S T r e a M # 4 2
The paddles do not eat the peas or the cornbread in the wind when you chase the girl with the pink ribbons in her hair. Why you don’t want to eat the juice when it’s frozen is beyond me. Then again, the dogs whimper when you lick their joint accounts that have been liquidated by thieves. But why should I care when you haven’t bothered to eat cheese with the monkeys in the desert with the blue blob from Detroit. The Blue Blob is NOT from Detroit. He lies. I mean he lies about where he hails from, although, yes, he does lie on the ground and he does make sand-angels in the desert sand – until he’s bitten by a scorpion. That’ll be the end of that in the eatery that doesn’t end anything of the sort. I want cheese fries. I want cheese fried with tomato juice. I don’t want that silly man over there telling how I should live my life with tomato sauce eating the pop tarts and the pipe dream. I don’t eat pipe dreams because they’re bad for my teeth. They’re HARD, like my cock. No, apologies: Th...