…who writes better than me. Dammit. Oh well, he’s going to hell, and I’m not, so there is that satisfaction.
Here’s a sample:
I don’t think I’m any less of a man just because while getting dressed I had a black sock resting on my shoulder, forgot about it, bent over, and shrieked like a little girl when a black amorphous rat-like shape suddenly flew into my field of view.
Not at all.
I think I’m less of a man because a little pee escaped.
Read ye all of it.
Oh, just one more:
When they start anally electrocuting the losing team like they do with chinchillas, fine, then I’ll start giving half a shit about who wins these things.
My sentiments on any game that the Raiders aren’t playing in, exactly. Any sport at all, for that matter. And I think that the audience who watch NASCAR should be given little remote controls so that when a certain cars number is punched in enough times it just explodes.
That would be cool.