Freudian slippers

[ed. note: so now I'm "the ungrateful cow," Rabbitch? I guess the last picture will make my feet match, then. I could have used them today. - The Cow. Moo.]

Hello again; it's me, your humble Rabbitch.

I would have posted again sooner but I've been busy tending to my horrible wound.



A wound sustained, may I note, more than likely while defending Rebecca's somewhat-shaky reputation in some sort of internet pissing competition.

How does one bruise one's toes in a metaphorical pissing competition? You may well ask.

Not a fucking clue, but I suspect it was something along the same lines as whatever I was doing when I ended up with 12 stitches on my ass after a hot-tub accident.

They tell me I was having a lovely time right up until the blood and glass and screaming portion of the evening started.

I was also somewhat delayed in the writing of this post because of the necessity of hauling out the machete and denuding my legs. I may have very little shame, but posting my hairy legs in public is beyond even me.

Enough! On with the fashion show.

My family is well-known for our love of slippers. We have the brotherly boots (which he actually wears):



and of course the kitty slippers with which my daughter is enamoured.

And then we come to my personal collection of slippers. From the casual and flirty teddy-printed flipflops



to the more practical but still feminine pink boots



I am proud to say that I am always fully prepared to meet whatever slipperly need may arise in my day to day life, no matter what the occasion.

I even have slippers appropriate for more formal functions such as weddings and state funerals.




I'm willing to lend these soy-sauce-splattered cows to you, Rebecca, should you ever have occasion to meet the President.

I'm just sweet that way.