Bizniz is good, bro. Got a solid cash flo, which be impo’tant, y’know. ‘Cause wit out it, y’all can’t be makin’ payroll and makin’ dealz fo’ what y’all needs on the day to day. Gots some mad real clientèle droppin’ cash money bizniz all up in the shop proppa and on-line and that’s hittin’ hard on both a customo service front and in terms of all like the fulfillment side o’ thangs so we be mad tryin’ to fill positions yo, warehouse and office like, so y’all knows anyone needs a job and shit, holla back at us. Peace.
Catching that magical wave that floats you on in, in to a dream world of pepperoni and sausage and kittens and ackee and saltfish where there are no mysteries because they’ve all been solved by these dude detectives in cut-off sweats and deep tans. They peeled back the shadows and wafted away the smooojie dew and now we can all just grab a booj and cruise the tube. Maxin’ and relaxin’ like Samuel L. Jackson. Life, yo!
As a PhD in bathing with a focus on showering, here’s some takeaways I’ve discovered over the years of intense study and research I’ve done.
1)All people stink. It’s not just you.
2)You must keep your soap clean. Or it’ll just make you more dirty. WASH THAT SOAP!
3)Golden Showers are not leprechaun bathing rituals.
4)Letting a soft breeze sensually caress your body is not an acceptable substitute for a good soak.
5)Dong cheese, nut butter, and ass crackles are tough nuggets to crack but they can be defeated. Y’ALL GOTTA SCRUB THEM GONADS, BOYZ!
Breaker, breaker, y’all got yer ears on? I got a bear on my donkey and I’m in Georgia Overdrive approaching lightspeed on the Ho Chi Minh trail and some crackerhead in a general waste of crap is leaving alligators all over the black top like he was chapped lips and gotta get this male buffalo to the pickle park ’cause I gotta pay the water bill bad as all hell but the lasagna’s gone soggy and there’s bears in the air sneaking peekers on Billy Big Rigger up there but I’m having shutter trouble and the gumballs are spinning in my brainhole so I’m deep into a wiener dog with the bugger boys on a whoop-dee-loop sliding sideways into a mississippi car park.
10-4, good buddy.
Over the course of my lifetime I sure have enjoyed some delicious meals. And moist emotions. And a heckuva rash. And bad advice. And hot tubbin’. YOLO!
Love is like a hairless, erotic pork chubby floating in a moist bath of sensual flavour sauce that is actually your soul. Or maybe it’s more like having your heart massaged by a dink-fingered wizard of the night. Or perhaps it’s more like some kick-ass mud flappin’. Or down and dirty bog slobbin’. Or the Indy 500.
All the poor kid wanted was a sandwich. A pretty simple wish if you ask me, couple slices of whitish bread, piece of yellowish cheese, thick and juicy slab of bologna, mustard, and ka-blam! Wish granted. But no, those dung-tongued fat-cats in theirs champagne castles just had to get involved. “Nobody grants wishes like us tuxedo’d yacht monkeys. Wish-granting is our business. AND BUSINESS IS BOOMING!” Who are they to decide what goes on a sandwich? What are they THE TOPPING GODS?! Seriously, no one puts gasoline on a sandwich. No matter what it’s costing at the pump. C’mon man, jeez.