Fondle My Moist Slacks. Please.
It is sheer coincidence that this post is along the same vein as Whinger's, I swear. I just hadn't had a chance to blog about it until now...along with a glass of Pinot and some ANTM (Congrats Danielle!).
Anyway, we were talking at work about our least favorite words (god knows how it came up - it was 8 in the morning). JMan's is "fondle", B's is "moist" and mine is "slacks". (Can I just say for the record that my word is the only one that doesn't conjure up Freudian theories about my childhood - I think? Anyway...)...So, the world's ugliest sentence has to be "Fondle [one's] moist slacks."
Pretty gross, right?
This is the brilliance that comes from drinking yourself silly the night before, waking up at 4:45 unable to fall asleep, so you decide to 'be productive' and shoot emails off to people, who take note of the time and think you're either some sort of vampire wacko or a profound overachieving maniac.
I feel a little bad about missing out on Essex Green at the Khyber tonight, but I couldn't resist a quiet evening with the kitties and Tivo. Call me lame. That's fine.