Floppy Sun Hat Quotes

How rude of me, we haven’t even introduced ourselves. We’re the Andersons. I’m Evan, the lovely size-zero lass in the floppy sun hat is my wife Amy, and these are our best friends/children, Evan and Amy Jr. As you can see, we’re very fit and active. You know what our family’s average percentage of body fat is? Three. Yes, really. We got it tested last year when we all became organ donors. You may have noticed that I’m carrying Amy on my back. We do that a lot. At least once a day, and not just when we’re in fields like this; we do it on beaches and in urban environments as well. That’s what happens when your love is deep and playful like ours. You should also know that we also dab frosting on each other’s noses every single time we eat cupcakes, which is both mischievous and very us. Do you guys even eat cupcakes?

Mostly, they were ashamed of us. Our floppy straw hats and threadbare clothes. Our heavy accents. Every sing oh righ? Our cracked, callused palms. Our deeply lined faces black from years of picking peaches and staking grape plants in the sun. They longed for real fathers with briefcases who went to work in a suit and tie and only mowed the grass on Sundays. They wanted different and better mothers who did not look so worn out. Can't you put on a little lipstick? They dreaded rainy days in the country when we came to pick them up after school in our battered old farm trucks. They never invited over friends to our crowded homes in J-town. We live like beggars. They would not be seen with us at the temple on the Emperor's birthday. They would not celebrate the annual Freeing of the Insects with us at the end of summer in the park. They refused to join hands and dance with us in the streets on the Festival of the Autumnal Equinox. They laughed at us whenever we insisted that they bow to us first thing in the morning and with each passing day they seemed to slip further and further from our grasp.

tired, wore a long-sleeved white shirt, its cuffs rolled up to his elbows, and khakis, both starched but well wrinkled. A wide-brimmed floppy canvas hat shielded his pale face and scalp from the sun. Roosevelt held up his glass in the direction of Mount Vernon, now visible on the southern bank. “A toast to our first commander in chief,” the present commander in chief announced, “and spymaster. I trust you’re aware that George Washington set up the Continental Army’s first

was wearing her floppy red sun hat and

Oh, I have to get a picture of this,” I said as Funboy stepped out of the Frankie. He stood, wearing sandals, baggy Bermuda shorts, and an oversized shirt that was both loud and tacky. The shirt, which hung to his narrow hips, featured a pattern of blue, yellow, and red shapes that were either paramecium or paisley. I couldn’t decide which, and I was too busy enjoying Funboy’s expression. Each floppy shirtsleeve had gold braiding like the cord for drapes in a decaying castle, and the collar was trimmed in purple fuzz taken from a hapless animal that was, no doubt, utterly fabulous. A broad-brimmed sun hat