The priest said it’s a sin that I’m so biblically sottish.
Diagnosis:
My fertility doctor identified that my problem was that I was languid.
Diagnosis:
The clown at my son’s birthday squirted water at me because I’m corpulent.
Diagnosis:
My congresswoman wouldn’t read my letters because I’m stout.
Diagnosis:
My friend Dottie called me an oaf in her memaw’s eulogy.
Diagnosis:
A Walmart greeter in a Rascal scooter called me vacuous.
Diagnosis:
The food delivery man gently touched my neck because he liked me torpid.
Diagnosis:
Singing cowboy, Roy Rogers, sang a song about how languorous I am.
Diagnosis:
The airline forced the pilot to apologize for saying I was “beyond embonpoint.”
Diagnosis:
The lawnmower salesman kicked me out for looking like a shiftless Canadian.
Diagnosis:
I’m too obtuse to compete with my wife’s tennis instructor.
Diagnosis:
The zookeeper told me I was more slothful than all her animals—even the sloths.
Diagnosis:
My mother-in-law objected at the wedding because I was habitually chilly and rotund.
Diagnosis:
The bank manager closed my Bitcoin account because I’m fatuous.
Diagnosis:
My local rabbi respects my efforts to have high self esteem despite my portliness.
Diagnosis:
They kicked me out of Taco Bell for being indolent.
Diagnosis:
The cops said I ran over that pedestrian because I’m lackadaisical.
Diagnosis:
The farmer judged me to be as adipose as his worst ox.
Diagnosis:
Someone in the JetPunk comments called me myopic.
Diagnosis:
I don’t use revolving doors because I am far too nescient.
Diagnosis:
Correct!
Incorrect
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