Saturday Night's All Right, but Only in My Mouth
Fuck Elton John. He doesn't know shit. I know shit. I do. I've also put something in my mouth. Can you guess what it is?
A) The quaalude-soaked brain of the cretinous busboy at the Original Pancake House
B) An optical illlllluuuuusion
C) A seven-pound tablet of Bayer aspirin
D) The huge snot rocket I found under the third pancake in the stack, glistening and yellow and smeared with imitation maple syrup
E) The fact that I felt sort of bad that a really unhealthy man gobbed on my 'cakes instead of a really healthy one
F) A raw chicken wing
G) A big, fat cock (or is it an optical illlllluuuuusion?)
A) The quaalude-soaked brain of the cretinous busboy at the Original Pancake House
B) An optical illlllluuuuusion
C) A seven-pound tablet of Bayer aspirin
D) The huge snot rocket I found under the third pancake in the stack, glistening and yellow and smeared with imitation maple syrup
E) The fact that I felt sort of bad that a really unhealthy man gobbed on my 'cakes instead of a really healthy one
F) A raw chicken wing
G) A big, fat cock (or is it an optical illlllluuuuusion?)
posted by My Mouth at 10:52 AM
6 Comments:
ooo! The implications!
Ummm. Yeah. Do you. Want, ummm. What was it? Syrup. Right. Syrup. Okay?
You've captured the busboy EXACTLY.
Drool a little more and pick your nose and you'd be perfect.
The implications of WHAT?
Of faxing about that dump! THOSE implications! It's time you came clean about that dump.
You're not FOCUSING on my mouth. What matters is my mouth and its contents, not something that's not in there now.
FOCUS.
FOCUS.
You CAN.
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