Small towns are awesome and charming until you have a craving for samosas.
The people of Rural Rock still talk about that one summer day when Jamworth “Bucktooth” Johnson rolled into town on a keg of beer. It was a sight to behold, here he come down the street kicking up all kinds of dust and what not wearing nothing but a smile and his big dick flopping around and to and fro like some elephant who ain’t give a shit.
Beware! Don’t be fooled. This may appear to be a regular harmless trombone, but it is in actuality, the dreaded and vicious sad trombone. Use great caution. If caught in its hypnotic influence, instant death is inevitable.
It was 8:20 A.M. The train was packed with people and it smelled like it. The train went dark as it entered the tunnel. Not even a second later, the light was immediately replaced with an eerie man-made incandescence. A complete shift had occurred. You could no longer tell if it were night or day.
Vance Afro was utterly sandwiched between a pole against his back and a short old man, further flanked by a woman straining to carry a six-year old child, a schlub who needed to shower yesterday, and a businessperson.
This is probably a good time to pause for an explain this to me moment. The term businessman surely indicates male; and businesswoman, female. Yet when one says businessperson, we insinuate that the gender is female. This has been an explain this to me moment.
“Sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you,” said the ant seconds before it was crushed.
And now a mash up.
The modern haiku is more about the messaging these days than the meter. Sad. Source.
To say he was stoned on the crack cocaine was a half-truth, because in actuality, he was both whacked and wasted. Little did he know it, he was also ten minutes away from dying. Without giving too much away, he’s going to freak out over something he sees, and his feeble heart is going to plain give out.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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