Monday, June 29, 2009
Morris
Oh Morris.
Your face is like a three day old loaf of pumpernickle rye after being urinated on by feral wolves and then masticated by a toothless billy goat.
Your limp, half-hearted sideways gang sign hand gesture just made a member of the Crips in Compton cry for the father he never knew.
Your kissy lips are a spectral guppy fish sucking the air of future progress out of the ether and converting it to carbon douchoxide.
Poor Caroline.
She just wanted a free drink.
