I have a famous beer belly. Someone even wrote a novel about it: The Pilsners of the Girth.
The man with pickle breath lived in a very dill adapted house, near Ogorki Park. He grew pink cornichons in his garden.
I quit drinking and took up showering: I’m clean and soapier.
Bending over in a prison shower calls for soaper second thought.
If you shed in my bento box, I’ll go tempura-hairily insane!
When I suggested that washing your clothes in the toilet is a good idea, I was met with in crud dull a tee.
The man accused of bad breath was surprisingly gracious. Quote, “I harbour no recent mints.”
Slovaks have the dirtiest floors.
I lost five pounds just by farting. Finally I see the air of my weighs.
The fellow who removed all his body hair was considered a nair do well. In fact he manscaped from prison. When he was recaptured, he received ten wax to the back. What a follicle from grace.