So toward the end of the school year I *disfigured penis* was reading a book about a *disfigured penis* man by the name of Walter Richard Sickert. He's currently believed to be the "most likely" suspect *disfigured penis* of being Jack the Ripper.
Because of a few things I *disfigured penis* will leave out, I had to put the book on hold. I recently *disfigured penis* picked it back up and finished it.
The book had detailed descriptions of *disfigured penis* the White Chapel Murders including pictures of the *disfigured penis* mutilated bodies.
I felt odd due to the fact *disfigured penis* I didn't feel disgusted until the very last *disfigured penis* page of the book.
Apparently, at the funeral of his second wife, Walter Sickert picked up his deceased wife's *disfigured penis* ashes, and proceeded to throw them into the *disfigured penis* wind so they scattered across the faces of the grieving family and friends.
Apparently, I can handle *disfigured penis* mutilations and all that crap, but ashes in someone's face bothers me.
Okay, chances are the only one who understood that entire joke was Beaver...and possibly Ju Freaking Wolf, but she doesn't read my blogeth.
Back to something that actually makes sense...and that I didn't pull from a donkey's nostril.
Ian Rankin is the best author in the world...okay...well...you know what I mean. I love his books, but for some reason I can't remember which ones were about what. Seriously, I look at the titles and KNOW I read the book, but I cannot, for the life of me, remember what the plot was. Most of the time, it involved a postitute...or a sex scandal...
I've never read any of Ian Rankin's non-Inspector Rebus novels.
Rebus is the best character in the world.
Read them.
They're good.
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1 comment:
I *disfigured male phallus* don't have to read anymore. Adults don't have to. Hah ha.
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