Awesome lays upon the rug in the back of the van

van

The van is a place where the incredible goes, where the amazing come to ride in comfort, to be taken from the here to the there. They get in the van, these pieces of holy moly in their bright jams and flip flops and they kick back into the plush and they be, man they just be. These are the marvelous and this the van. And in it, they ride, my lady, do they ride. The incredulous hang in the back as they cruise the night streets, the tunes are set to smooth and the fridge is stocked with chill. The wonderful dig this van, man, they dig it because it is everything they are and more. Because the van has the storage space, dude. You can load a couch in there and still have room to lay out. And the prodigious are all over that. It’s their jam, right. They like the cool vibes you get from a plush and mobile interior. Wall to wall bear skin rugs, fridge, a place to put your beverage so that it won’t spill are all the things that the splendid are into. They like to ride. They like to relax. They don’t want to separated from both. So the van, man, the van.

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Let me mansplain lasagna to y’all

guido-crew1So dude has broz comin’ over to beer and pasta and Netflix and chill. First off, these dudez are broz, ‘standee? They’ve got manly beards and sweet Chelseas and they’re into rad tribal shit like motorbikes and greasing the iron with their fuckin’ sweat. And these dudez do not get nervous. They get intense. And they also get hungry, real hungry ‘kaysee? ‘Cause broz are totally into being chefz and may actually be chefz who are out there being all up in it (AKA the WORLD) being intense and theyz have a lot on their mindz and soulz and muzclez, so broz need a lot on their platez. These guyz are super real, you can tell by their tatz. They’ve got skulls and snakes and titty piratez on the all over and also some cute shit too. Because of the emotionz. And no fuckin’ lolz. ‘Cause it’s for realz. So when you bake that lasagna it’s not just friggin’ meat and sauce and cheese and pasta. It’s a fuckin’ beast of a slab for a Man Damnimal. First get your ass out of your head and make those pasta sheets fucking fresh. Broz don’t nosh on no dried shit from no box from the nineties. No way, these are dudez whose emotional dial is permanently on bro. And fuck if they don’t nosh their pasta fresh. Stone ground wheat and no shit filler and eggs fresh from no bitch-ass hens but pure coq and roll, ‘standee? Okay, take that can of Ditchwater perineum flavoured tomato sauce and ram it up your icing hole. You see, true hombrez get the fuck off on slowly simmered sauce that gives God hizself the wet tuna, so get a big Calphalon pot and pick some fresh basil and some sweet romas from the fucking farmer’s fucking market and stew that shit up. Stewz! Brewz! Broz! Now that better not be regular ol’ grease-baggin’ ground beef you’re getting ready to slop in there. Dudez be enjoyin share-chuggin’ bro-style their Snakeskin hammerhsmashed triple IPA so don’t think about beefin’ them, ‘standee? No, you take that cow dung and grip it and stick it and lube up and pull that pork and juice it in and smooth it on then layer over some of tasty thrice smoked pork belly and top that off with some venison sausage drip. Ground it and pound it, bitch! Damnz! Okay, throw that no name garbage can low-rent cottage cheese in the river and send that river to fucking hell and get some artisanal curds up in that pASSta. Manz gotz a cheeze fetizh ‘coz he’z horny for cheeze that taztez like the puzzy he eatz nightleez. Do yo understand how super good dude is? Fuck yes you do. Now dole some mac n’ cheese on that slab. Layer that gourmet shit up like it was a kick-ass condo where you live in the fucking penthouse full of bad-ass gourmet furniture and shit that dude and his broz are stone chillin’ on watchin’ a rad Ed Hardy fashion show on an awesome-ass huge-ass flatscreen teevee. Once the slab is ready, bake that shit hardcore in the convection oven until it’s bubblin’ fuckin’ crispy and smellin’ fuckin’ tasty. And yo better get that oil in the fryer heatin’ ’cause this slab is ’bout to get fuckin’ real for real real. Broz don’t fuck around with lasagna, yo. They bake that shit. And then they fry that shit. Deep and steep. Get it out and then drop it in and let that brew battered pASSta turn motherfuckin’ gold! Dudez are tight on that shit between broz when they nosh chow with MMA SPLASHDOWN VII kickin’ ass on the plasma and that lasagna better be fuck as fuck for dude and his broz. ‘Standee? Word.

Gashdongit! I think the ninjas stole the fudge!

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“Shh, Jake,” Larry whispered, “you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Jake asked back.

“That whisperin’ in the night.”

“What whisperin’s that?”

“Ominous like. I think it’s the sound of silent death,” Larry said.

“How’d you hear it then? Ain’t it silent? As the name implies?” Said Jake.

“What are you on about, man?”

“I mean, silent death means just that. SILENT. If you heard it whispering in the night like you’re sayin’ then wouldn’t it be whispering death?”

“Whispering death?” Larry exclaimed, “Are you buzzed out? That ain’t what anything would be called anywhere I heard of ever. No one says whisperin’ death. What would it be like all swishy-swishy-swishy-poof you’re dead? Ga-ack, that’s a sick twist.”

There was a long, chubby, contemplative moment between them, then Larry said, “How the hell did you get in my sleeping bag anyways?”