WHAT'S UP FAGS?!
Hey you homos, I got a letter from that future guns Navy SEAL dork saying it was almost time to do another gay ass meeting. He wanted to go to Syria, something about HALO drops or whatever.
I don't even own an Xbox. Those things are for little babies and homos.
So forget all that crap, here's the deal. Me and the boys have put together something we call the Bar-B-Q in the garage out of an old short bus.
We sawed the top off and installed a wood bar top, six different beers on tap, fully stocked shit. Then we added in these fold out propane barbecues. Ultimate party vehicle.
I was thinking take that to Miami, get some strippers. Sound good?
You ladies talk it over if you're not too busy kissing dudes at musicals or whatever. I've gotta go inject some testosterone into my dick and bone some broad that was in pornos.
Elliot said my breakup must have been due to the sweater curse, an unexplained phenomenon where anyone who gives their significant other a hand-knit sweater gets dumped. The only way to break the curse, Elliot said, was to destroy the sweater.
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