26th February 2005, 2:27 PM
Holy krap a girl.
I dont know what to do, hmm...
*touches tip of penis to nose*
TA-DA! Now I laugh like Barney Rubble and quickly blow air in to deanna's anus. Mmm... Womalloon. Sort of like pastry except it's alive and grows hair. It reminds me of being on Bourbon street in a post-retrospective kinda way that I cant get in to right now. I mean I guess I could, but I wont.
It was last month, we were all drunk. There were ten year old girls drinking yards of beer and a horse that could talk and rode on top of a police officer. Suddenly, we were surrounded by naked women who wanted our beads. and... no! I had to show my tits to hundreds to boys before they gave me their beads. I work hard for the money, oh ee oh ee, I work hard for the money, oh ee oh ee. I work hard for the money, so you better treat me right. Then I woke up at someone's apartment and they owned guns which was a pleasant contrast. I couldn't move yet so I drank coffee all day and then threw up.
Contents of my vomit - Jan. 15th 2005
* Tomatoes
* Ground beef
* Throat losenges
* A single serve bottle of Tobasco sauce
* Pennies
* Tater-Tots
* Unidentifiable relics of the past
* A McDonalds wrapper
* And corn
For three days after that event I had the super human powers to paint like Bob Ross using only red and speak in a plethora of accents including the often misplaced 'afro-gringo-cheese' which is a mixture of northern Spain, Ethiopia and Wisconson.
"Hola, senor click click? 'whistle' PACKERS WOO!"
It loses something in the textual translation, but you get the basic understanding. Keep in mind that most institutions of thought on the teachings of dialect do not pay heed to my gift. Regardless, I can masturbate up to 8 times daily and still manage to accomplish very little.
I vote for no one. My social security card is USELESS TO YOUR PAGEN GOVERNMENT OF REPRESSION ETC ETC
I dont know what to do, hmm...
*touches tip of penis to nose*
TA-DA! Now I laugh like Barney Rubble and quickly blow air in to deanna's anus. Mmm... Womalloon. Sort of like pastry except it's alive and grows hair. It reminds me of being on Bourbon street in a post-retrospective kinda way that I cant get in to right now. I mean I guess I could, but I wont.
It was last month, we were all drunk. There were ten year old girls drinking yards of beer and a horse that could talk and rode on top of a police officer. Suddenly, we were surrounded by naked women who wanted our beads. and... no! I had to show my tits to hundreds to boys before they gave me their beads. I work hard for the money, oh ee oh ee, I work hard for the money, oh ee oh ee. I work hard for the money, so you better treat me right. Then I woke up at someone's apartment and they owned guns which was a pleasant contrast. I couldn't move yet so I drank coffee all day and then threw up.
Contents of my vomit - Jan. 15th 2005
* Tomatoes
* Ground beef
* Throat losenges
* A single serve bottle of Tobasco sauce
* Pennies
* Tater-Tots
* Unidentifiable relics of the past
* A McDonalds wrapper
* And corn
For three days after that event I had the super human powers to paint like Bob Ross using only red and speak in a plethora of accents including the often misplaced 'afro-gringo-cheese' which is a mixture of northern Spain, Ethiopia and Wisconson.
"Hola, senor click click? 'whistle' PACKERS WOO!"
It loses something in the textual translation, but you get the basic understanding. Keep in mind that most institutions of thought on the teachings of dialect do not pay heed to my gift. Regardless, I can masturbate up to 8 times daily and still manage to accomplish very little.
I vote for no one. My social security card is USELESS TO YOUR PAGEN GOVERNMENT OF REPRESSION ETC ETC