Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Topanga
Ah, Topanga.
My little melon ball of plump tomato 1990s Boy Meets World jailbait hott.
All grown up, and no longer pretending to like a Savage Brother.
I would douse thee with a firehose, then mop the floor with the sweat from my brow as I worshiped your thighs with pickled jellies and a small bowl of borscht.
As to the goofy-ass clown you’ve acquired during your ‘bag-sweep of the club, please cast him back to Frat Row where he can acquire a Ubiquitous Red Cup in peace. His beads and hat tilt smell like desperation.
