Rudy's New Years
Nothing says classy New Years like frosting up them tips, undoing your shirt six buttons, and busting the Rosary Bling. Nicely put together there, Rudy. Aud Lang Syne never sounded so greasy.
Sweet Pouty Turkish Delight, drop the hirsute ball of grease and come let me rub chickenfat on your lower back area while seducing you with rose petals, caviar and a small Belgian tap-dancer named Jurgen, whom we would mock by firelight.
After four hours of chickenfat rubbing, we would retire to the living room to watch David Cronenberg’s Scanners in high-def, pausing on the head explosion for me to softly comfort your fears. You would then call a cab, and I’d have to watch the rest of the movie alone.
Dammit. Why don’t they ever enjoy watching Scanners after a delightful evening mocking a small Belgian tap-dancer?
Yup. It’s Friday. And your humble narrator has slipped on a pop-culture reference, tripped over two misplaced commas, and passed through the looking glass into pure incoherence.
