Lordy, here comes Christmas in July
So, yeah, you thought I was going to shut up about swimming? I thought I was too, and then I saw the following photoshoot.
Yeah. I mean, I don't even need to say GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY. The case is laid before us, in high resolution color images. (My GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY cry is, as always, an affectionate and complimentary one. Don't want it to be construed as an insult in any way.)
They are oiled up in speedos. Where are Michael's hip tattoos, though? Airbrushed out, or suit not pulled down far enough to show them off? Either possibility should be corrected as soon as possible.
Michael is a bit taller, Ryan is a bit broader. It's a nice contrast.
Is he just tossing his goggles around? Can't quite tell.
This one comes off like, "We ran out of ways for them to pose, so we just told them to stare meaningfully at each other."
Well, it's kind of easy to tell who's been living in Florida and who's been living in Michigan, judging from the tans.
It reads, "While on the road, Phelps and Lochte keep in touch with with daily text messages and phonecalls."
Yeah, you know who I keep in touch with with daily text messages and phonecalls? MY BOYFRIEND. OR GIRLFRIEND.
(Actually, I don't, because I am the most terrible person to communicate with, ever. Nearly all the people I've dated have told me so. But the principle is sound; you can't fuck with the basic theory.)
The last two are just larger versions of the first two images. Man, this plays merry hell with what I was writing in the scaly dick fic. I'm tempting to change the whole premise, just to get more Lochte/Phelps.
Pictures taken from this post on ohnotheydidnt, and the original source of Men's Journal. I uploaded them to my own space, because I never know when someone else's photobucket is going to crap out.
I might have to actually buy the damn magazine.
I ran into the oft-mentioned Fred, the Homicidal Ice Cream Man over the weekend. We renewed our friendship over snowcones and Fred complaining bitterly about gas prices and the new Italian Ice business that is honing in on his territory. "I have been coming here for twenty four years," he said angrily, "and it used to be the lifeguards chased away the interloping people. Now I must deal with it on my own. Now they make me pay to come here. There is no more respect. There is none."
"You still have your baseball bat, right?" I asked him.
"Do not worry about Fred," he told me simply. "Fred will take care of himself. You are a good girl. A friend of Fred's."
Basically, if you hear of any unsolved murders involving ice cream men or vendors of Italian ice, I'd advise staying well out of it. Some enemies are just not worth having, and once the ice cream men are against you, you might as well just pack it in and give up.
Yeah. I mean, I don't even need to say GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY. The case is laid before us, in high resolution color images. (My GAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYY cry is, as always, an affectionate and complimentary one. Don't want it to be construed as an insult in any way.)
They are oiled up in speedos. Where are Michael's hip tattoos, though? Airbrushed out, or suit not pulled down far enough to show them off? Either possibility should be corrected as soon as possible.
Michael is a bit taller, Ryan is a bit broader. It's a nice contrast.
Is he just tossing his goggles around? Can't quite tell.
This one comes off like, "We ran out of ways for them to pose, so we just told them to stare meaningfully at each other."
Well, it's kind of easy to tell who's been living in Florida and who's been living in Michigan, judging from the tans.
It reads, "While on the road, Phelps and Lochte keep in touch with with daily text messages and phonecalls."
Yeah, you know who I keep in touch with with daily text messages and phonecalls? MY BOYFRIEND. OR GIRLFRIEND.
(Actually, I don't, because I am the most terrible person to communicate with, ever. Nearly all the people I've dated have told me so. But the principle is sound; you can't fuck with the basic theory.)
The last two are just larger versions of the first two images. Man, this plays merry hell with what I was writing in the scaly dick fic. I'm tempting to change the whole premise, just to get more Lochte/Phelps.
Pictures taken from this post on ohnotheydidnt, and the original source of Men's Journal. I uploaded them to my own space, because I never know when someone else's photobucket is going to crap out.
I might have to actually buy the damn magazine.
I ran into the oft-mentioned Fred, the Homicidal Ice Cream Man over the weekend. We renewed our friendship over snowcones and Fred complaining bitterly about gas prices and the new Italian Ice business that is honing in on his territory. "I have been coming here for twenty four years," he said angrily, "and it used to be the lifeguards chased away the interloping people. Now I must deal with it on my own. Now they make me pay to come here. There is no more respect. There is none."
"You still have your baseball bat, right?" I asked him.
"Do not worry about Fred," he told me simply. "Fred will take care of himself. You are a good girl. A friend of Fred's."
Basically, if you hear of any unsolved murders involving ice cream men or vendors of Italian ice, I'd advise staying well out of it. Some enemies are just not worth having, and once the ice cream men are against you, you might as well just pack it in and give up.