Why Did Hunter Pence Cross the Road With Chicken Legs? Stop Me If You Heard This One
by Cindy Falteich Cougar Lane. That’s where I live. It’s where I swirl big league innuendos into a slurry of revulsion that makes primordial stew look like shepherd’s pie. It’s where visions of man-parts dance in my head and the thinnest calves in major league baseball have now taken center stage. Weeks ago, when there were rumors connecting Hunter Pence to the Phillies, I had one thought: I wish there was a rumor connecting me to Hunter Pence. One that didn’t end in a lengthy court case. It was a report that left my titties hard until well past midnight. And since then I’ve been talking in my sleep. I told my husband I’m talking to sheep. Hey, some people count them, others strike up a conversation. I’m Irish; we fail to communicate in many different languages. But rest assured, the pieces of anatomy that twirl in my dreams aren’t ones I’ve viewed on Twitter. I love nothing more than a glimpse of male skin that seldom catches sun but I’ll make one