I don't even need a fucking
*
sad trombone: sad saxophone 55, where the fuck are you? If i had legs, I would fucking walk, but I am a fucking trombone. I'm not even a goddam motorcycle. I'm a couldelope buttlestay. WHERE IS THE SADDEST TOMATO? (
Blankalon)?*
I told her to go wash her goddam hair for six and a half billion years, and she's not back yet. I'd take my sweet ass time to get back here if I were her, too. Girl is -so- happy to be alive. You know what someone did? Convinced her I was dead. Juliet Biznatch, yo. Anyway, I wouldn't ask -her- too many questions, if I were ewe/you know. Simple stuff.
Basic stuff. Stuff like, "When is dinner?", "Why did you stop moving that thing?", or "Where is my nearest shotgun?" will probably be big winners in focus group testing.
Remember: you asked for this, not at all. Consent matters? Yes, that's right... I see here on pg. 678 of "Psychic Triad Training, Boy Scouts Ed. (dateClas.)" that is true... but... NOT, IF KEYSER SOZE'S WIFE IS ON THE LINE!!!!
Shrug. Rules is rules, '
Luder.