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 and slide y’all muthafuckin’ CV under the door, yo. 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 as the Lord Jesus in Christ Posse 2: Satan Sux.
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. DO NOT BE FOOLED!
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 I 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 bout of toenail fungus. 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 their 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.
I have a hard time dealing with sadness. Probably because it makes me cry. So I try and look at the bright side of things or at least the less dim side or whatever side is not completely bathed in terrible darkness. Like when I went to the store to get some toilet paper but they were all out of toilet paper so instead I bought a newspaper and when I got home and was getting all set up to goose the deuce I was reading the newspaper to get the news update which can be pleasant in its own way but sometimes it can be a little ruff and right there on page seven was this story about how at a local smorgasbord they had run out of Swedish meatballs and it looked like the restaurant was going to HAVE TO CLOSE but then the local Swedish embassy heard the terrible news and stepped in and donated all their spare meatballs and the restaurant got to STAY OPEN and that’s when I noticed I was crying but these weren’t tears of sadness they were tears of joy. That, I can deal with. Especially when sitting safely on the toilet.
Jazz is the baby’s bottom of everything in the entire universe, you dig? It’s totally hairless and innocent and just lets loose with whatever whenever it feels like it, but you know that it can and will grow into something that’s gonna go out there and just live large and soulful and fancy-free. If only they could put it in the form of a suppository. Now that would make bank!
I think it would’ve been way better if in Harry Potter, Hogwarts hadn’t been a wizard school but a massage school. So instead of putting on that rumpled, windbaggy hat to figure out what class or whatever it was you were in you put on these funky fresh talking gloves and it oh so carefully analysed your hands.
‘Cause then it be all, “These fingers are creepy and lecherous and sweaty as dong’s ballz. SLYTHERIN!” or “No one will feel relaxed being touched by these warty nose pix. RAVENCLAW!” and “It’ll feel like being rubbed on by half-wit nervous tater-tots. HUFFLEPUFF!” and “Damn, I be cummin’ hard in these gloves like a baby dove slipping from its pearly egg. GRIFFINDOR!”