It was measuring up to be a pretty fukin sporting evening. I was gargling teats since noon. I have no idea where my brohogg was. Probably spearin something. It wasn’t my business what he was drilllin. I was busy boring my own holes.

2) The vacuum cleaner sucked poo out of my butt. I caughed and jumped into a horse stance. My break dancing moonwalked down the ceiling. He showered the snack machine with diarrhea.

3) Hey mister. I paid for this room. I got it for another two hours.
“Sorry. I thought the consierge said tubesteak two.”
Don’t worry about it. Just give me twenty minutes.

4) Sylvester, the King of Felch City, talks to his buddy Rebreather Jenkins.

“Bitch tits was it for me. I was bench pressing twice my weight. My pecs were starting to sag. Fukin roids, I’d do it again without any questions. We were smoking a ton of pot then. I was probably stoned from nine thirty a.m. to three p.m. and then I’d take a nap and then wake up and hit the bong again and smoke myself until I was shaking and then I’d toke one more rip and then we’d head out downtown to piledrive some hooker.


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