Had waaaaaayyyy too much fun last night. Got lost like a MORAN trying to just get to the damned bar after all the parents left, but made up for it fairly quickly. Holy crap on a cracker, I have some hilarious friends. Who, apparently, from time to time, make friends with other hilarious people for randomish reasons like “That bitch is always on my video crack machine at the end of the bar. Who is that bitch? Get her away from my CRACK.” And then they’re best friends and can share. Hilarity. Like, who argues LOUDER THAN THE JUKEBOX whether it’s MEAT CURTAINS or BEEF CURTAINS? I about fell off the barstool. Or had to excuse myself. BREATHE. It’s THAT funny, but you can still breathe, self. It was like TASTES GREAT. LESS FILLING. But with labia. Which we oh so gently explained to the two rather confused black dudes on the other side of the bar who thought we were obviously batshit insane. The guy who keeps a speculum (really, Chrome, you’ve never heard of that one?) out in his truck seemed to catch the picture with no problem though. It seems absurdly dangerous to have all these people in one building in the presence of that much alcohol, but that’s probably how it happened that way. So yeah. ROAST BEEF MEAT CURTAINS. Let’s just call that one settled. Urban Dictionary to the rescue.
Also, friendly breast exams. Or something. Let’s see…if I post this here I’ll be obligated to post a bunch more stuff in a hurry so it’ll move down the page. Hmmm. Eh, fuck it. Boobquake. Or, minor tremor, as they’d tell you.
I mean. Ow. What the hell? Sorry, but the old wisdom goes…anything more than a mouthful is wasted. Whatever. All I know is that it can’t possibly take three hands that aren’t mine to produce such an image. Charming. Anything for a laugh, right? Yikes. Well, now that the ol’ noggin has finally stopped throbbing like…well, you know…the hottie hott hott book and I have a date to make out with the couch. And then the bed. No telling what’ll happen th….zzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz.