HaloDog69: Daaaamn, son. Look at that. Imagine that thing clapping.
Drewfus: I am getting crazy boners looking at this fine piece of bootycake.
HaloDog69: Hells yeah cut me off a slice of that I'll put the frosting on it.
Drewfus: I want to get up on that bootay like a drowning sailor climbing on a life raft.
HaloDog69: No way man you got to wreck that ass like a scud. Blow it up like a Madrid subway.
Drewfus: I would drive my train up that butt.
HaloDog69: Now you're talking!
The singer dove off the stage and crowd surfed in a sort of reverse funeral procession where the person being carried is the only one truly alive. Touching him I felt religious ecstasy and started speaking in tongues and requesting songs that didn't exist.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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