): “Are you sure?”
Me (fake gasp): “Oh, yes!”

Fake Orgasm vs Fake Relationship

But when Randy stripped off his pants, the gasp that came out of me was real. I almost changed my mind.

The only weenies I’d ever seen were the itty-bitty fingertips between the legs of babies. (These were olden times, before explicit films and the internet.) Bearing down on me was this jutting, ugly-as-hell TUBE thing—A thing my boyfriend intended to shove up me. No way.

But I had decided this was the night. I let Randy climb on top. He worked that ugly tube inside while I lay on my back, knees bent, with the bottoms of my feet facing the ceiling.

That was the first time in my life I had ever been in that position.


Men, if you’ve ever been curious, here are a real woman’s actual thoughts from her very first experience of lovemaking:

This is not natural.

This is the most vulnerable position for a human to be in, on the back with the belly exposed.

I feel like a turtle stuck on its shell.

I hate this.

Why have older women been LYING to younger women about this?!

Turtle On Its Back


I was furious. Furious at WOMEN. How DARE they not share with all girls that there was nothing at all good about sex. That it was all just a fraud, as far as women were concerned.

Even though I came, my first time, I didn’t know what was happening—it was just a physical response, like a pleasant flush of heat. That small diversion wasn’t enough to make up for the extreme awkwardness and vulnerability of the unusual position, and my lack of emotional involvement.

Uninvolved Sex

In my case, it took a year until brain and body got their acts together and I got the hang of it all. (I have it now. 🙂 )

(If you’re still a virgin, and a straight female: This post–from Teen Vogue–don’t laugh–is a great quick read about what first times can be like.)


So…it’s the next morning. I’m in the kitchen, and the phone rings.

“It’s Maria—Guess what?”
“Okay: What?”

“Rob and I did it last night.”

“You know: Rob and I did IT last night!” crowed my pal.
“You’re kidding! Randy and I did it last night, TOO!!”, I crowed back.

“Hah, hah, April Fool’s!” laughed Maria.


I wish there was a photograph of my face right then.

Yes, my dears: My first experience of the glories of sex occurred after midnight on March 31st, making me a true April Fool.

Eight weeks later, I found out just how much of a fool—for we had not used a condom, and I was pregnant.

April Fool in Dunce Cap


Why did it take until the 8th week for me to know? Did I not miss a period sooner?

Even during my first adult pregnancy, my periods continued for months, although they were very light.


It was 1973. I lived in a house with two abusive parents: Parents who had not only broken my sister’s jaw, but, far worse, tried to break our sense of worth by verbally abusing us daily, accompanied by hard cuffs across the face.

Although I was underweight and hungry much of the time. I’d been forbidden to take healthy food like bread and milk to eat when I arrived home from school each day. No longer were my clothes being provided.

My father was making around $400,000 a year in today’s dollars.

Dayum is Not an Acceptable Word


Was I to give birth to a baby while living in that house, to be abused as I had been?
Having severe pet allergies, I had no other options for where to live.

I knew my fetus was better off never being born. Abortion was the only responsible, adult decision I could make.

A handful of other teen girls had gotten abortions, arranged by their parents, even prior to the Roe v. Wade decision. They had been whisked out-of-state, taken to private doctors, and come back to school to buzzing whispers.

That wasn’t going to happen for me. I was so scared. What could I do?

After extremely quiet inquiries, one of my childhood friends came to me privately and let me know that the Planned Parenthood in Downtown (Manhattan) performed abortions, for $100–over $500 in today’s dollars.

I was deeply grateful to this friend: She was devoutly Catholic, and for her to provide this information was to me a sign both of her deep caring, and also her understanding that abortion was the right choice in my case, with my family.

Not long afterward, the Pope issued an edict excommunicating all Catholics who provided, or even had ALREADY provided, any assistance whatsoever to those obtaining abortions. My friend was devastated at the cost of her help to me.

Fuck the Pope But Use a Condom

However, the Current Pope Does Seem a Big Improvement

I had $8 to my name. Babysitting back then paid $1 an hour, and jobs were hard to come by. Where would I get $100?

As I investigated my options, the days ticked by. My boyfriend told me “Don’t worry about it—I’ll take care of it.” but I wasn’t counting on HIM. It wasn’t HIS body that was pregnant.

Finally, I gave in and approached my friend Naomi. In Senior year, we weren’t as close, but I knew our friendship was still there.

I asked Naomi if she would lend me the money, without knowing what it was for, or when I would be able to pay her back. This was a large amount for back then, but she of course said Yes.

Lending to a Friend

Because that’s what friends do.

The day of the appointment. I’m now at ten weeks. Randy and I meet up, and he hands over a crisp new $100 bill. What the what?!

“Where did you get this?!”
“I told you not to worry about it.”
“But where did you get this?”
“I just did. Let’s go.”

I can tell there’s something…off. But I don’t have time for it.

We bus it across the George Washington bridge, take the subway to Planned Parenthood. I sit down opposite an unsmiling, unfriendly black woman (her color will be pertinent). When we get to the part about payment, she asks for TWO hundred dollars—not one.

Surprised Cat Peeping Over Desk


“But—I was told by my friend that it costs $100!”

“You came over the bridge today, right?”

“You live with your parents, right?”

“Two hundred dollars.”
She looked with hatred at me.

I grew up in a highly-mixed neighborhood. This was my first experience of negative assumptions being made about me based upon my appearance: My color, my features, my style of dress, my manner of speech.

I could suddenly tell that this woman had decided that she was seeing a privileged WHITE suburban girl who could easily afford the highest rate charged on the center’s sliding scale. It took some minutes of talking before I convinced her that I’d had trouble getting ONE hundred dollars.

Two hours later, I was led into a room where a suction abortion was performed. It hurt a lot, but not as much as my monthly cramps (my family were cramp champions).

I felt only relief.

Never have I ever felt any remorse. If I could go back in time and advise teen Babe on what to do, I would say:
“What do YOU think, Babe?”—and then I would heartily endorse her abortion choice.


Randy and I left Planned Parenthood that day and got on the subway. Almost immediately, I began feeling ill. I had to get off that shaky dark subway—now.

We slowly climbed up the subway stairs to the outdoors and made our way to a sunny triangular pocket-park, where we sat on a little wooden bench. While we sat, a very tall man came and sat close by my side. Moments later, another large man sat close by Randy’s side, so that we were sandwiched between.

The guys started talking with us, and we with them–I wasn’t feeling that chatty, but was trying to be polite. One of the men suddenly started laughing hysterically. I asked:

“What’s so funny?”
“Don’t you kids know where you are? You’re sitting smack-dab in the middle of HARLEM!”

Harlem: The Ghetto. New York City- Harlem- juillet 1970: le ghetto; containers rouillÈs sur le trottoir abritant des feux et dÈtritus dans une rue. (Photo by Jack Garofalo/Paris Match via Getty Images)

Harlem: The Ghetto. New York City- Harlem- juillet 1970: le ghetto; containers rouillÈs sur le trottoir abritant des feux et dÈtritus dans une rue. (Photo by Jack Garofalo/Paris Match via Getty Images)

My. That WAS a surprise. (Perhaps the guys had been surprised, also: That two white-looking suburban kids hadn’t been discomfited when two large black men had sat close beside us.)

The guys explained that we had better not try to walk back to the subway alone. (It’s possible they were exaggerating, but in ’73, they may not have been.) One provided his company as we made our way back, and boarded the subway for the relative safety of suburbia.

Where I thanked Naomi, and returned her money.


My largest charitable donation each year does not go to Planned Parenthood.

It is my second-largest.

They saved two lives that day. Not mine and Randy’s. Mine, and the life of my would-have-been-abused child.

I have donated to them annually since 1973.


My mother used to tell me, often, that were abortion made legal retroactively, she would have never had me.




I learned, later, that my then-boyfriend had obtained his “Don’t worry about it” hundred dollars by performing his first major theft. He had:

– broken a window,
– stolen equipment clearly marked with the owning company’s name—but marked with removable marker!
– gone into the downtown Manhattan K-Mart, where the manager purchased these clearly-stolen goods in exchange for a crisp $100 bill.

I urged that POS (piece-of-sugar) boyfriend to make restitution, which he did not.
However, I shamefully did not break up with him quite yet. When I did, a few months later, this is the boy who raped me.

The Dreaded Many-Eyed Watcha-ma-tingle! (A “Wee Turtles” Adventure)

With its many arms, how can you run away?
With its many eyes, where will you find to hide?
You’ll know it by its– its– I cannot say;
“Indescribable!” Further adjectives defied.

Jonah was three and Justin four when Jonah was invited to Morgan’s birthday party. This was close to Halloween, so naturally the children were to come in costume.

“What would you like to go as?” I asked little Jonah.
“A ‘Watcha-ma-tingle!” cried out an excited Jonah.

(Oh, terrific. What the heck…?)

“Honey, Mommy isn’t sure she knows what a Watcha-ma-tingle is.”
“It’s a Watcha-ma-tingle!”.

(Of course it is. Stupid Mommy.)

Terrifyin', Ain't It?

Terrifyin’, Ain’t It?

“What does one look like?”
“Like a Watcha-ma-tingle.”

(inner head slap)

Demonstrating my Asperger’s, I turn to Jonah’s big brother:

“Justin, do YOU know what a Watcha-ma-tingle looks like?”
“Yes, Mommy. It looks like a Watcha-ma-tingle.”

NCIS Head Slap

I’m Literally Feeling One of the Joys of Parenting

I finally wise up. After learning the boys have no pictures of this mysterious creature in any of their books, nor at any at their preschool, I ask for details about its appearance. These come in a rapid stream, with both little boys jumping up and down excitedly, shouting them out:

“It has lots of arms!”
“Lots and LOTS of arms!”
“They stick out all over!”
“And lots of eyes!”
“All over its head!”
“They stick out too!”
“It looks really silly!”

OOhh-kay, then. I guess I have enough to go on. Six pair of black pantyhose later, I have constructed a sort of cape of octopus-like “arms”, stuffed with fiberfill.

Black Pantyhose Octopus Costume

A Bit Like This, But I Would NEVER Do That Embarrassing Center “Leg”


A sad flattened kickball with a slow leak is sacrificed.


A Happy Pre-Leak Kickball

I cut it in half. Applying a black magic marker, several white ping-pong balls are transformed into eyeballs, and applied with hot glue to the half-kickball. Jonah’s eyeball-hat is ready.

It is now two days before Morgan’s party. I call Jonah, and Justin, over for the trying-on. I tie on the arm-cape, place the eyeball-hat, and position Jonah before the full-length mirror.

“Is that what a Watcha-ma-tingle looks like?”
“YES! That’s a Watcha-ma-tingle, Mommy!” both boys gleefully shout out.

Best Mom Award from

royalty-free image from

I am so proud. Jonah and Justin take joyful turns playing at being the Watcha-ma-tingle. Afterward, I put the costume away until party day.


We must leave at 11:00. It takes only ten minutes to drive to Morgan’s. It is 10:30.

{{ominous music}}

I call Jonah over and put on his costume.
He bursts into tears.

“What on earth is wrong?!”
“THIS isn’t a Watcha-ma-tingle!” he sobs.

Of course it isn’t.

Yet, I foolishly try to convince my weeping three-year-old otherwise:

“But it has lots of arms, sticking out! And lots of eyes sticking out! And you and Justin SAID it looked like a Watcha-ma-tingle!”

Justin pipes up:

“Mommy, that doesn’t look ANYTHING like a Watcha-ma-tingle”.

The traitor.

(Just you wait ’til you want that second helping of mashed bananas tonight, buddy…)

NOW what? It’s not like I was going to force my toddler to wear a costume he hated in order to teach him a lesson. He was too young to understand it.

I took off Jonah’s tingly bits and tossed them in a corner. I dried his eyes and told him everything would be all right—because that’s what good mommies and daddies do.

I went into the boys’ bedroom and found the oldest plain sleeveless shirt he owned (we live in L.A.—it was a beautiful warm day ) which happened to be a “muscle shirt”.

I quickly used fluorescent green iron-on letters to spell out “POWER MAN” across its front.

I grabbed a pair of the coolest mirrored Ray-Bans I could find.

I came out to where Jonah sat and said
“How’d you like to go to Morgan’s party as the coolest super-hero EVER? You’re going as ‘POWER MAN’!”

Then I showed him the coolest shirt and glasses ever.

Both kids bought it! Jonah couldn’t have been more excited. He couldn’t wait to get that shirt on. His costume was a hit at the party, and a good time was had by all.

Power Man Lego

I was SO Freakin’ Ahead of My Time. Now, There Really IS a Power Man Super-Hero!!

Score one for Mommy.

Take THAT, Watcha-ma-tingle!

Two Wee Turtles

Watcha-ma-tingle Slayers:
Two Wee Turtles (a bit older)


(ew–that sounds a little bit dirty, thanks to St. Augustine)

Weeks later, I’m sitting with the boys, watching one of the Winnie-the-Pooh videos I’ve recorded for them off the TV (I didn’t allow them to watch television because of the ads), when suddenly they start shouting and jumping around on the bed:

“There it is, Mommy—Look, look! THERE’S the Watcha-ma-tingle!!”

Winnie-the-Pooh is coming over the crest of a hill with all sorts of debris stuck all over him. Piglet, not recognizing Pooh within the mess, thinks he’s spotted a new type of monster: A ‘Watcha-ma-tingle’.

Jonah and Justin are right: The costume I made looked nothing like a debris-adorned Winnie-the-Pooh.

If only we’d had Google Translate back then to help out in little clarifying discussions between Adult Aspies and Wee Turtles.

The Dreaded Many-Eyed Watch-a-ma-tingle--In the Flesh!!

The Dreaded Many-Eyed Watch-a-ma-tingle–
In the Flesh!!

When YOU’RE the Jerkwad

In my last decade–the one in which I learned about who I am and what made me me–I, in my holier-than-thou manner, have concluded that most people in the U.S. never, or rarely, wonder about who they are, or how they act, or whether the things they do are right or wrong.

Selfish Lifeboat of Men Only

Like How the Lifeboat Cartoonist Never Thought to Include Women

They just assume everything they do is okay; e.g. When someone cuts them off in traffic, “What an a-hole!”, but when they do the same, that’s okay.

They don’t question how hard they try to do well at their jobs (or what “doing well” means),

or how they treat their employees or customers,

or how well they parent (or what type of parenting is needed in order for a child to become a thoughtful, happy, independent and socially-responsible adult),

any more than they question how they drive.

They just assume that how they do everything is pretty darn okay.

We writers are idealists who want to think our words can make a difference in this.

I suspect these people are so self-blind not because they’re inherently stupid or evil, but because they haven’t been parented to wholly grasp that other people’s feelings and motivations are exactly like their own,

and because “everyone’s doing it, and if I don’t, they will”,

and because commercial interests, implementing their policies via our corporate-run government and media, have heavily influenced such “me-first” attitudes.

Perhaps the Problem Lies in the Nightly Prayer Being Taught in Some Homes

There are some who self-monitor behavior only toward members of the groups they perceive as theirs: Their friends, immediate or extended family, co-workers, members of their religion, or their perceived race, ethnic group, or nationality.

These “Love My Gang” bangers either don’t worry about being polite to outsiders, or they feel free to abuse them verbally or in worse ways. So we find otherwise-polite people who are curt to or verbally abusive of maintenance-/wait-/hotel-staff,

Undertip for Special Cocktails

“Here you go: Eight specialty cocktails, painstakingly made with care and expertise over the past 285 seconds of my one life”

(What is problem?–Man thanked and tipped, yes?)

or people of one race or ethnic group who will not move over on the sidewalk for another, or even “inadvertently” crash shoulders with members of another…

…or just talk trash about all members of another group around the dinner table in front of their children.

So here I am, self-identifying as different than these selfish people (and so, I make myself a member of the superior group “Better Than They Are!”. Here I am, a smug self-monitor-er. [er.]

My self-examination has yielded a tremendous amount of insight into how events from my past have influenced my later behavior.

How proud am I that I wring my actions dry:
WHY did I do what I did when I did–
Was I right when I said what I said?

How proud am I that this self-improvement effort has resulted in a net yield of…

Nothing. After years of trying to modify my behavior based upon a ton’o’self-knowledge, I behave no better than my previous Popeye self:

Cartoon of a Yam

I Yam What I Yam.

Those who were supposedly poorly-parented, by my lights–You can pick them out by how they drive and park:

They park in handicapped spots,
or slantwise taking up two or three spaces,

Better-Than-Thou Parking

I Won’t Say I Saw This Person Park In This Cars-Always-Waiting Lot, or Had Any Chalk That Day

or they exit lots dead center in the drive, taking up both exit and entry lanes, making traffic wait for them.

Why leave room for others? THEY are the only driver who counts.

These are the same people who don’t give up their seats for elderly, pregnant, or physically-disabled people,

don’t do ANY volunteering (more often men, by the way–even if retired),

don’t tithe to charity even when they can afford to…the list goes on.

British Supposed Top Acts of Selfishness

For Supposed “Top” Selfish Acts, This British-Sounding List Is So Mild-Mannered, Don’t You Think?

But all of those awful, awful folks are not the ones who have been occasionally barking and snapping at strangers out of the blue for the past six months.

That has been ME.

All of those folks are not the person who jumped down the throat of an innocent commenter on one of my posts this past week.

Me again.

Or who tried, in the most childish, foolish way possible, to show off on not one site, but several, falling flat on her face each time, exposing her ignorance and proving only her own foolishness.

Me, me, me.

Dont Be an Unbearable Jerkwad Card


(Or wrote this self-indulgent post, looking for attention even for her failings. Me again.)

When I was a kid, in my oh-so-precious precociousness, and my not so precious oversized sense of smarts–both characteristics common with Asperger’s children–I freely, loudly, frequently overshared knowledge I thought I had gained from my extensive reading.

Whether or not those around me were interested.

And whether or not I was correct.

My sisters and brother called me The Professor. This was not a compliment.

I have had many decades to decide not to stoop to that level of childishness. To not pontificate upon some subject about which I know little or nothing. To not issue my personal edict or opinion as if it came from Mount Olympus, or Zion.

One would think I would so choose. If not because the behavior is ego-driven, then because it can cause me to look as foolish as I am. The happy news is, for fifty years, I did so choose.

But, for this past week, I have demonstrated, on my own blog and the blogs of others, that this old foolishness lay in wait, at the ready. It was pulled out and aired for all to see.

Not Autistic Just A-hole

I’d LIKE to Still Blame the Asperger’s

I don’t know how YOU feel when you’ve acted like an ass, but I feel like an ass.

That I’m such a self-examination expert by now, and I know WHY the behavior slippage occurred helped not a whit. I saw, partly, even as each fail happened, but was unable to stop each train car from crashing into the one before.

Feel Better Show Off Less

Stupid Subconscious. Talk About Your Jerkwads.

The good news is that, although, for me thus far, self-awareness has not effected positive behavior modification, there are some upsides to ENLIGHTENED jerk-waddery:

(1) I’d rather be unconsciously egocentric, but consciously unselfish, and an occasional jackass, than to go through life acting selfishly most of the time because I just can’t be bothered to put any effort into being nice to “little people”.

(2) If my now-renounced Catholic upbringing was correct, all this regret-filled suffering has given me a golden ticket through the pearly gates.

(3) Each time I finish cussing out other jerkwads, I have reason to remember that they may be nice people, too, on their insides, where I can’t see beneath their dumb stupid-head faces.

Perhaps, someday, when I learn not to be a jerkwad so often, I’ll remember this first, and not cuss them so quickly, even though they really, really deserve it. Believe me. (“Stupidheads!” [If only my word was this nice.])

Perhaps this transformation will occur once my gray hairs outnumber the red ones.
(I admit I’ll miss the red, but by then will think the trade-off worth it.)




After thinking about the “Don’t Hate Me Because I’m Beautiful” incidents related in my LAST “Feel Sorry For Poor Me” post, and similar incidents not mentioned, I have just concluded quite late in life that,

due to that remarkable red hair, and my other outstanding features (not the least outstanding among these, my outlying ( 😉 ) proboscis)–

–I must be so BREATHTAKINGLY good-looking (good GOSH almighty!!!)–

–that I can do no wrong:

My cuteness will overwhelm everyone around me. Offline, at least.

Jerkwad Puffin

Parking in L.A. Will Be SO Much Easier Now!

So: The conscience has been K.O.’d. The days of angst are over.

Let the Games Begin Raccoon

Selfishness, Here I Come.


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