Georgina the hen is thought to have damaged an ovary, causing her testosterone levels to soar and effectively transforming the organ into a testicle.
My friends, that is why I beat my wife. It’s not a personal failing on my part, it’s merely part one of a long plan to finally have my very own husband.
Haha, I remember the Royal Rangers from church camp as a kid!
It was the same church camp where my sister broke her arm, and the popular girls were mean to the down-syndrome kid.
it’s time once again for the fundie nostalgia hour
hey! the girl’s version is Girls in Action! I was a GA for a long time. We would “witness” to people to get merit badges. Telling my terminally ill neighbor Melba about Jesus while she was cared for by hospice volunteers was an awesome experience for *both of us*.
Argh, sometimes (not always!) I deeply regret that I was born into that crummy religion. Can you imagine being this sick lady, dying of lung cancer, leaving behind a husband and two sons (the younger one, Jeff, taught me how to ride a two-wheeler), and this whey-faced weirdo from next door is telling you about how awesome heaven is? Why on earth did my mother insist on my going over there?
I think the airplane safety instructions might be from the web page for the Fight Club movie, as they look familiar.
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genderqueer chicken
Georgina the hen is thought to have damaged an ovary, causing her testosterone levels to soar and effectively transforming the organ into a testicle.
My friends, that is why I beat my wife. It’s not a personal failing on my part, it’s merely part one of a long plan to finally have my very own husband.
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Re: genderqueer chicken
When will become postsanctimony? Sigh.
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Haha, I remember the Royal Rangers from church camp as a kid!
It was the same church camp where my sister broke her arm, and the popular girls were mean to the down-syndrome kid.
LikeLike
it’s time once again for the fundie nostalgia hour
hey! the girl’s version is Girls in Action! I was a GA for a long time. We would “witness” to people to get merit badges. Telling my terminally ill neighbor Melba about Jesus while she was cared for by hospice volunteers was an awesome experience for *both of us*.
Argh, sometimes (not always!) I deeply regret that I was born into that crummy religion. Can you imagine being this sick lady, dying of lung cancer, leaving behind a husband and two sons (the younger one, Jeff, taught me how to ride a two-wheeler), and this whey-faced weirdo from next door is telling you about how awesome heaven is? Why on earth did my mother insist on my going over there?
LikeLike