The Ballad of Hal E. Tosis and Jenny Talia
Hal’s poor eye wear choice makes him look like the demented love child of Jimmy Fallon and a bleached KarmaKaze pilot.
Jenny’s poor choice in hook-ups make her look like Mariah I-Don’t-Carey – complete with twins. For her, I would gratefully write out palimony checks while extolling the virtues of vitamin E for her lovely creamy and supple epidermis as I gazed zen-like into her uncaring gum-smacking visage, like a doomed cockroach crooning to the uncaring anthropomorphic face of a vintage 30’s wooden Emerson radio.
Damn, a splash of single-barrel Kentucky bourbon and a teenie-tiny Ambien pill chewed slowly with malice like it was the fiery nipple of Mother Anger, and these after-hours soliloquies just write themselves.
Wait…After Hours…but…it’s the weekend…Ummm….carry on.
I met her sister once. Jennette L. Wortz.
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unfortunately
Nice cheeks and mouth, Jen. You probably shouldn’t use the Joker’s plastic surgeon.
Just sayin’.
Why do I get the feeling this guy’s name is Peter?
Why do I get the feeling this guy’s in a wind tunnel?
“Yeah, honey, I do have a spare pair of sunglasses in my purse; here.”
His name is actually Pietre Olmostman, imported from Scaberia, to coach the woman’s downhill crosscountry sledge jumping freestyle skiing team in Homoslavia. He dines on eclectic items like herring, maggotty cheese form the Italian mountainside, fine wines, coccks, and the odd Terrine de Jeune Fils Tainte. Son.
^That’s a Loaf of Young Boy Taint baked in a bain marie after being minced with shallots and port for you Merikuns.
^And yes a I am a foodie. But not a gay skinny one. And I am a half junkie.
And Dark Sock must be rolling on amphetimines to keep rolling the way he is rolling. And by rolling I mean rolling.
You guys need to listen to some Neil Young. Followed by some Nancy Reagan.
@?Hermit
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I know a pleasantly plump tall adopted Indian who found out she was an Eskimo (politically correct term was Inuit, now Innu) while working for the Ministry of Corrections. So this Eskimo, Let’s call her Tracy cause that’s her fuccen name, has a good job with pension, knows to stop drinking firewater when she realizes there is a cock in her butt and comes with a nice little papoose about thirteen years old. She’s in with the cops so maybe a concealed weapon permit if you have grounds and she’s moving above the arctic circle soon. Her Indian names is Kahnekawga, in english that mean face that was meant for a sickly wolverine.
^I know that girl, Rev. I saw her at the Ministry, once. Everyone was talking shit about her because she got a corner office reserved specifically for the Inuit employees within the ministry. It was a prime office space, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Having that office and that magnificent view, presumably because of affirmative action, really disgruntled her co-workers so they started talking about her behind her back. Some of it was about her, but most of it was the Innu Window.
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sorry.
^That is correct, Reverend Chad. I’m rollin’ on ADD medicine confiscated from the kids. Rollin’, Son.
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I’m like butter, baby; because I’m on a roll.
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sorry. again.
Sunglasses indoors at night. On both of them. Shovel to the temple, simultaneously, from both sides.
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FFFFFFFFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1 I am in a hattin’ mood today. Not angry, just hattin’.
What the fuck? Are the sunglasses there to protect his forehead from the sun? Whatta dick.
these people grapple elfin gristle…
…& by these people I meam all y’all!
blaap!
Judo chop to that face.
Im a hatter. Def.