Pinatas.com, submitted by Hateful Universe. There is a deep-rooted human reaction of revulsion to indications of decay. Rotten fruit and moldy food can cause your gorge to rise, while the maggot-eaten desiccated corpses of animals may cause you to recoil in actual fear. This reaction extends for me to the streamer-festooned carrier of chaos known as the piñata. Rupture its papier-mâché hide and candy or other treats spurt out in carrion geysers to scatter randomly across the floor and inspire an orgy of scrambling madness from nearby children. Fuck that. Fuck this:
Clowns are no picnic either, but at least the real live ones can occasionally listen to reason. This bulge-headed vessel in which pure madness rides will hang mutely ignoring my please for a bit of sanity. Instead it will stare with no emotion or thought while blindfolded brats hammer away at its flank trying to rend it open. When they do the candy will cascade out, never even having a chance to assemble into a perfect presentation of culinary treats. Lost to the abyss forever.
Simply put, if I had Johnny Manziel’s physical gifts, you better believe I would be there in the Weight Room, getting to bed early, doing whatever I had to do to be the best possible athlete I could be. I wouldn't be posting on social media about sucking titties. I wouldn't even look at a titty, buddy. I'd look at a titty and see two big footballs.
A real friend doesn't move until the middle of August, ensuring temperatures in the 90s and a humidity that turns boxers into moist balls of ruined cotton.
Expendable? You must be joking.
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