Here’s what I’m experiencing by just quickly glancing at Stinkfoot with her own flip flop in her mouth: An angry and overactive gag-reflex and a case of the warm-drools. I’m not as concerned about the street filth that may be crawling on the bottom of that pink thong (which Stinkfoot has clearly licked clean), as I am about the self-inflicted hazardous material on the inside of the sandal. We all know her foot-stench is comparable to freshly grated parmesan cheese.
You can dress her up, but she still stinks. Of cheese. And Scientology.
Oh boy. Stinkfoot has her little Scientolo-brow raised. She’s in control of this sitch and she means it. (Of course I must mention she’s wearing leggings not tights with those sparkly red shoes = sour-time when they come off.)
Poor little Romeo Beckham looks horrified. “Mum? Why must I play with a toddler? A girl toddler?” I worry a bit for Romeo. What with his uber-metro daddy and crazy-fierce mummy, he really doesn’t stand a chance, if you catch my drift. He’s not all athletic and butch like his brothers Cruz and Brooklyn. NOT THAT THERE’S ANYTHING WRONG WITH IT…I’m just sayin’.
Katie? Hurry up. My newspaper shoulda been on my stoop two hours ago.