Greased and groovin’, slippin’ in the sauce. Dancin’ the wango tango, showin’ ’em who’s boss. The rhythm is a weapon goin’ boomie bangie boopie. There’s a party in the outhouse, kegger in the chicken coopie. The raven flies at midnight. The whistle clam’s tight. Oh man, ain’t this universe such an interesting place, it makes me feel like anything is possible, so come on cosmos, bring me some of that erotic butter and spread it thickly on the bread that is my engorged soul. And then we’ll dingle dangle our twinkling toes off into the supernova-in’ sun!
Bang the zoom, bubba, check this on out.
Holy Mother of Mickey Gilley! Is that a–
A Doff Popper 16!!!
Like the motorized version of flaming fury of heck itself.
How’d you even–
Sold my old squealer, donated a hella lotta blood, and made various deals with various devils.
Wa-wa-wow. How’s she run?
She? This vehicle is all man, man. An HE runs like a gun that just shot a nun.
So you’re sayin’ he runs smooth?
My buddy, your standard classic Doff Popper 16 is not smooth. It is a rough and tumble bad ass monster that massages the road like a gorilla massages an invalid child with an angle grinder.
So this sucker hauls, huh.
Oh my dear little goatee’d naive and ignorant friend, this quote unquote sucker hauls so hard that it would be like having sex with your mom. Twice. In one night.
My mom is dead.
Now, do a fellow traveler a solid and lend me five bucks for gas, would ya?
Y’all like this? Then CHECK OUT THIS!
One time ol’ Dirkus and I wen’ down to the MILK SHAKE SHOP to get erselves a MILK SHAKE and wha’ wasit we foun’ down ‘stead of the MILK SHAKE SHACK there but if it weren’t one them ol’ timey NASTY SHACKS in its place there showin’ them stank ol’ SEXUAL TALKIES like them one Preacher Nick spent so much time PREACHIN’ ‘BOUT how they’s was meant to give you’s a BONER and suck the blood from your BRAIN and then you’s all would just get all IGNERANT up in there and such that you’s’ll make some kind of serious like mis-informed PURCHASING DECISIONS that you’s all’d live to REGRET and it was all jus’ a scheme of the dagnabbin’ dirt suckin’ cash jerkin’ CORPORATE ELITES!
Darn tootin’ and God bless.
Once upon a time, there was these two dudes, right? Yeah, there was. And they was all the way cool, as in thick as tight and slick as chowder, and they were really hype all over town, right? Right. So, one day, they was doing their thing. What thing is that? Well, let me tell you. Their thing was to get greasy in these corduroy ball-huggers and strut around the town bring smiles to the faces of children and fogies alike. You should of seen it. It was swell as sweet could honey well be. Peach fuzz glee and wrinkled gladness all around. Man, those were the days. But then, GENTRIFICATION! And you all know the rest of the story…
My thoughts are like puss in the boil that’s my brain that I lanced and now their stinky, buttery goo-goo is splattering out staining the walls and dribbling down the back of my neck and over my cheeks and dripping off my chin like blistering hot lotion full of wishes and dreams and frustrations, and I’m rubbing it hard into my skin, absorbing the ideas and the fantasies and the musings. And now I’ve got a rash.
Let’s all meet the Mule-man. He’s the face of the future, Ladies. Because he works so hard. His mind is a razor. His tongue is a lazer. His body is smooth and his cheeks are coated in thick coarse hair. His braying is the song that Jesus likes to sing. And he sticks to his convictions. This guy is the guy. He’s a man. He’s a mule. He’s a SEXUAL DYNAMO!
I’ll always remember the night the bombs fell, bringing their deafening screams of liquid hell that turned the planet to molten death and smothered it in a thick, acid blood smog that strangled and crushed and shredded us all. They forgot to put butter on my popcorn.
He was and always will be the most mature man in the universe. His brow was so high that God thought it was his own moustache. Not a tasteless hair on his body. So stern. So serious. So composed. So motherfucking sophisticated.