On the Savanna, a Cheetah will TEAR YOUR THROAT OUT BEFORE IT EVEN HITS THE GROUND
Whoa! Hey!
*chainsaws*
Last night I dreamt that I woke in a feather bed in an expansive, sunlit bedroom. The air was warm, and outside the open balcony doors waves splashed against beach rocks. A bowl of Fruity Pebbles sat on the end table, at the ready. I rolled over and slipped a hand around the chest of the love of my life: Ryan McDonough. He snuglged his tiny chipmunky body against mine, but before we could commence to love each other the doorbell rang. It was David! David came into the bedroom and not only was his goiter gone, but so were his pants—
I wanted something scary to write, and that's about the scariest paragraph I could have come up with or ever will come up with, so . . . there you go.
The only thing I hate worse than Christmas is Christmas movies. Or maybe inspirational sports movies. I'm not sure which I hate more.
Today:
the day!
The drunken triumverate of me, Bunny, and Bloathead will be meeting a house owner at high noon to negotiate for a place to live. This should work out fine, and so we will recruit you for tireless backbreaking labor if you have a truck. But since none of you have a truck, I guess you're all safe. But if you know how to install secret passages, trap doors, and cauldrons of bubbling marmelade, your services may be requested.
*chainsaws*
Last night I dreamt that I woke in a feather bed in an expansive, sunlit bedroom. The air was warm, and outside the open balcony doors waves splashed against beach rocks. A bowl of Fruity Pebbles sat on the end table, at the ready. I rolled over and slipped a hand around the chest of the love of my life: Ryan McDonough. He snuglged his tiny chipmunky body against mine, but before we could commence to love each other the doorbell rang. It was David! David came into the bedroom and not only was his goiter gone, but so were his pants—
I wanted something scary to write, and that's about the scariest paragraph I could have come up with or ever will come up with, so . . . there you go.
The only thing I hate worse than Christmas is Christmas movies. Or maybe inspirational sports movies. I'm not sure which I hate more.
Today:
the day!
The drunken triumverate of me, Bunny, and Bloathead will be meeting a house owner at high noon to negotiate for a place to live. This should work out fine, and so we will recruit you for tireless backbreaking labor if you have a truck. But since none of you have a truck, I guess you're all safe. But if you know how to install secret passages, trap doors, and cauldrons of bubbling marmelade, your services may be requested.
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